Chapter One #2
“Mr. Greer,” she returned, meeting his gaze, and holding it.
He may have chosen the location for their meeting, but she refused to be cowed just because they were on his turf.
She had no interest in a client who was going to be a pain to work with; better he learn now that her tolerance for ego was finite.
The corner of Greer’s mouth turned up in a ghost of a smile. He didn’t bother returning her perusal with one of his own, as though he had already gleaned everything he needed to know about her.
Most of her clients came to her by referrals from previous clients she had worked with or other professional contacts, ensuring that they had at least been somewhat vetted.
Greer had been recommended to her by an art dealer in New York who she had collaborated with on a handful of transactions.
In his introduction, he’d stated that Greer had deep pockets and a reputation for discretion.
There had been nothing objectionable in his email—no tendencies to the illegal or immoral—and so she had agreed to this initial meeting.
Margo slid into the open seat, Greer following suit.
The ma?tre d’ whisked himself away quietly, only to be immediately replaced by a waiter who took their drink order and was gone just as swiftly.
“I need you to find something for my employer,” Greer said, bypassing social pleasantries entirely. Somehow, the effect wasn’t as jarring as she’d otherwise have considered it. It fit the impatience that wafted off him.
Some of her clients became friends. They sent her Christmas cards and asked how she was doing, and had more recently begun trying to set her up on dates with men she had absolutely no interest in.
Others were more transactional. She didn’t have a preference.
Each had their benefits. Sometimes it was nice just to do a job and move on to the next.
Other times—when she found a lost family heirloom or procured a gift for a beloved family member—she was invested in her clients’ lives, as though she had a place on the periphery of their histories.
For as much time as Margo spent working and as little time as she spent on her personal life, if you whittled her phone contacts down to those who weren’t professional connections, she’d be left with a very thin list.
Greer was an intermediary, then. No wonder she couldn’t find much about him. She’d bet anything that his employer was the one who was the club member. Had the art dealer known that someone else was behind the acquisitions? Somehow, she didn’t think so.
There was something in his voice, a hard edge that seemed at odds with the graceful lines of the club.
His accent was difficult to place—American, yes, but she struggled to narrow it to a specific region.
He was either a man who hadn’t lived in one place too long or had trained himself to eradicate traces of where he came from.
If her referral hadn’t realized he was dealing with an intermediary, what else was he wrong about?
“I don’t deal in illegal items,” she said. “Mr. Mitchell should have told you that. I won’t do anything unethical, either. No amount of money is worth more than me being able to sleep at night. I’m intentional about the items I source.”
Not that people hadn’t tried to press the issue a time or two.
The problem with this line of business was that occasionally people forgot themselves when they wanted something badly, and they were ready to go to any lengths to obtain it.
Collectors could become obsessive in their desires, and Margo often found herself wondering what she would do if she were in their shoes, if there was anything she was willing to go to any lengths to obtain. She couldn’t imagine it.
There was a dangerous side to sourcing the valuable and rare—after all, some of the items people were searching for were worth vast sums, and when money was involved, people could be capable of just about anything.
She was careful in the clients she took on, in the items she searched for.
She’d turned down a job a time or two—and wished she had more than once—when things ventured into grounds she wasn’t comfortable with.
Despite the concerns her ex-husband had raised, she wasn’t reckless when it came to her safety, and no amount of personal ambition pushed her to accept clients who were involved in more nefarious matters like smuggling or theft.
Greer smiled again. “Of course. Like many of your clients, my employer is an avid collector, the sort of man who appreciates the beauty of things. Of late, he has taken an interest in books. There’s one book that has sentimental value for him.
He’s tried to find it, but it’s a relatively obscure title and he hasn’t had much success.
He would like you to acquire it for him. ”
She hadn’t expected a book.
While she had found rare editions for clients in the past, books were hardly her specialty. Still, it sounded simple enough, considering she knew the perfect person to help her track down the title.
“My employer has authorized twenty thousand pounds for the book,” Greer added.
It wasn’t the most money she’d ever been authorized to acquire an item, but it wasn’t a small amount, either, considering Greer himself had described the book as “obscure.”
“Twenty thousand pounds is quite a sum for something with a value that is solely sentimental.”
“My client is a sentimental man. A private one, too. Everything we have been told about you indicates that you understand the need for discretion in this line of work.”
“I do.”
Greer reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a folded sheet of paper. He handed it to her wordlessly.
Margo unfolded it.
Halfway down the page, a title was etched in a black type font, the author’s name dangling after it.
A Time for Forgetting
Eva Fuentes
She’d never heard of the book or the author.
“There is a small amount of urgency to the matter. There are whispers that the book might be coming up for sale, that there are other interested parties. My employer would like to acquire it before it goes to auction. Get it before the price rises considerably or before he loses the opportunity completely.”
It wasn’t an unusual circumstance for a client to want to preempt an auction to prevent a bidding war, nor was it odd to conceal one’s interest in an item lest the notoriety of their name draw undue attention.
Still, there were too many unknown factors here.
Surely, he was going to give her more to go on than this?
“I assume your client is only interested in a first edition. Do you know how many copies of the book are in circulation?”
“One.”
“One?” She was beginning to understand why he was willing to pay double her fee.
He nodded. “As I said, it’s an obscure title.”
“Yet there’s more than one party interested in it.”
“Yes.”
The first item she had ever sourced for a client was an antique dining table and matching chairs that she had tracked across two continents.
She’d been a bit like a detective as she’d traced the sales history, located the pieces, and then notified her client of the good news.
The hunt had been intoxicating, perhaps even more so than the final sense of accomplishment when she was successful.
She was good at her job because she loved it.
“When was it published?” Margo asked him.
“1901.”
“How do you even know it’s still out there?”
“It is. We believe it was in Cuba at one point, but news of it disappeared after the revolution. Until now.”
There was something he wasn’t telling her, but she hadn’t built her reputation from strong-arming her clients into giving her information.
It was annoying that he wouldn’t be entirely transparent with her, but it was hardly the first time it had happened, and it wouldn’t be the last. She’d just have to piece it together herself.
“And if the price does rise? Or the owner isn’t willing to part with the book prior to the auction? How badly does your employer want it?”
“Enough to hire you, Ms. Reynolds. Your reputation precedes you. As does your discretion. My client doesn’t want his personal business spread around.
Nor does he want people to be apprised of his identity and risk it raising the price.
Get him the book for a fair sum and he will be happy.
This could be the beginning of a mutually beneficial business arrangement.
You can consider this a test to see how you do.
If it goes well, then perhaps he will hire you to source more valuable artworks for him. Do we have an agreement?”
She considered Greer for a moment, the prospect of further business down the road dangling before her, the money waiting for her enticing, the thrill of the hunt calling to her like a siren’s song.
The client wanted her to procure a book. How dangerous could that be?
“We have a deal.”
—
“How did the meeting go?” Margo’s assistant Bea asked over the phone.
Bea had been with her for three years now, and Margo couldn’t imagine her life without her.
She’d originally been hesitant to hire an assistant; after a lifetime of relying on herself to take care of what needed to be done, it was difficult to relinquish responsibility to someone else, to trust another person with her business, which was central to her entire existence.
But Bea was extraordinary and there hadn’t been a moment since she hired her that Margo had regretted the decision.
Margo tucked her mobile into the curve of her neck, using her free hands to secure the last few buttons on her coat.
It had indeed started snowing while she was at the meeting, the flurries falling more thickly now, sticking to the wet pavement.
A curse escaped her lips.
“Is everything okay?” Bea asked her.
“Yes, it’s just snowing now.”
Bea was a Londoner born and bred, so she understood better than anyone the implications of such an event in a touristy part of the city.