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As she wove her way through the squad room, Liv pushed back her misgivings and brushed off her SRA’s ass-whooping. She’d gotten pretty good at compartmentalizing conflict over the years. In her line of work, it was a good day if she only had to put out three fires instead of ten.
After stuffing her handbag into a cabinet drawer, she flipped open the file folder to see if she could glean something, anything, about the upcoming meeting. She hated, absolutely hated, the feeling of unpreparedness, of being ignorant of something she—or other people believed she—should know.
Mitch had said “meet us.” Who else would be there? Would she have to present something? Give her opinion on a case?
No, he’d all but told her to keep her trap shut. Why?
She released one long, slow breath, read the top page of the case file in front of her, and frowned.
Drugs? She, like her fellow special agents, assisted with other cases when the need warranted, but she’d never worked drugs before. Had no desire to do so now, either. Most of her time was spent on art theft and cultural property crimes, and that’s the way she liked it.
“Hey Olivia,” a deep voice said.
Still mired in the mystery meeting, she didn’t at first recognize the blue-eyed, black-haired man, wearing a charcoal gray business suit by . . . classic lines mixed with a slim, tailored fit . . . Ralph Lauren, she decided.
She had little in common with her socialite mother, but an appreciation for fashion ran in both their bloods. Liv wondered why Cameron Blackwell was sporting Lauren today, rather than his normal Men’s Wearhouse garb. Granted, the man looked stunning in any brand.
But not as gorgeous as his brother Zeke.
“Cameron, what are you doing here?”
“Good morning to you, too.”
A flush of embarrassment heated her chest. Whether it was the result of her rudeness or remembrance of what she’d done with his brother, she didn’t know. She held out her hand. “Sorry, but I didn’t expect you.”
She watched for indicators that he knew about her night with Zeke, which was ridiculous. During their rooftop introduction, she’d been careful not to share her last name or the reason for her stay at the hotel. And she’d slipped from his bed before dawn to avoid any awkward after-sex chitchat.
Disentangling herself from Zeke’s warm body had been a great deal more difficult than she’d expected.
Cameron smiled and shook her hand. “No offense taken.”
When the two of them happened to be at the same work function last year, he’d all but pounced on her after learning she was the region’s go-to agent for working art crime. New special agents were notorious for volunteering to help more senior agents in order to build their experience, but few showed much interest in recovering art or cultural heritage pieces.
It was for that reason alone that Liv had called Cameron when several pieces had gone missing from the Asheville Art Museum, a few weeks later. Unlike most history geeks, Cameron’s expertise wasn’t limited to one area of interest. He had an extensive knowledge base about many genres. A base she’d tapped into several times in the past year.
He looked toward the conference room. “I’m not looking forward to this.”
“This, what?”
“Our meeting.”
Evidently, Cameron was part of the “us” club.
Recognizing her I-don’t-know-what-the-hell-you’re-talking-about expression, he said, “You have no idea what this meeting’s about, do you?”
“I only got the file five minutes ago.”
“Now I know why I got the call from Mitch yesterday instead of you. Thought you might have been enjoying a spa day or something.”
She smacked the back of her hand against his steel-encased bicep.
“Careful. You could break a finger that way.”
Shaking her head, she peered down at the case file again, ignoring the fact that Mitch bothered to call Cameron, but not her.
“Why did Mitch bring you in?” Cameron worked out of the Charlotte office and specialized in cybersecurity when he wasn’t assisting her with art crime.
“I have a unique connection upper management decided to exploit.”
