“Good, but don’t be obvious,” Christophe told him. “We don’t want you to become a target. Whoever they are, they’ve almost certainly got men in place in the crowd watching and listening.”
Declan nodded and left.
“Why do you think that?” Fiona asked him. “They got what they wanted, why would they be here?”
Before he could answer, help came from an unexpected source.
“He’s right,” Sean said grudgingly. “That’s how I’d have done it, back in the day. Need to keep eyes and ears on the investigation, find out how hot the situation is. You’d best get out now, before I get moved along or ticketed. I’ll be circling. Just give me a ring when you need me to swing back in and pick you up. Same spot.”
Christophe nodded his thanks and opened the car door. When he and Fiona were on the sidewalk, he watched the car pull away.
“You have a good kid there,” he finally admitted. “He’d do anything for you.”
“That’s what I worry about, especially now. If I put him or Declan or Hopkins in danger, I’d never forgive myself.”
“Hopkins? I’d be more worried about anybody trying to face him down. That man is a warrior dressed up in a butler suit.”
A true smile appeared for an instant on her face. “Yes, I’ve often thought that. He will never tell me much about his younger days, but I get the feeling he wasn’t always a butler.”
“I’d put coin on that,” he agreed, taking her hand. “So let’s play tourist and go back to the Tower of London.”
“We should be thankful they don’t behead people there anymore, I guess,” she muttered.
“Nobody will touch so much as a hair on your aristocratic head while I’m alive to prevent it,” Christophe vowed, all humor vanishing.
She stopped and stared up at him, a curiously vulnerable expression in her eyes. “Why would you care so much? Or want to protect me? Surely not simply because we . . . slept together. You just met me.”
Part of him was wondering the same thing, but damned if he’d admit it. “You’re my partner. It’s just good business,” he finally said.
Fiona pulled her hand away from his and a sheet of ice masked her expression. “Right. Of course. How could I forget? And so long as you have blackmail material on me, I’m stuck with you. Come along, then,
Regret swept through him as she marched off, not looking back once to see if he followed or not. Crime solving. Right. Christophe and Sherlock Holmes. Conlan was undoubtedly going to have something very unpleasant to say about this. He grinned at the thought, shoved his hands in his pockets, and strode off after his unwilling partner. At least he could piss off the high prince and the high priest all in the course of one mission. The day was looking up.
Chapter 14
Fiona stormed off toward the main gate, berating herself for her foolish moment of softening toward that
Delicious.
She ran a hand through her hair, suddenly as disgusted with herself as at him. She decided to break her sexual fast and it had to be with a jewel thief. Who just happened to have blackmail as a trump card.
He caught up with her, and she tried not to notice how his closeness made her skin tingle. Dangerous bad boys had never been her type before, but apparently her hormones were up for new things. The memory of him rising over her, hard and urgent in the moonlight, flashed into her mind and she caught her breath.
“Are you okay?” His gaze moved back and forth, scanning the sidewalk, the street, and everyone on both.
“I’m perfectly fine, thank you.” She gritted her teeth against the sound of her own voice, which had come out exceedingly prim, proper, and headmistress-ish.
“Okay, Princess,” he drawled, grinning at her.
“Don’t call me that,” she snapped. “And your humor is inappropriate. Those guards died.”
“Maybe. Maybe not. We have an unconfirmed report by a hysterical woman, based on a tabloid story. The radio report didn’t mention murdered guards. If you believe everything in the London tabloids, then you also know Elton John is supposedly having an alien baby any minute. Should we stake out the hospitals?”
“If you think—” Fiona stopped mid-sentence and took a deep breath. He was right. She was operating purely reactively, which was not only stupid, but dangerous. “You’re right. We need to get to that press conference.”
“I’m always right. You’ll get used to it,” he said cheerfully “There’s a big group forming over there, just inside the gate.”
She followed Christophe through the throng of people clustered around a makeshift podium until they stood roughly in the middle of the crowd. Close enough to see and hear everything, but far enough away so as not to draw too much attention. When the official spokesperson stepped up to the microphone, Fiona ducked partway behind a large man in front of her, out of the spokesman’s line of sight.
Christophe raised an eyebrow.
“I know him. Lord Fairsby, formerly of Interpol. Now he’s the director of Scotland Yard’s new Paranormal Ops division.”
“Does he know you?”
“We’ve met a time or two, at charity events. I doubt the man remembers me.”
His green eyes flared hot as he stared down at her. “Oh, he remembers you. Any man who met you even once would remember you.”
Her cheeks heated up, and she tried to ignore the warmth sweeping through her from his tone. “Quiet. He’s starting.”
Lord Fairsby looked out over the crowd and then down at his notes. “As you may have heard, we’ve had an incident. The villain who calls himself the Scarlet Ninja has struck at the very heart of our nation, leaving behind his calling card as proof positive. The scoundrel made off with one of England’s most precious treasures—William the Conqueror’s sword, Vanquish.”
The crowd surrounding Fiona erupted with excited chatter, but subsided when Fairsby held up his hands for quiet.
“It’s far worse than even that, unfortunately. He managed to brutally murder three of our guardsmen. We promise you this fiend will be tracked and captured with all haste. We at Scotland Yard will be working with Interpol, as well, to bring all possible resources to bear.”
One of the reporters raised his hand and waved it around. “Lord Fairsby, why are you on the case? Is there reason to believe paranormal forces are involved?”
“We’re pursuing all options at this time,” Fairsby responded smoothly. “We will keep the public informed as to our progress.”
“When swine fly,” Christophe muttered. “There’s something off about that man.”
“Pigs,” Fiona said automatically. She glanced up at Christophe and hissed in a breath. “Your eyes. Tone them down. They’re glowing.”
He scowled but closed his eyes for a moment. When he reopened them, they were normal again. He leaned down and spoke into her ear, so as not to be heard, although it probably wasn’t necessary in the din of the crowd’s noise. “He’s not human.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. I’ve known his family for years.” But her gaze returned to Fairsby, now striding toward the exit. He had always seemed a little off to her, too. Aloof. Arrogant. Even more so than the usual English upper crust.
Not that she was a biased Scottish lass or anything.
She shook her head, though. “No, I don’t think that’s possible.”
“Does your magic tell you when you’re around other magic?” he asked, putting his arm around her shoulders
