Page 28 of The Princess and the P.I.

Fiona spotted them, too, now—at intersections, beneath streetlights. The ABBEY loomed everywhere, its reach unavoidable.

What exactly did he hope to find? And how long before his search brought him across the room to her?

The call ended, and the chair let out a sharp squeak as Mark shifted his weight. Then, inexplicably, a familiar voice filled the air. Her brother. “Hey, boy, I got the job! But I guess you knew that by now. How can I thank you? I’m sure I can think of something.”

Mark played a voicemail, joy vibrating through every word. Kwesi filled every room with so much love. Fiona closed her eyes against the onslaught of pain.

Another one sounded like a video. “Wave, Kwesi! Tell me what you love about Dubai!”

“I love that you’re here with me.”

Mark and her brother had loved each other. Mark, three years later, still seemed just as crushed by his death as Fiona.

A tear slipped down her cheek, then another.

Drawers opened, then sharp, rustling sounds. He was looking for something.

She peeked over the aquarium and saw him fisting a handful of papers.

Thank god she had taken pictures, because he cleaned the drawer out.

Out of the corner of her eye, she saw something pushed deep into the heavy base of the aquarium. Who would store something in such a—

Unless it wasn’t stored.

It was hidden.

Positioned just right, tucked into the base of the fishless tank, with its back to the wall. Only Robert could have known about it.

The problem? She’d have to hold her head above the bubbling water long enough to see what the box contained.

Was it worth the risk?

She popped up for a millisecond—US passport, some important-looking paperwork spilling out of it. But there was more behind that.

Stop while you’re ahead, Fiona. You’ll have more days to snoop.

If she moved too much or made herself more visible, she was dead or at least found out.

But someone had been so careless, and who knew if she would ever get another chance to check the contents?

No, I need to see what else is in this box.

Her gaze shifted from the box to the man in the expensive loafers pushing books out of shelves and shaking spines.

With Mark distracted with what was apparently his scheduled grieving time, Fiona carefully reached into the box; she had to lift her head above the murky waterline to feel for objects.

Her fingers closed around a bag. When she ducked back down to examine it, unless Robert Thorpe had a raw sugar habit, these looked like drugs.

Again, she felt for more papers and saw a glossy smut magazine with a woman spreading herself open on the cover.

Finally, she gripped a rectangular object about the size of her palm. It was a drive of some sort. She pocketed it swiftly.

As Mark turned, his movement reflected in the glass of the aquarium.

Fiona did not move.

Their eyes met for a split second through the bubbling aquatic distortion, and Fiona’s heart galloped in her chest.

“Robert, you miserable bastard, I hope you’re rotting in hell for what you did to me, to us.”

Then, after what felt like hours, he looked away, dismissing her as a trick of light and shadow.

Fiona waited, every second an eternity. Had Robert been behind everything that happened with Kwesi?

Had Fiona pinned all her anger and hate on a man simply grieving the love of his life?

When Mark decided to relieve himself in the en suite bathroom, Fiona seized her chance.

Crawling on her hands and knees, she edged toward the door.

She prayed silently that he was a long pisser.

She turned the cold metal of the doorknob with painstaking care.

The corridor outside was mercifully empty. She stepped out, her heart still pounding a frenetic rhythm, and closed the door with a soft click that sounded to her like a gunshot. She released a shaky breath and zipped out of the C-suite section, the hard drive a heavy weight in her pocket.

She’d gone undercover. She was a detective undercover.

Just as Fiona saw Maurice stuffing the last of the sensitive documents into bags, a sudden voice broke the silence of the deserted office floor.

“Hey, Otis, come see this play,” said a man holding a phone.

“Oh, no thank you, gotta finish the last hallway,” Maurice said.

This was apparently something Otis would never say, because the man shot up with surprising speed for someone so large.

“Who the fuck are you?”

Fiona’s heart tumbled around in her rib cage. She shot a panicked glance at Maurice. Their cover was blown.

“Time to go,” Maurice muttered.

They moved in unison, abandoning the remaining bags and sprinting toward the exit. Fiona’s pulse pounded in her ears. The hurried footsteps of two or three men echoed behind them, along with shouts and jangling keys.

“Stop right there!”

Finally reaching the double doors, Maurice shoved open the emergency exit, triggering the alarm. The blaring sound cut through the morning lull, but they didn’t slow down. He grabbed her hand and pushed on. Fiona’s lungs burned, and her breath came in ragged gasps as they bolted toward his car.

They dove into it, slamming the doors shut just as a figure emerged from the building, eyes wide with recognition.

“Go, go, go!” Fiona urged.

Tires screeched.

Fiona glanced back, the security guards shrinking in the rearview mirror until they were just a shadow.

They had made it, but just barely. She looked over at Maurice, his knuckles yellow on the steering wheel.

She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to hit him.

“That was too close,” Fiona breathed.

“But we got what we came for.”

Fiona sank back into her seat; adrenaline still pulsed through her everywhere.

“How’d you do?” Maurice asked.

Fiona pulled out the heavy golden drive. The key that could break the case wide open.

“I got this.” She held up the blinking hard drive.