She touched her hair. “In certain circles, I’m well-known. But I don’t consider myself a celebrity. Merely a devoted fan of Doyle and his brilliant creations.”
I smiled at her, already mentally sketching her vulnerabilities, the points I could press and poke tomorrow to open the door and see what she really knew about Bernard Allerton.
“Well this devoted fan can’t wait to see you tomorrow,” I said. “Tea at the Sherlock Museum, 10:00 a.m.?”
A flood of people were starting to rush toward her, no doubt as intrigued as I was by the news of the auction and those private papers. Just the kind of thing a criminal mastermind might come out of hiding for.
“Of course, it would be my honor,” she said, waving as I backed away. She was swarmed immediately, her posture straightening with every person attempting to speak with her. Eudora had only become president once Bernard had “gone on sabbatical”—which was intriguing as hell. To watch her now, my guess would be she’d been yearning for that position for years.
And I wondered what she knew about where her current vice president might be.
Buoyed by what felt like a tiny victory, I turned back around, toward the bar, and was taken aback by Hot Guy in a Suit, raising a glass of alcohol toward me in a silent cheer.
From the moment I’d stepped into the ballroom, my eyes had been drawn to Hot Guy’s like we were two powerful magnets, desperate to snap together. As he leaned against the bar like he owned it, I noticed how tall he was, how broad those shoulders were, his long limbs in a suit clearly tailored to make others envious of his body. Hot Guy watched me walk through the crowd, watched me walk toward him, and I wasn’t used to feeling so fucking fluttery around a man.
I now had a new understanding of the phrase devastatingly handsome. It was a cheesy line, bandied about in romance novels and movies. Definitely not anything I’d ever witnessed before in reality. His face devastated me. My immediate attraction to him ripped through me like a summer storm, all dangerous heat and crackling lightning. The man was white, with a strong, clean jaw, a strong nose. Dark black hair with silver at the temples, a few lines around the eyes making me guess he was a decade older than me, at least. The curve of his lips was downright sinful.
And if I hadn’t been so mesmerized by his mysterious presence while we sat together earlier, I wouldn’t have observed his physical reaction to the sound of Bernard’s name. Which meant Hot Guy could know something—making him even more intriguing.
I placed my arm on the bar, leaned in a perfect mimic of his pose. His brow raised at my sudden nearness, one hand gripping a glass of whiskey.
“Hello again,” he said. A deep voice. Melodic with a sexy rasp along the edges.
I held up a finger, ordered a vodka martini from the bartender. “Hello,” I said. “I pegged you for a whiskey drinker.”
My martini appeared in front of me. I stroked the stem with one finger, caught him following the movement.
“And I pegged you for a gin-drinker, not vodka,” Hot Guy mused.
I lifted a shoulder. “I’m full of surprises.”
The cold liquor burned all the way down. And he watched my mouth while I sipped.
“It’s nice to meet another American staying at The Langham,” he said.
I wasn’t staying at The Langham Hotel. I was staying twenty minutes away at a cheaper motel that better fit my budget. But if this man knew Bernard Allerton, maybe I’d see about getting a room.
“And it’s always nice to meet another Sherlock Holmes enthusiast,” I replied. I held out my hand for him to shake. “Devon Atwood.”
“A man on vacation,” he replied. “Happy to meet you.”
He shook my hand with pure professionalism—no stray touch or lingering—but the second our palms touched, I felt an electric bolt of desire. From the flaring of his nostrils, I guessed he felt it too.
“Man on vacation is an odd name,” I mused.
Hot Guy gave me a half-smile but no reply. Instead he sipped his whiskey, swirled the liquid around the glass. “Are you a member of the Sherlock Society?”
“I’m member-adjacent,” I said. “Not official. I do attend their meetings and lectures when I’m in London, however.”
“Here on business?”
“Of a sort,” I said. “So tell me, man-on-vacation. Do you think Doyle should have stuck to his guns and kept Sherlock dead? Or are you a fan of his triumphant resurrection?”
“I’m the minority opinion here, unfortunately,” he said. “I think he should have kept him dead.”
“Don’t say that too loudly in this room.” I took a step closer, bringing our bodies mere inches apart. Dropped my voice. “You could get us both killed.”
He cracked that half-smile again. “I’m not one to boast, but I feel confident in my physical prowess against Sherlock fanatics. What’s your take?”
I took another long sip of vodka. “Why would you have kept him dead?”
“Why did you evade my question?”
“Because I’m a woman of mystery.” I placed my arm on the bar, close enough to feel his body heat. “Would you like to buy me another drink?”
Sharp eyes on mine, he called my order to the bartender without missing a beat.
“Sometimes it’s best to say goodbye,” he said. “Sherlock Holmes was no longer serving him. Public outcry or not, I think Doyle should have kept him dead. Easier for everyone to move on.”
A martini appeared in front of me. I clinked it against Hot Guy’s glass. “To moving on.”
He studied me over his glass. His fingers were strong. Confident. Was he a source or a suspect?
“I would have kept him dead too,” I finally admitted. “Severed ties completely.”
When you had the kind of chaotic, ramshackle childhood that I’d had, letting go of dead weight always made the most sense. You couldn’t flee in the night unless you packed light.
“So we’re in agreement,” he said.
“Appears that we are, man-on-vacation.” I flashed him a full smile, teeth and all. “Are you used to traveling alone? Or are you not…”
“I’m alone,” he said, voice rough around the edges. “And used to it. Preferred, actually. Especially while traveling. There’s no better way to truly learn what you want, what you desire, than being on your own.”
I agreed again, held my tongue.
“Are you alone?” he asked.
I stepped closer, drawn into his orbit. “I am.”
He placed his glass carefully on the bar. “And what do you desire, Devon?”
I ran my tongue along my lower lip, just to gauge his reaction. Felt absurdly pleased at the severe clench of his jaw.
“To find what I came to London for,” I said. “I lost something a month ago. I’m currently trying to track it down.” It was a partial truth at best.
“What did you lose?”
“That’s not for the telling.”
“And why not?” he asked. There was no push to his words, only a strangely appealing curiosity.
“Would you be completely honest with a man who won’t even tell you his name?”
“Fair point,” he said. “Have you had any luck finding what you lost?”