Chapter Ten #4
Orsino sounded amused when he answered. “You're becoming civilized.”
“I'm becoming tired of people confusing intimidation with useful information.”
“Almost the same thing.”
“Call when you have the parcel overlap.”
Orsino disconnected.
Isolde was already moving toward the door.
Taddeo stepped into her path.
“No.”
She stopped.
The word would have infuriated her under almost any circumstances.
After last night, it did more than that.
“Don't start.”
“We don't know what's inside the book.”
“Exactly.”
“We don't know who else knows it exists.”
“Another excellent reason to get there first.”
“Not with you.”
Isolde stared at him. “You cannot be serious.”
“I am.”
“Who is going to examine it?”
“I have people.”
“Do your people know how to take apart a century-old case binding without cutting through whatever Corwin may have hidden beneath it?”
Taddeo didn't answer.
“Do they know how to soften modern adhesive without disturbing old paper? Can they recognize whether the repair thread is original to the alteration or added afterward? Do they know what parts of the structure can be opened without destroying evidence?”
His jaw tightened.
Isolde stepped closer. “You need me.”
“I need the book.”
“You need both.”
“That does not make taking you into the museum safe.”
“Nothing about this has been safe since Mercer Street.”
“That isn't an argument for making it worse.”
“No. It's an argument for not pretending locking me inside Northglass makes the rest of the problem disappear.”
Taddeo looked away for a moment, and Isolde recognized the shift immediately.
Calculation.
Routes.
Men.
Cameras.
Who might be watching the museum.
He was considering it.
Satisfaction moved through her before she could hide it.
Taddeo caught that too. “Don't look pleased.”
“You're considering it.”
“I'm considering every reason it's a terrible idea.”
“Still considering.”
His gaze flattened.
Less than twelve hours earlier he'd stopped kissing her because he couldn't pretend her desire erased captivity.
Now the same conflict sat between them in a different form.
Isolde lowered her voice. “You told me last night that you didn't want to benefit from choices you've taken away somewhere else.”
His expression changed.
“That wasn't permission to put yourself in danger.”
“I didn't say it was.”
“You're using it that way.”
“No.” Isolde held his gaze. “I'm reminding you that my expertise doesn't stop belonging to me because you don't like the risk attached to using it.”
Taddeo's hands settled at his hips, and for several seconds he said nothing.
When he finally answered, his voice was quieter. “If I take you back there, you follow the security plan.”
“That sounds like yes.”
“It isn't yet.”
“Taddeo.”
“We are not going today.”
Her mouth opened.
He lifted one hand. “I did not say no.”
Isolde stopped.
He continued before she could push him into changing the answer.
“I want to know whether anyone has been watching the museum since you disappeared. I want the staff schedule. I want every camera around the building reviewed, and I want to know who accessed those archive records after Corwin vanished. Then we go.”
“We.”
“Yes.”
The word landed more strongly than it should have.
Not my people.
Not someone will retrieve it.
We.
“When?” she asked.
“As soon as I know I can get you in and out without announcing to whoever is looking for Corwin that we've found what he left.”
“That could take days.”
“It won't.”
“You sound very sure.”
“I have people.”
“You always have people.”
“Yes.”
Isolde studied him.
His expression was controlled again, but not enough to hide everything. His attention dropped briefly to her mouth.
Heat returned immediately.
She felt a slow, dangerous smile begin before she could stop it.
Taddeo's eyes narrowed. “Don't.”
“I didn't do anything.”
“You were about to.”
“That's unfair.”
“You sat on my desk to make concentration difficult.”
“You admitted it worked.”
“That was an error in judgment.”
“Do you make many of those?”
“Recently.”
She laughed softly.
The sound loosened something between them, but not enough to erase what remained unresolved.
Isolde moved toward the door. When she reached him, she stopped close enough that only inches separated them.
“This conversation isn't over.”
Taddeo looked down at her. “Which one?”
“Either of them.”
Something shifted at the corner of his mouth.
“No,” he said, glancing toward the western-harbor notes spread across his desk before returning his attention to her. “I don't suppose it is.”
Isolde stepped into the corridor.
Behind her, she heard Taddeo reach for his phone and begin issuing instructions about Crownport Maritime Museum.
She kept walking.
For the first time since Mercer Street, a decision involving the outside world had not ended with Taddeo simply telling her no.
It wasn't freedom.
She wasn't going to confuse the two.
But it was movement.
And somewhere inside the museum, beneath a badly repaired spine she'd dismissed as nothing more than another example of historical carelessness, Corwin might have left the first real explanation for why he had disappeared.