Addison Fox - The London Deception

With a congenial smile, Finn opened with a quick stroke to John’s ego. “Heard you’re the favorite for the maharaja jewels.”

“We certainly hope so. The Brunei government has been rather cryptic on who they will choose, but I think it will be us.” Finn saw the cat-in-the-cream smile and knew the deal was far nearer to closed than the words suggested, but gave the man his illusions.

He’d get far more out of him if John thought he wasn’t as quick on the uptake.

“I wish you the very best on it.”

The conversation swirled with the wine, and Finn settled in for a discussion that would follow tangents and fragments of tangents until they finally swung back around to where he wanted.

“Speaking of inside lines, heard you’ve got your eye pretty firmly focused on the antiquities market.”

“It’s a sound strategy.” Finn kept his words casual as he poured out the rest of the bottle between them. “I’ve always had a personal interest in Egypt, so it’s rather easy to meld the two with my business goals.”

“Big news that cache found last spring in the Valley of the Queens.”

“It’s extraordinary. And tied up in red tape, squabbling and a whole host of attitude from the academic community. My firm is helping to mediate as well as authenticate the find.”

“You don’t say.”

Finn nodded. “Handling this one personally myself.”

“You know—” John broke off, speculation rampant in his gaze. “Rumor has it you’re an Indiana Jones type. Scouring the world for lost treasures. Keeping the less savory blokes from looting the ruins and all that good fun. Gallagher International’s just a front for all that.”

Finn kept his smile broad and his tone wry. He knew as well as anyone technology and modern communications had made it virtually impossible to remain fully incognito. But he was surprised by the depth of John’s gossip-fueled knowledge.

“Do I look like I like khaki pants and fedoras?” Finn extended his sleeves for good measure, pleased when his cuff links winked in the light of the bar. “And I’m not sure I’ve ever touched a bullwhip.”

John’s smile—and the wine that fueled the haze behind his gaze—was broad. “And this is clearly how gossip gets started. You’re a young guy. People know you’ve got a sense of adventure. The rest steamrolls from there.”

“I’m a businessman with diverse interests. But I have to say I’m sort of pleased to know I have a reputation.”

John had the wherewithal to decline another bottle, and it was only as Finn was headed home, the thick fall air clearing his head from the wine, that he congratulated himself on the approach he’d taken with the House of Steele.

If John’s comments were any indication, people in the know had begun to speculate on his motives. He ran Gallagher International with an impeccable track record, and his skills authenticating for the major auction houses were known to be among the best. State-of-the-art and thorough authentication of artifacts, the ability to secure permits and licenses to excavate, and the mediation services he’d indicated earlier.

All had proven far more lucrative than the choices of his early, misguided days.

And all had provided an outstanding cover for his older, somewhat wiser, still-misguided choices.

The only question left to his mind was whether or not Rowan Steele was going to go along for the ride.

* * *

Rowan sat in the conference room they kept at headquarters and pored over the map of Egypt she’d had since her college days. The map was well used—full of pencil markings, notations and a fair number of rips and tears—but she loved it and the history of her life that was tied to every one of those external markers.

She’d instructed Kensington to take the meeting with Finn Gallagher and knew she needed to be on her game. The man had rearranged his entire schedule to get to New York overnight for their face-to-face, only reinforcing the job was one of his highest priorities. As if the payment he’d offered didn’t already offer a sizable clue.

Although she hadn’t slept much this week, the time with Campbell the other night had eliminated the nightmares, and when she did sleep, her mind was blessedly free. For the first time in more days than she could count, Rowan felt somewhat back to her old self.

Kensington bustled into the room on sky-high, pencil-thin heels, her normally serene expression haggard. “That’s what you’re wearing to this meeting?”

“I’m fine.” Rowan glanced down at the peasant blouse she’d donned with a pair of jeans. “What’s your damage today?”

“Finn Gallagher is offering us a rather lucrative gig, Rowan. You can’t take it a notch above bohemian chic?”

“I think your sister looks rather beautiful, Ms. Steele.”

They both turned, and Rowan would have bet her face was a match for Kensington’s dropped mouth as they both took in the large man that stood in the doorway.

“As do you in your corporate chic. I hope you’ll forgive my coming straight up. Your assistant let me in.” He stepped into the room and crossed to them, his arm outstretched. “Kensington?”

Rowan gave her sister the edge in quick recoveries and saw the polished veneer that returned once more to her porcelain skin. “Mr. Gallagher. Glad you could join us.”

“Finn, please.”

The man turned toward her, and Rowan felt the first blast from his intense gaze. Rich hazel eyes winked at her, slight crinkles edging the corners, and she felt herself immediately sucked in.

Especially when another pair of hazel eyes rose up in her mind to swamp her with the memory of a moonlit night full of danger and death.

Pull it together, girl.

The admonishment did little to remove the memory, but it was enough to have her gathering her manners and extending her hand. “Lovely to meet you.”

“Likewise.”

The cultured tones of his native Britain met her ears, and another remembrance struck hard and fast. This man’s voice was deeper than the one that haunted her memories, but still effective at turning her insides liquid.

Kensington gestured him toward a seat, and Rowan took a moment to gather herself while his attention was diverted. She’d been in the presence of men with British accents before. She’d also been in the presence of men with hazel eyes.

So where was this sudden flash of memory coming from?

And why was it so strong and nearly debilitating in its intensity?

Sure, the dreams had been particularly bad of late and she hadn’t been sleeping well, but even insomnia wasn’t an excuse for such a reaction. Maybe it was the prospect of spending time in his all-too-attractive company if they agreed to the assignment.

Or so Rowan hoped.

They all helped themselves to coffee and a small fruit-and-breakfast-pastry tray before resuming spots at the table. Rowan hung back, lingering over the preparation for her coffee, intrigued by the seat Finn selected.

In her experience, powerful men always gravitated to the head of the table, so it was fascinating when he selected a seat in the middle. It was even more fascinating to watch as he removed his suit jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, the thick muscles of his forearms capturing her gaze.

“Finn, I appreciate your taking the time to meet with us.” Kensington started in, her “client tone” firmly in place. “Your request is an interesting one and frankly not something a lot of firms have the expertise to pull off.”

“Which is why I made the outreach to you in the first place.”

“And which we appreciate.” Kensington volleyed right back. “It doesn’t change the fact you’re requesting services from us that are, at best, unorthodox and, at worst, highly dangerous.”