Page 9 of Under Arthur’s Protection

“Latin,” he said, frowning slightly as though my reaction bothered him. “It’s Latin for key.”

“I know what it means. I didn’t expect you to.”

“My education wasn’t entirely in security.” Arthur owned a security company, had a military background, and made Chianti recommendations based on the winemaker’s philosophy. Plus, he knew some Latin.

Who was this man?

“The rest of the inscription is too worn to read.” I kept the wine menu open in front of me. If I slid it across the table, I might lose the bubble I was in with Arthur, and I wasn’t ready for that. “I took some detailed photos, but haven’t made it out yet.”

“What do you think it might say?”

“I don’t know. Clavis could mean anything. It could be a name, a location, or maybe the sword’s a key to a lock somewhere. Or I could be missing some more letters, and it’s actually a different word. It’s just a mystery.”

“Sounds intriguing.” He could say that again. Hell, he could say whatever he wanted.

“Good evening.” The sommelier arrived, interrupting my moment with Arthur. “May I help with your selections?”

Antonio ordered the house red for himself and Sam, while Lance ordered a Scotch.

“The Tenuta San Lupo Vecchio Chianti, please. Two glasses,” Arthur said without hesitation, then looked at me. “If that’s what you’d like?”

“Yes, please.”

The sommelier left, the murmur of the dining room rising and fading as the door opened and closed behind him. Below us, the kitchen buzzed with activity.

And on either side of me, Arthur and Lance recounted a story about a lost Fabergé egg they’d helped return to its prior owner. Arthur was one of the heroes of the story, but he let the conversation move around him, not taking the spotlight.

Humble, too. Of course.

And sexy. Don’t forget sexy.

Get a grip, Gwen. You totally need to forget that part.

Chapter 4

Arthur

Gwen’s black dress didn’t cling. It skimmed. It moved over her body the way a well-cut outfit should. It ordered the room to look at her, but in a whisper, rather than a shout.

She’d had her hair in a ponytail at Ferraro’s today, but that had been practical, workday hair. Tonight, her messy bun, portrait neckline, and bold necklace had highlighted the full line of her neck and her collarbones.

Memories of the evening flashed through my mind. Of how her eyes lit up when we talked about the sword. Her surprise when I translated the Latin from its inscription. How she’d asked about the wine after it arrived. And how I hadn’t wanted to say good night to her when we left.

But the best memory was the noise she’d made when she bit into her dessert. A quiet, involuntary sound that had nothing to do with the world around her and everything to do with imported chocolate. I’d filed her noise away somewhere I shouldn’t have, and was probably going to borrow it later tonight.

Fuck me.

I adjusted my grip on the steering wheel.

On the upside, this was a temporary job. She’d flown in from New York, so the distraction was time-bound. Unless I picked up a contract in New York and ran into her. Accidentally. It would definitely be accidental.

Main Street ran through Brenton’s midtown, which at this hour meant closed storefronts, a few lit windows above the shops, and nobody on the sidewalks. It was any other Wednesday night in October, in a small Michigan town.

Lance scrolled through apps on his phone in the passenger seat, quiet since we’d left the restaurant. Good dinner. Good wine. Good company. The kind of evening that didn’t need a debrief, an after-action report, or any paperwork.

His phone buzzed. “Huh.”

“What?”