The Second Lie (Immortal Vikings Book 2) Read Online Free Page A

square neckline of her dress where it tickled the edge of her collarbone. As she lowered her hand, he caught it and delicately cupped it in his larger one. He was about to press the cruelest button available to him, and skin to skin would give him the best measure of her reaction. “Ask yourself. Will they listen to the man in the bespoke dinner jacket or the girl in the off-brand dress with a ladder in her tights?”
    “I don’t—” She glanced at her leg, and then back to him. “That’s unfair.” Her voice had shrunk, and with it his enjoyment of their sparring diminished. A verbal jab was sporting, but a knife in the back was a streetfight. He didn’t think he had to be that brutal to Christina.
    “When has life been fair?” He raised her hand but didn’t follow through on a kiss, a step too far. He only wanted to trap her a tiny bit. “I would have thought you knew that.”
    An attendant with the discreet black-and-gold name tag of the auction house unlatched the door and stepped into the cave. “Mr. Morrison.”
    “Yes?” Alert tightened in his gut. A beautiful woman with a grudge against him was the antithesis of boredom, but at this juncture he could live without inquiries from Bodeby’s.
    “Two men have requested to join the preview. They are not on our preapproved list.”
    He raised an eyebrow. The wine reporters and Lord Seymour’s insurance broker had been on the list, regretfully, but two unknowns, noticeably not referred to as gentlemen, could only signal a problem.
    The security guard consulted a card. “A Mr. Grigor Wendel and a Mr. Skafe Thorsson.”
    By Loki’s arrows, this had become a complicated evening.

Chapter Two
    “Would you mind asking them to wait outside until the end of the preview, if you will?” The imposter’s amused expression hadn’t changed, but the two names he’d heard had made him squeeze Christina’s hand for a fraction of an instant.
    She wouldn’t call him Geoffrey, wouldn’t even think of him that way, not least because other than his well-tailored tuxedo and his Shakespeare-perfect accent, he bore no resemblance to the aging bon vivant she’d imagined as her fictional business partner. But whoever he was, his reflex had been a giveaway.
    As the Bodeby’s employee bowed out, careful not to reveal a single facial expression about either the instructions or their presence in the cave, she tried to decide if the imitation cellar was cheesy crap or brilliantly novel. The lighting was dim enough to make the faux-painted walls seem like real stone, and the goose bumps on her arms told her it was climate-controlled. The structure must be thick enough to keep coolness in and sound out because the gabble of the hundred patrons at the preview had faded. The two men at the far end seemed to be having an exclusive interaction with a sommelier, which was an inspired way to cultivate the elite of the elite. This was a setup she might try for herself if she established a pop-up store in Manhattan.
    “To what do I owe the pleasure of your visit?” His words had the stretched roundness of British vowels, frustratingly stuffy-sounding to her West Coast ears.
    She ignored his question to study the bottles displayed like statues beside subtle tags. The Lathan Estate Chardonnay was a Washington State wine she’d sold to Lord Seymour so he could cellar four cases for female guests, but the discreet sign listed two lots of three cases each. Wine wasn’t rabbits. Bottles didn’t make babies when left alone in the dark.
    “I can see we’ll need privacy.” Hearing the different British pronunciation, “priv—” rhyming with the first part of “shiver,” reminded her to tread carefully. She wasn’t at home. “Wait here.”
    Instead of responding, she scanned the next shelf as he moved to the end of the cave. Yes, she could verify one magnum and a case of the 1997 Toujours Meritage blend, but again, the bastard had listed a second lot with another twelve