Chapter 2 - THE PRICE OF HIS PROTECTION
For several seconds, I could hear nothing except the music drifting from the auction floor.
A string quartet.
Champagne glasses.
Polite laughter.
All of it sounded absurdly normal.
I stared at James.
“You knew it was stolen?”
“I knew someone wanted me to believe it was legitimate.”
“That isn't what I asked.”
His eyes narrowed slightly.
Most people probably stopped talking when James Thornton looked at them like that.
Unfortunately for him, fear had already carried me through two guards, a forged identity, and a criminal auction.
I was committed.
“Did you know it belonged to my grandmother?”
“No.”
I studied his face.
“You expect me to believe you?”
“No.”
That answer surprised me.
James glanced toward Sullivan.
“I expect you to survive long enough to verify it yourself.”
Before I could respond, applause erupted beyond the alcove.
The auction was beginning.
James offered me his arm.
I looked at it.
“What?”
“You came here as an appraiser. That identity is finished.”
“So?”
“So now you're here with me.”
“I am not your date.”
“No. You're considerably more troublesome.”
Despite myself, I almost smiled.
Almost.
Then his voice dropped.
“But Sullivan thinks you're important to me. Correcting him now would make you vulnerable.”
“You were the one who told him I was yours.”
“Yes.”
“You could have said employee.”
“He wouldn't have believed me.”
“Friend?”
James looked almost offended.
“We've known each other seven minutes.”
“And ownership sounded more reasonable?”
“In my world?”
His expression hardened.
“Yes.”
I hated that he had a point.
I slipped my hand through his arm.
“Temporarily.”
“Of course.”
“And your hand stays above my waist.”
The corner of his mouth moved.
“Yes, ma'am.”
We stepped onto the auction floor.
Conversations changed around us.
Not stopped.
Changed.
That was somehow more unsettling.
People smiled while watching us.
Men I recognized from newspapers pretended not to stare.
James guided me toward his table near the front.
“Do not leave my side.”
“I managed to get here alone.”
“And Sullivan noticed you within thirty seconds.”
“That was after you caught me.”
“Are you blaming me?”
“I haven't decided.”
“You're going to be exhausting.”
“You're welcome.”
This time he definitely smiled.
It disappeared when Sullivan approached.
“I wondered where you'd gone.”
James pulled out my chair.
“Now you know.”
Sullivan's gaze traveled over me.
“What did you say your name was?”
“I didn't.”
James sat beside me.
Sullivan laughed.
“I like her.”
“You like other people's things.”
My jaw tightened.
James noticed.
“So does she,” Sullivan said.
James's voice turned cold.
“She isn't a thing.”
For the first time, Sullivan's smile weakened.
Then he looked directly at me.
“Be careful with Thornton. He protects what belongs to him until it becomes inconvenient.”
James stood.
The room seemed to sense it.
Sullivan raised both hands.
“Relax.”
“I am relaxed.”
That was somehow worse.
Sullivan returned to his table.
I whispered, “Does every conversation between you two sound like someone is about to die?”
“Usually someone is.”
I stared at him.
He calmly poured water into my glass.
“Drink.”
“You really need to work on your social skills.”
“I've been told.”
The auction began.
Paintings.
Jewelry.
Rare manuscripts.
Objects that should have been in museums passed between wealthy bidders for obscene amounts of money.
Then lot thirty-seven appeared on the screen.
My blood froze.
THE BLACKWELL CODEX.
“No,” I whispered.
James looked toward the auctioneer.
“I thought you said it wasn't supposed to be sold.”
“It wasn't.”
The auctioneer announced an opening bid of two hundred thousand dollars.
A paddle rose.
Then another.
I started to stand.
James caught my wrist.
“Don't.”
“That belongs to me.”
“Sit down.”
“James—”
“One minute.”
The bidding reached four hundred thousand.
Sullivan lifted his paddle.
“Five hundred.”
My stomach dropped.
James didn't move.
“What are you doing?”
“Watching.”
“While he buys my grandmother's book?”
Sullivan looked directly at me.
“Six hundred thousand,” another bidder called.
Sullivan raised his paddle.
“Seven.”
I grabbed James's sleeve.
“Please.”
It was the first time I'd said that word to him.
Something changed in his face.
James lifted his paddle.
“One million.”
Silence.
Even Sullivan stared.
The auctioneer recovered.
“One million dollars from Mr. Thornton.”
Sullivan smiled.
“One point two.”
James didn't look away from me.
“Two million.”
A murmur spread through the ballroom.
Sullivan's smile vanished.
The auctioneer swallowed.
“Two million dollars. Do I hear—”
Sullivan lowered his paddle.
“Sold.”
The gavel struck.
My codex belonged to James Thornton.
Again.
I turned toward him.
“You just spent two million dollars.”
“No.”
“No?”
“I moved two million dollars from one account I control into another.”
Of course he owned the auction house.
“That's obnoxious.”
“I know.”
“When do I get the book?”
“Now.”
He stood.
We returned to the vault with two guards.
James dismissed them outside.
The codex waited on a velvet-covered table.
For the first time since it had disappeared, I could touch it without hiding.
My fingers trembled.
“Grandma.”
I opened the cover.
Her handwritten initials appeared beneath the Blackwell crest.
E.B.
Eleanor Blackwell.
Emotion hit me so suddenly that I had to swallow.
James remained silent.
I turned pages carefully.
Illuminated saints.
Latin prayers.
Gold borders.
The family record should have been behind the rear binding.
I reached the final page.
My pulse accelerated.
There.
A narrow seam.
I slid my fingernail beneath it.
The hidden compartment opened.
Empty.
“No.”
I checked again.
Nothing.
“No, no, no.”
James stepped closer.
“What should be there?”
“Documents.”
“They're gone.”
“I can see that.”
My voice broke.
I hated it.
I had risked everything for an empty compartment.
Then James touched the inside binding.
“Wait.”
He lifted the book toward the light.
Something had been written beneath the leather.
Not old ink.
Recent.
I leaned closer.
Three words.
ASK ELEANOR ABOUT 1989.
I stared at them.
“My grandmother can't speak.”
James's face had become completely still.
“What?”
I pointed.
“That's her name.”
“I know.”
I looked at him.
Something about his voice frightened me.
“How?”
He didn't answer.
“James.”
His eyes stayed on the date.
1989.
Finally he said, “Because I have seen that handwriting before.”
“Where?”
He closed the codex.
“In a letter delivered to my father the night he was murdered.”
My blood turned cold.
May you like
James looked at me.
“And that letter was signed by Eleanor Blackwell.”
