Page 9 of Hawkeye

Smoke picked up the folder but made no move toward the door. “Pretty sure this is what Ghost looked like right before he started keeping a duffel at Tamsin’s house.”

“Ghost smiles more.”

“Not when you mention his duffel.”

Wraith passed behind Smoke in the hall, heard enough to recognize an opportunity, and stopped. “You should ask Josie whether she has closet space before Hawkeye requisitions a moving truck.”

I looked from one brother to the other. “You two finished?”

“Not even close,” Wraith answered cheerfully.

My phone rang before I could ruin their morning, and the Wynnock Auctioneers number on the screen cleared both men from my attention. Smoke raised his brows when I answered on the first vibration, but he took the hint from the look I gave him and dragged Wraith away by one shoulder. Their laughter carried down the hall while Mr. Smythe explained that the estate-clearance company’s owner had been summoned for a formal account review and was due within the hour.

The director had already informed him that the shadow box and related pieces had been identified as stolen family property. Every open consignment tied to his company was suspended, and Wynnock had frozen unpaid proceeds from recent sales while its staff reviewed the records. Black Castle represented Kenny Simon’s daughter for the recovery, which gave Stryker, Judge, and me an excuse to attend the meeting without the estate owner realizing the Black Crowns had taken a personal interest.

“I’ll be there,” I told the director. “Do not give him Josie’s working notes or the names of any families you’ve contacted.”

“He’s already asked how the review started.”

“Then he can keep wondering,” I growled.

I ended the call and crossed to Stryker’s office. He listened while I gave him the update, then sent Judge a message and reached for his suit jacket without wasting time debating whether our presence might make the owner uncomfortable. Comfort had stopped being a consideration when stolen medals and memorial pieces were brought into Wynnock under false paperwork.

An hour later, the three of us walked through the auction house in dark suits instead of cuts. Black Castle clients tended to find Stryker’s polished control reassuring right up until they noticed his eyes, while Judge looked like the kind of attorney who could dismantle a corporation before lunch and a man after it. I knew how we appeared together, and judging by the way conversations quieted as we crossed the lobby, nobody mistook the suits for civilization.

I noticed Josie as soon as we entered the conference room. She sat beside the senior military appraiser in high-waisted black trousers and a deep blue blouse with a square neckline that framed the soft upper swell of her breasts. Gold earrings swung beside her chestnut waves when she turned toward us, and pleasure warmed her large brown eyes before she remembered the director and three coworkers were watching.

The answering smile reached my mouth before I bothered stopping it. Her gaze dropped over my suit, lingered briefly on my chest, then lifted again as a deep flush spread across her cheeks. My cock hardened at the visible reaction, forcing me to button my jacket before sitting across from her and imagining what those expressive eyes would look like while I spread her over the conference table.

Stryker took the chair beside me while Judge sat at the director’s right. I chose the position that kept Josie in view, along with the glass wall, the conference room entrance, and the reflection of the lobby behind us. Michael opened the account file, but my attention remained on the man approaching from the front of the building.

Chet Tippon—the estate-company owner—entered with a leather portfolio beneath one arm and concern arranged carefully across his face. His charcoal suit was expensive without being memorable, his handshake appropriately firm, and his apology began before he finished sitting. Every movement looked practiced enough to have been rehearsed during the drive.

“I’m sick over the idea that stolen property passed through my company.” He looked from the director to Kenny Simon’s file. “We relied on a subcontracted cleanout crew for that property. They supplied an inventory and signed client authorization that appeared legitimate, and I had no reason to believe the contents came from anywhere else.”

Mr. Smythe folded his hands over the closed folder in front of him. “The Simon family provided photographs showing the shadow box and related items inside their father’s home, along with a burglary report. Those pieces have been removed from your consignment, and your company’s account will remain suspended while we determine whether the problem extends beyond one property.”

“Of course.” Chet’s brows pulled together with exactly the right amount of professional embarrassment. “I’ll provide the subcontractor agreement, work order, photographs, and every document we received. My company wants this resolved as much as Wynnock does.”

The director explained that the suspension covered every open consignment, not merely the military pieces. Wynnock would accept no new property from the company, unpaid proceeds would remain frozen, and recently sold lots could require buyer contact if the source records failed review. Chet nodded in all the proper places, asked two reasonable questions, and never once blamed the auction house or Kenny’s daughter for the inconvenience.

His performance would have convinced plenty of people. The faint pause before he agreed to provide every source file told me he had expected the problem to remain contained around the shadow box, while the tension that appeared beside his mouth when the director mentioned that recently sold property had nothing to do with concern for deceived buyers. He was calculating exposure and trying to determine how much time remained.

Mr. Smythe glanced toward Josie. “Ms. Talbot’s initial condition assessment identified the missing provenance, and she is assisting our military specialist with the priority review.”

Chet turned toward her, and the concern in his expression held for half a second too long before something colder moved behind his eyes. My body remained relaxed in the chair, but every instinct sharpened as he studied the woman I had already decided nobody was going to threaten. He noticed the slight movement of my hand across the table and returned his attention to her face.

“How many of our consignments have you reviewed?” he asked, keeping his tone mildly curious.

Josie folded her hands over the notebook in front of her. I saw the quick movement of her throat when she swallowed, but her voice remained steady. “We’ve begun with open and recently sold military lots that contain named or personally identifiable material. Several require outside verification, and buyer and family outreach has started.”

His mouth tightened almost imperceptibly. “Which lots did you flag?”

Mr. Smythe answered before Josie needed to. “Your company will receive formal requests for the records attached to each consignment. Our internal working notes will remain confidential while the review is active.”

Chet inclined his head as though the boundary did not bother him. “Naturally. I only hoped to make certain my staff prioritized the correct files.”

“We’ll tell them what we require,” Judge returned, his tone polished enough for Black Castle and flat enough to discourage another attempt.