The London Deception. Addison Fox
When she hesitated, Kensington pushed on. “Be careful tonight. Something’s felt a little off about this from the first.”
“You don’t trust Finn?”
“We don’t know him to trust him. But I do know I don’t trust the situation.”
“I hardly think I’m in much danger attending a party at the Savoy.”
“Just stay sharp.”
The urge to tease her sister or tell her to quit the melodramatic directives was high, but something held Rowan back. Whether it was a sixth sense or something else, she didn’t know, but the light brush of nerves along her spine had agreement rising up in her tone. “I will.”
“Love you.”
“Love you, too, Ken-zoo.” The tease was nearly as old as she was, a funny back-and-forth she had had with her sister since they were small. Another wave of nerves layered over the first as they disconnected the call, and Rowan fought to shake it off.
There was nothing to be worried about. Nothing at all.
* * *
Rowan was still trying to convince herself of that an hour later as she wended her way through the lobby of the Savoy toward a small gathering room chosen for the party. While Kensington had the sisterly ability to mix smug satisfaction with older-sibling order giving, Rowan had to admit the snug black cocktail dress she now wore in place of her plum suit was an inspired last-minute packing choice.
A packing choice she’d have overlooked had it not been for her sister, she admitted to herself as she came to a stop inside the entryway.
The same lush accommodations she’d experienced upstairs were even more impressive here. Various servers circulated through the room, their trays full of champagne or canapés. The crowd stood in elegant conversation circles, evidenced by the muted hum of voices that rose up around her as she moved farther into the room.
“Ms. Steele,” a low voice whispered in her ear, a split second after she’d felt the sheer heft of his body sidle up against hers. “You look beautiful this evening.”
“Thank you.” The words nearly stuck in her throat as she caught full sight of Finn Gallagher in a crisp black suit. Broad shoulders filled up her gaze as she turned to face him and once again she was struck by the incredible vision he made.
He had nearly flawless features; the only criticism she could even muster up was that they were almost too sharp—too harsh—to be handsome. Yet even as she thought it, her conscience fought her, reminding her it was that very trait that screamed masculine perfection.
She could picture him in the jungle just as easily as she saw him in the designer suit that covered his impressive form. Regardless of the situation—rugged or refined—both telegraphed the exact same thing. Finn Gallagher would be a formidable opponent.
A man who inevitably got what he came for.
And why did the suddenly delicious thought flutter through her mind that she would love to be the object of that intense focus?
She’d been raised around strong men. Both her father and her grandfather were formidable in their own right, and her brothers, Liam and Campbell, had followed family tradition. While each of her brothers had their own individual style, both epitomized the strong, self-assured male.
Having been brought up that way, she respected men who knew how to go after what they wanted. She respected them even more if they admired that trait in her.
One look into Finn Gallagher’s deep hazel eyes and she saw flashes of that respect layered under the distinct notes of male appreciation and attraction, and it drew her in.
“I know he’s not your favorite person, but Baxter did order the best champagne.” Finn held a full flute of the pale liquid toward her. “It’d be a shame to let it go to waste.”
“True.” She accepted the glass, bemused when Finn lifted his flute in toast. “Now you’re going to force me to celebrate Monroe’s generosity, too?”
“I’d prefer to think of this as a toast to our partnership.”
Rowan lifted her glass. “May it bear the most ancient of fruits.”
She didn’t miss the subtle lift of his eyebrows over the rim of his glass, but other than that, Finn didn’t cop to any other response. She took a sip of her champagne, the bubbles light and crisp on her tongue. “Damn, but he did choose the good stuff.”
“How else do you suppose he’s going to impress a room full of his top patrons?”
“Is that how you got in on the dig?”
“I don’t need to wine and dine slimy toadies like Baxter Monroe to sell my services.” He hesitated for a moment before flashing a quick, wolfish grin. “I do, however, spend considerable time wooing his bosses.”
“No one argues with the moneyman.” Rowan thought about her afternoon visit to Gallagher International. “Or the man with the fancy research lab.”
“Spot-on you are.”
“I think I’m beginning to get a picture.” Rowan took another sip of her champagne as she glanced around the room. “You ensure the top museum brass have an unlimited supply of what they need, namely money and access to research services, and in exchange, it allows you to keep tabs on Monroe and his activities.”
“Spot-on again.”
“And keeping tabs also ensures you have a place on the digs, whether Monroe wants you there or not.”
“Now you’re just showing off.” The cocky grin was back, along with that distinct layer of respect in his gaze. “Well, then. Are you ready to go have some fun?”
“At this event?”
“Of course.”
She paused a moment, pleased when Finn’s gaze darkened with that tantalizing attraction that hummed subtly between them. “There’s a phrase in America. It’s called poking the bear in his den.”
“You’re suggesting Monroe’s the bear in this delightful Mark Twain-esque colloquialism?”
“Yep.”
Finn extended his arm and Rowan took it, his hard strength more than evident through the sleeve of his suit jacket. She fought the urge to cling to those delectable muscles, instead nodding in the direction of Baxter Monroe. “Allow me to lead the way.”
* * *
Finn gave himself the momentary gift of simply drinking her in, before he moved them deftly through the ballroom. The woman cut an incredible figure, the black dress clinging to each and every curve she possessed. If her plum suit from earlier had twisted him in knots, the black cocktail dress had him engulfed in flames.
She was stunning. Her pert features—already maximized by the short cap of hair that covered her head—stood out without the need for much fuss. Her makeup was minimal, the natural flush of her cheeks a sign of her vitality. The gamine cut of her hair had a secondary benefit—her neck and shoulders were fully exposed. The slender curve of her neck drew his gaze and he imagined pressing a line of kisses there, flicking his tongue lightly against her skin with the sole purpose of making her shiver.
The image gripped him as he placed his near-empty glass on the tray of a passing waiter. Finn laid his hand over hers, pleased by the light jolt that rattled through his body at the contact. The shudder of her arm where it threaded through his only reinforced she was as affected as he was.
He took pleasure from the thought, surprised when a quick flash of memory rose up swift and strong. The same woman, clad all in black, pressing her lips to his.
He wanted to kiss her again. Wanted to see if the lush memory he’d kept all these years was nearly as satisfying as he remembered. Wanted to know if there was a way to replicate something that sweet and innocent,