LITMIR.BIZ

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      “Abby’s actually excited about it.”

      Rowan couldn’t hold back the smile—or resist pointing out the obvious. “She is one of the world’s leading experts in communications technology and she runs a multinational company. Does this really surprise you?”

      The quick smile that was his trademark flashed. “No. And when you consider I find it oddly sexy, well, there you have it. We do what we love.”

      “That we do.” She was so pleased to see that smile. Relieved, really. If he could smile that way, it meant he was on his way back to normal. “And for the record, we all think she’s your match in every way. It’s so obvious it’s almost scary. I just can’t believe Kensington never thought to introduce you two before.”

      “We weren’t meant to meet before.”

      The words were oddly prophetic and Rowan chewed on them long after he’d walked her back to her Chelsea apartment, then went on to his own home.

      Was there a time and a place? A moment when two people were supposed to meet or were meant to click? She’d always been a bit middling on the whole fate-takes-a-hand thing, but Rowan also knew there were simply things in life you couldn’t explain.

      Moments of extreme awareness that could save your ass, like dodging a bullet without even realizing it was coming.

      Or acting on impulse and kissing someone you had no business touching.

      She’d also visited enough parts of the world to know that superstition and the belief that some broader, guiding hand was in control had many a follower.

      Despite all that—or maybe in spite of it, Rowan mused—she had never been able to fully abandon the notion that you also made your own life and made your own luck. Sitting around waiting for something to come to you was about as valuable as waiting to win the lottery.

      Action trumped all.

      Which was why her curiosity about the new job Kensington had on the line had her padding into her home office after changing into a pair of oversize, comfy sweatpants and a long-sleeved T-shirt. The heat kicked on as she walked into the old maid’s room that she used as an office, and Rowan smiled at the sound. The crisp October air had grown colder in the past weeks and she was already thinking about the coming holidays.

      She navigated through the secure log-in to the House of Steele database and pulled up the files Kensington had sent earlier. And forgot every single worry or care in her mind as she read the details her sister had layered over several pieces of source material.

      The three-time payday was a lovely gesture, but as Rowan reread each piece of information on Finn Gallagher and his company, Gallagher International, she knew deep in her heart she’d have done the job for free.

      * * *

      Finn rechecked his email as he lingered over a bourbon, irritated there had been no further correspondence from Kensington Steele. He’d requested services from her firm three days ago.

      What was she waiting on?

      Even as the question floated through his mind, Finn knew the answer. She was vetting him as thoroughly as possible, just as he would have done with any business partner he was considering working with.

      The fact he already kept close tabs on the entire Steele family, watching them from afar, was a different matter entirely.

      The sounds of the bar—a favorite of the London art crowd—swirled around him in dulcet tones as he allowed himself a few brief moments to think about Rowan Steele and her family. He was fascinated by what the Steele siblings had built. Although their firm wasn’t highly publicized—there was no website or social-media feeds for them—those in the know knew exactly how to find them.

      The House of Steele was a discreet resource, and from what he’d heard, observed or pulled through casual gossip, the Steeles always got what they came for.

      It was a track record he couldn’t help but admire.

      “Gallagher.” Finn stowed his phone in his interior coat pocket and glanced up at the greeting before standing to extend a hand.

      “Good to see you, John. Join me for a drink.”

      John Bauer—a well-placed administrator at one of the world’s top auction houses—took the seat opposite. “Don’t mind if I do.”

      Finn ordered a bottle of wine he knew John set stock by and settled in for a lively discussion. As evenings went, it wasn’t what he’d planned, but if he were honest with himself, he had no idea what he’d planned. The restless feeling that had gripped him the previous week when the job came in had sharp claws and he hadn’t been able to settle.

      The conversation with John would give him some much-needed company while also ensuring he’d go home rich with information he didn’t have when he began his evening.

      With a congenial smile, Finn opened with a quick stroke to John’s ego. “Heard you’re the favorite for the maharaja jewels.”

      “We certainly hope so. The Brunei government has been rather cryptic on who they will choose, but I think it will be us.” Finn saw the cat-in-the-cream smile and knew the deal was far nearer to closed than the words suggested, but gave the man his illusions.

      He’d get far more out of him if John thought he wasn’t as quick on the uptake.

      “I wish you the very best on it.”

      The conversation swirled with the wine, and Finn settled in for a discussion that would follow tangents and fragments of tangents until they finally swung back around to where he wanted.

      “Speaking of inside lines, heard you’ve got your eye pretty firmly focused on the antiquities market.”

      “It’s a sound strategy.” Finn kept his words casual as he poured out the rest of the bottle between them. “I’ve always had a personal interest in Egypt, so it’s rather easy to meld the two with my business goals.”

      “Big news that cache found last spring in the Valley of the Queens.”

      “It’s extraordinary. And tied up in red tape, squabbling and a whole host of attitude from the academic community. My firm is helping to mediate as well as authenticate the find.”

      “You don’t say.”

      Finn nodded. “Handling this one personally myself.”

      “You know—” John broke off, speculation rampant in his gaze. “Rumor has it you’re an Indiana Jones type. Scouring the world for lost treasures. Keeping the less savory blokes from looting the ruins and all that good fun. Gallagher International’s just a front for all that.”

      Finn kept his smile broad and his tone wry. He knew as well as anyone technology and modern communications had made it virtually impossible to remain fully incognito. But he was surprised by the depth of John’s gossip-fueled knowledge.

      “Do I look like I like khaki pants and fedoras?” Finn extended his sleeves for good measure, pleased when his cuff links winked in the light of the bar. “And I’m not sure I’ve ever touched a bullwhip.”

      John’s smile—and the wine that fueled the haze behind his gaze—was broad. “And this is clearly how gossip gets started. You’re a young guy. People know you’ve got a sense of adventure. The rest steamrolls from there.”

      “I’m a businessman with diverse interests. But I have to say I’m sort of pleased to know I have a reputation.”

      John had the wherewithal to decline another bottle, and it was only as Finn was headed home, the thick fall air clearing his head from the wine, that he congratulated himself on the approach he’d taken with the House of Steele.

      If John’s comments were any indication, people in the know had begun to speculate on his motives. He ran Gallagher International with an impeccable track record, and his skills authenticating for

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