Lowe vaguely remembered the legend of Hugo Trotter. Police never could find evidence that he’d done anything wrong, but the man had made several jokes at dinner parties that he was planning to kill and cremate two sisters and one brother, and all three siblings died suspiciously, one by one, over a yearlong period.

“People said he talked to their urns as if they could hear him,” Hadley said. “This must’ve been the last sister, because he moved out of town after the earthquake. Which canopic jar has seven unique pictograms? Ah—the baboon. See if the symbols could possibly spell Trotter.”

“That’s . . .” Crazy, he was going to say, but after sorting through their word list, he picked out the letters with ease. “T-r-o-t-t-e-r. Helvete, Hadley—you think it’s possible?”

“He was known for having a strange sense of humor. Maybe he didn’t really kill them, but I definitely remember stories in college about him talking to the urns. Just to be sure, we should try to match up other seven-letter names, see if anything else fits.”

And they did, for nearly an hour. One name was off by only one letter, but nothing else matched exactly. They finally gave up and decided to investigate Trotter. “I’ll make a few calls and come up with a plan,” he said as he stacked the papers into a neat pile.

“Do I get half of the list?” she asked, narrowing her eyes at his busy hands.

Part of him didn’t want to let it go. The sensible part. The part that was slightly worried about Monk asking around for him at the wharf.

But another part of his brain—the part that had filled her up with bread and chowder just so he could lull her into letting him feel her thigh against his—remembered George goddamn Houston saying Hadley needed to be in control. And really, what was she going to do? Run off and track down the amulet crossbars without him and disappear to Mexico? She had as much of a right to be on this godforsaken quest as he did—it was her mother’s doing, after all. And if she was correct about this Trotter fellow, then that would make her instincts two for two. She definitely knew the macabre underbelly of the city better than he did.

He tore out his scribbled key to the pictograms and slid it in front of her, along with the list and the paintings. “All yours,” he said, grabbing his leather gloves off the table and tugging them on. “Just make sure you keep it all safe and locked up. No desk drawers, no obvious places your maid might find while cleaning. We can switch up every few days. Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

She didn’t reply, just stared at the packet of papers like they might self-combust. Brown eyes widened as they flicked up to meet his. A faint thrill warmed his chest. God, he was a sucker, because there was nothing better than her features softening. He liked her unguarded. He liked her guarded, too. Hell, he just liked her.

It was past time for her to head back to work, so they bid the Aliotos good-bye and left Taylor Street, heading back up to where the streetcar had dropped her off. Half a block before they got there, the bottom fell out of the sky.

“Oh, no—my mink collar!” she cried as rain began beading on their coats.

Lowe hurried her toward the dry stoop of a nearby warehouse and squeezed into the alcove with her. The smell of wet pavement and Hadley surrounded him. A man could get used to that. He even thought he caught the grassy scent of lily—perfume, perhaps. Or maybe his memory of the night by the gazing pool was shifting things around in his head.

Just relax and enjoy being close to her, he told himself. Don’t get carried away and do anything stupid. Deep breath. Keep your coat buttoned and your hands to yourself. Do not think about sex gymnastics on a bench.

“Thank God you put the papers inside your coat,” he said, shaking rain off his hat.

She didn’t answer. Something gripped his arm. He glanced down to find her gloved hand there. When he looked back up, she was a moving blur—one that erased the small space between them. He staggered back against the alcove wall in surprise as her mouth clamped on his. Suddenly there was nothing but her wet lips on his and warm softness pressing against his chest.

Dear God, she was kissing him.

Wake up, idiot! Kiss her back!

He grabbed fistfuls of fur and wool and crushed her body to his, returning the kiss with equal ferocity. This wasn’t a repeat of the kiss in her father’s office; she actually wanted him. The difference was staggering.

A joyful pleasure rushed toward the base of his spine as slender arms wrapped around his neck. Closer? Gladly, yes. He pushed her against the alcove wall. She moaned, and he swore his heart shuddered. And as he sank against her, the kiss deepened from tight and frantic to open and slow and ardent.

Nothing existed but their warm bodies and the sound of the rain outside their shadowed alcove.

His tongue slipped between her lips, just once. Testing. Then he kissed the corner of her mouth. Slid his tongue in again. Kissed the other corner. Licked the salt from her bottom lip. And, Gods above, her tongue finally joined in, rolling with his. Dancing, exploring. Tasting.

And he wanted more.

He kissed her chin, her jaw, nuzzling his way into the soft ebony hair beneath the edge of her cloche, smelling both the citrusy brightness of her shampoo and the scent of her skin. Another moan. Fingers grasped the back of his neck. One hand ghosted down the front of his coat, planting on his chest. She was touching him! Glorious, absolutely glorious. He wanted that hand inside his coat, under his shirt.

And look how well they fit together. He didn’t have to hunch over to kiss her.