Chapter 2
NOLAN
S altmoor House hums with the kind of tension that always comes before something breaks.
I've felt it in combat zones during my time as a Navy SEAL, in auction houses where stolen art changes hands, and in the sacred places my grandmother warned me never to approach alone.
The Reina de Oro mask carries that same weight—the presence of things that refuse to rest peacefully.
From the moment she stepped onto the grounds, I had pegged her as a complication.
Not because she's Cerberus—though that in itself means trouble—but because she carries herself like a woman who refuses to be outmatched.
Smart eyes, sharper tongue, and a body that makes rational thought a chore. Dangerous in every way.
I remind myself I'm not here for her. I'm here for the Reina de Oro mask, for the whispers tied to it, for the chain of violence that follows every time someone tries to own it.
My briefing with Ryan Murphy was clear: I consult on the historical side, nothing more.
But then Allison walks in, dripping sarcasm with that British lilt, and suddenly I'm more interested in watching her than the mask.
The next morning, Candace Murphy is waiting for me in the ballroom, a hurricane of blonde hair and designer silk. She smiles wide, the kind of smile that never touches the eyes when you've grown used to entertaining sharks. She gestures me toward the case.
"Nolan, I trust everything meets your expectations?" she asks, her voice carrying the faintest edge of nervousness, which is odd since Candace has a reputation for being an ice queen. But if she is ice, Ryan is fire. They're perfectly matched.
I glance at the mask, then at her. "The case is sturdy. Sealed glass, reinforced locks. But expectations? That depends on whether you want the academic answer or the truth."
Her smile wavers. "Both."
"Academically speaking, you've displayed the mask well.
Correct humidity, correct lighting. Historically speaking.
.." I let my gaze drift back to the jeweled face.
"This mask has a reputation for blood. And reputations like that don't fade easily.
Someone will try to take it, if only to prove they can. "
Candace snorts, her hand clutching the stem of a wineglass as if it were armor. "That's why Ryan called Fitz and Fitz sent Allison."
My jaw tightens at her mention. Allison, across the room, walks the perimeter with crisp efficiency.
She checks doors, directs staff, takes note of every camera angle.
She looks like she belongs here, and yet she doesn't. She's too striking against the backdrop of silk curtains and crystal chandeliers, like a blade tucked into velvet. And I can't look away.
"She's thorough," Candace continues, following my line of sight. "Do you know her?"
"Only by reputation. It's the first time I've worked with her." I drag my gaze back to Candace, though it takes effort. "But I know the type. She'll drive everyone mad before the night is through, but she'll still get the job done."
Candace laughs softly. "That's exactly what Ryan said."
Across the hall, Allison catches me watching her. Instead of looking away, she flashes a taunting grin that says she's already inside my head and she's not leaving anytime soon.
Later, when Candace excuses herself, I find myself shadowing Allison as she finishes her sweep. I tell myself it's to make sure she doesn't miss anything, but the truth is simpler and far more dangerous: I want to be near her.
"You missed a blind spot," I say, pointing to a corner where the camera angle doesn't quite cover the corridor.
She doesn't even glance at it. "I didn't miss it. I noted it."
"Noted it?"
Her eyes snap to mine. "Noted it means I already have a contingency. Don't mistake efficiency for oversight."
I chuckle. "Touchy."
"Accurate." She moves past me, her shoulder brushing mine just enough to leave heat in its wake. "Tell me, Porter, do you always follow women around, pointing out things they already know?"
"Only when they pretend they don't need backup."
She stops, turns, and tilts her head with that infuriating grin. "Backup implies you're in charge. Let me be the first to tell you, you're not."
There it is again—that push and pull, the friction that's already driving me mad. I step closer, lowering my voice. "I don't need to earn what's already mine to take."
Her breath hitches, so quick she probably doesn't realize I heard it. But then she recovers, eyes glittering. "Careful, Nolan. I may play a submissive at Baker Street, but I don't play when I'm working. You try to take without asking, and you'll end up bleeding."
I hold her gaze, and for one reckless heartbeat, I imagine testing her promise. Testing her resistance. Testing how far she'll go before she finally yields. My hands itch with the need to find out.
Instead, I smile. "Noted."
We spend the next hour checking the grounds together, trading barbs sharp enough to cut glass.
She mocks my lectures about Calusa rituals, asking if I plan to write a monograph while thieves scale the walls.
I counter by pointing out her obsessive attention to detail, suggesting she'd alphabetize the staff if given the chance.
She fires back without hesitation, every word a spark.
It's maddening. It's intoxicating. And I don't want it to stop.
By the time we step onto the terrace, the air wraps around us, heavy with salt and the rustle of palm fronds. The ocean churns below, waves crashing against the hard-packed sand. Allison leans on the balustrade, watching the surf as if it might answer her questions.
"You don't believe in the curse," I say, moving beside her.
"No, I don't. I believe in men with guns and grudges. Everything else is noise."
"You're wrong."
She glances at me, an eyebrow arched. "About the guns or the noise?"
"About thinking you're untouchable." I lower my voice, letting it carry the weight of every battlefield I've survived. "Everyone has a breaking point. Even you."
For a moment, she doesn't answer. The moonlight carves her features into angular lines, fierce and beautiful. Finally, she says, "Maybe. But you won't be the one to find it."
God help me, I want to be.
Candace joins us briefly, her presence breaking the tension. She asks me to finalize a briefing packet on the mask for tomorrow's staff. I agree, though my eyes stay on Allison. When Candace leaves, Allison shakes her head.
"You watch me too much," she says.
"What can I say? You've cast a spell over me."
Her only answer is a roll of her eyes.
"This isn't supposed to happen." I take a step closer, close enough that the scent of her—clean skin, sea salt, and something faintly sweet—wraps around me. "But you get to me in a way I'm not used to. I can't seem to shake it. That worries me almost as much as it tempts me."
Her lips curve. "Then it's working."
I laugh, low and rough. "You think this is a game."
"I like to think everything's a game unless it's a matter of life and death, and then I take it very seriously." She tilts her head. "The real question is whether you know how to play."
I brace a hand on the balustrade beside hers, caging her in without touching. “Oh, I know how to play, sweetheart,” I murmur, leaning closer. “The question is whether you can handle losing.”
Her gaze drops to my mouth for the briefest second—long enough. I close the distance, claiming her lips in a hard, stolen kiss that tastes of challenge as much as desire.
She breaks it with a shove to my chest, fire sparking in her eyes as she steps into my space, forcing me back with the heat she leaves behind. “I never lose, love. And if you think otherwise, you’re daft.”
Back inside, I gather the staff for a detailed briefing in the small theater off the ballroom.
Twenty faces, a mix of household staff, caterers, and the regular private security team who usually watch over Saltmoor House, look back at me.
Allison leans near the door, arms folded, eyes sweeping the room in tight arcs.
I feel her attention on me even when she isn't looking.
"Phones away," she says. "Silent and face down.
" A few hesitate until she pins them with a look.
Screens vanish quickly. She points to the floor plan.
"Main entry here, service corridor here, ballroom here.
The mask's display case is center platform, ten paces from the nearest exit.
That's intentional. Distance buys seconds. "
A guard raises a hand. "So we form a ring if someone rushes the stage?"
"You form a wall," she corrects. "No gaps. Shoulder to shoulder. Nobody panics, nobody freelances."
"Translation," I cut in, voice cool. "You don't play hero. You follow the plan—no excuses."
Murmurs ripple. She lets them settle before continuing.
"Three likely threats. One, a smash and grab by amateurs.
Two, a targeted theft with inside help. Three, a disruption to scatter our attention.
Fire alarm, staged fight, guest collapse.
Whatever it is, you stay in your lane and don't desert your post."
I raise two fingers, unconsciously signaling silence like I would on patrol. A couple of staff instinctively straighten, even though none of them know the gesture’s origin. Old habits bleed through, no matter the uniform.
I step forward, military bearing reasserting itself despite my civilian clothes.
"In Afghanistan, we called the third option 'misdirection raids.
' Hit one sector hard to draw attention while your real target is somewhere else entirely.
Same principle applies here—chaos is cover.
" Several staff members straighten unconsciously at my tone.
Allison's eyes narrow, but she nods acknowledgment.
A bartender frowns. "And the curse?"
Allison exhales. "There is no curse."