Chapter 2
Arthur
Samantha was explaining the FBI contract when my attention slid away from her for the third time.
Dr. Gwen Lyons was slender, with shoulder-length wavy brown hair and the most stunning hazel eyes. She stood by the sword’s table, glancing up at Sam between notes. She’d pulled her hair back sometime after we’d left her alone, and the change exposed the curve of her long neck.
Fuck, Penn, what are you doing?
Sam continued, and I forced myself to listen. “The Detroit raid netted over two hundred assets. The FBI kept most of them in-house, but farmed out the pieces that needed specialized authentication. We received thirteen paintings and the sword.”
“It made the national news,” I said, “but it was buried under a busy week. General knowledge won’t be the risk—it will be the people who’d consigned the items to the auction.”
“And any criminal who thinks they can weasel their way into a bigger network by recovering one of the items for the original owners.” Sam turned and walked along the wall of paintings in their tidy storage slots.
“I expect your security is fairly solid?”
She nodded absently and pulled out a two-foot-tall painting of a man in a blue suit. “If this one’s authentic, I’d estimate its worth around five hundred thousand.”
There were easily two hundred paintings in slots along the wall. If someone were searching for something from the auction, nothing on the slots said which ones were which. “Is that a normal value for this office?”
“Normal enough,” she said as she slid it back into its spot. “We carry a thirty-million-dollar blanket insurance policy for damage to the paintings, but since our usual fare is contracted by owners—”
“—the theft angle isn’t usually as big an issue?” I finished for her.
“Precisely. We have a temporary increase the FBI is underwriting a portion of. They’ve okayed the security systems, but I’d rather have a second opinion.”
If the FBI had already been through here, why call us? We were a fledgling company, founded less than six months ago. Sure, we all had experience in private security, but not enough to argue with the FBI. Unless this was one of those small-town things I’d been warned about.
‘Small-town people will give you work just because you’re there, then they’ll offer you cookies and fucking lemonade,’ my father had said. Maybe he was right. This was our first local contract, and maybe they’d hidden cookies somewhere.
“On the upside,” continued Sam, “I pushed to keep the specifics out of the press conferences. No inventory lists, no mention of Caine-Ferraro’s by name. As far as the public knows, the FBI seized contraband at an illegal auction. That’s it.”
“What about the people who were at the auction? Or involved in organizing it? People talk, especially when they’ve lost something valuable.”
“Lost,” chuckled Gwen. “How many were arrested?”
She wasn’t part of our security conversation, but she wasn’t ignoring it either. While we’d been talking, she’d moved to the far side of the table. She jotted in a notebook, likely measurements, given the measuring tape she had stretched across the pommel.
“Fewer than a dozen. Plenty more who’ll be interviewed, but those won’t likely go anywhere.” Sam rolled her eyes. “I can get you the Bureau’s contact if you want their threat assessment.”
“I do.” That would tell me who we could expect to test the facility, if anyone at all. There were more seized items elsewhere, but they weren’t my concern. “How public is your company’s relationship with the FBI?”
“It’s just the Caine-Ferraro’s Fine Art Investigations subsidiary that has the federal contract, not the conservation studio. I’ve only been in business for a bit over a year, and my team’s gone up against a few unsavory characters, so I’ll send you those names, too.”
Excellent. She wasn’t defensive about the gaps. That was one less hurdle. “We’ll want to review the full facility, including camera placement, entry points, loading dock, and street access.”
“I have all the security feeds and building specs in my office upstairs.” Sam gestured toward the door. “We can go through everything.”
I wasn’t ready to leave yet, so I wandered over to the sword. “Why was this mixed in with the paintings? It doesn’t feel like it matches the time period or the theme of the auction.”
“The auction included several pieces of arms and armor,” Sam said, “but the others were all dated from the 1500s or later. Much easier to authenticate.”
“The sword was the outlier?” I asked Gwen, as though she were the expert on the FBI action.
“The sword is complicated.” Gwen’s gaze rose to meet mine.
That’s what I’d been looking for. For those hazel eyes.
“The deterioration of the blade makes initial dating difficult. The pommel is in far better condition, which may be a clue, or maybe it was simply owned by someone who prized gold over steel.”
“Do you think it could have been a repair or a later addition?”
“Possible.” She rolled up her fabric measuring tape as she nodded. “I need to verify the metal composition, confirm whether the pommel is actually gold, analyze the enamel inlay, and run a few other tests. There’s also what appears to be an inscription on the pommel that I spotted before—”
Her eyes flicked in Lance’s direction, and I let mine follow. His lips quirked up the way they always did when he saw a beautiful woman. Hell, when he saw a woman, period. They knew each other, didn’t they?
Of course Lance knew her.
“Before Lance arrived, that is.” She placed a gloved hand on the golden pommel. “I’ll need better imaging to read it.”
“How long will you be working here?” I asked, calculating how long I needed to be on this job.
“A few days for preliminary authentication. If the inscription turns out to be interesting, it could be longer.”
They regularly had millions of dollars’ worth of artwork stored here. The FBI already said the security was passable, and I agreed. Insurance would cover any losses if someone managed to get inside and grab it. But my gut also told me the sword was special.
Lance and I—along with the other men who were founding this company with me—had spent years in northern Afghanistan, protecting archaeologists and dig sites during the 2010s and up until the US forces left the country.
I was all too familiar with what gold and treasure did to people.
Both to those who saw it as nothing but currency, and to those who saw it as history.
An artifact’s worth wasn’t only in its monetary value.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” said Gwen, who’d drifted closer to me. Or I’d drifted closer to her? She smiled, and my chest tightened. Her eyes caught the overhead lights, and—
“Perimeter?” said Lance.
“What?” I practically snapped at him.
“I said—” He stood on the opposite side of the table from Gwen and me, his head tilted in that familiar way he used when he was rescuing me. “Should we review the security feeds and building specs upstairs, or do you want to walk the building’s perimeter first?”
“Feeds,” I said, stepping away from the sword. From Gwen. “Let’s review the feeds first.”
Samantha looked at Gwen. “You good?”
“I’m good.” Gwen glanced at me. “Thank you.”
For what? For the security assessment? For leaving her alone with the sword?
“It was a pleasure to meet you, Dr. Lyons.” I held out my hand, and she took it. It wasn’t even a shake, more of a hold. A pause. A contact that lasted no more than a breath, and when she pulled her hand free, the absence… registered.
Time to move, Penn.
Samantha led Lance and me through the studio toward the stairs to her office. Three conservators bent over large worktables, making tiny movements that spoke of years of practice. The whole space had the concentrated hush of talented people doing delicate things.
One of them looked up, a tall, dark-haired man, with the build of someone who had a disciplined gym habit. “Ah, bella, you’re done!”
“Not done yet.”
He set his magnifying headband on his worktable and joined us. He reached for Sam first, catching her hand and pressing a kiss to her knuckles with an ease that reminded me of Lance. “Are these our security consultants?”
“Arthur Penn and Lance Collins,” Sam said with a nod, “from Round Table Security. Gentlemen, my husband, Dr. Antonio Ferraro.”
Round Table.
Every time I heard someone else say it, I had to hide the same small flinch.
Tristan had pushed hard for the name, and Merlin had naturally sided with him.
No one else cared enough to fight with either of them, and I’d conceded.
It had made my father happy, for certain.
But since he and his Pendragon Security had given me the startup funding, I opted not to die on that hill.
“A pleasure,” Antonio said in a thick Italian accent. “My wife tells me you come highly recommended.”
Sam nodded. “They’re the team who handled the Fabergé egg fiasco in August.”
“In this case, we are fortunate to have you with us.” He turned to Lance with the same open warmth.
“Are you both free this evening? Samantha and I like to welcome new collaborators properly. There’s a wonderful restaurant in town called The Train Station, and we’d love for you to be our guests this evening. ”
“That sounds great.” I’d been meaning to try the restaurant since I arrived in town, but hadn’t found sufficient reason for a fancy night out.
“Works for me,” said Lance.
“And the authenticator?” Antonio said to Sam. “Dr. Lyons, was it? Shall we invite her, as well?”
“Good idea,” said Sam as she continued to the stairs. “Can you make the reservations?”
“Anything for you, amore,” he said with a smirk.
Sam started up the stairs, but the reaction she threw over the railing was pure affection dressed up as exasperation. “See if you can get the chef’s table.”
“Of course.” Antonio spread his hands. “Do either of you have significant others to bring? Or will it be the five of us?”
“Just five,” I said, then immediately corrected myself, “unless Dr. Lyons has a plus-one?”
“Just five,” called Sam.
Those words shouldn’t have felt like a comfort, but they did.
“Bene. Samantha will send you the details once I have them.” Antonio clapped me on the shoulder briefly and returned to his work.
Lance and I made our way to the stairs, and he shook his head slowly. “Small world.”
He didn’t have to say more. His tone was all the confirmation I needed to know he and Dr. Lyons didn’t go “way back” as just friends.
“You two had a thing, I assume?”
“Yeah, but it’s ancient history,” Lance said. “We dated for a bit, back when I was on that New York City gig for Pendragon. You remember that one?”
“The hostile takeover security detail?”
“That’s the one.” His words were easy, unbothered, and absolutely throwaway. Lance could make anything sound like nothing. That was his gift. It was also the reason most of his relationships ended the same way—throwaway.
“She seems sharp,” I said, certainly not testing how Lance would react.
Not at all.
“That she is,” he said, the words feeling every bit as throwaway as the rest.