Peyton Riley by Bianca Mori Page A

white-blonde mustache once again, how it squirmed when he chewed and worked his lips (a surefire sign of annoyance), and an answering panic rose within her. She'd have hell to pay when this job was done, and she was sure that an impatient nickname would be the least of her worries when she returned to London.
    She pulled out a heavy art book and turned the pages absently. Nudes leapt out at her—angular and abstract and fleshy and hyperreal and some rather on the porn-y side. Scenes from Brussels flashed in her mind and she shut the book with a snap, her cheeks heating. Peyton was the farthest thing from a prude or a scrupulous Catholic schoolgirl (her 'upbringing' made sure of that), and she felt irritated at the heat in her cheeks. But the truth was that being with Carson, from the island where they met under false names (not that Carson had volunteered his own), to the night in Brussels that had brought out all their borrowed intimacy back to the surface, was something unlike she'd ever felt before. She was used to using sex for control, for leverage, and sometimes simply for release. But with Carson, it turned to–
    A flash of white blonde killed her train of thought. Anja Rubinstein entered the bookshop, her distinctive hair nearly luminous against the black of her coat. She browsed among the displays, looking ludicrous with her shades indoors.
    "Blondie's inside," Peyton murmured. Carson's head snapped up and scanned the room. Locked on his target, he crossed over to the displays. Peyton retreated into a shadowy corner behind a couple of shelves, the gaps between the volumes giving her a muddled view of Carson and Anja taking their seats by the sunny windows.
    "Miss Rubinstein," Carson said. She could hear the smile in his tone. Charm offensive indeed.
    "I am sorry," said Anja. "How did you find me again?" She sounded nervous, her voice shakier than when Peyton had overheard her in the Grand Amrath hotel.  Peyton could make out the crossed arms protective in front of her coat.
    "A friend of a friend told me of a talented dealer."
    "A friend of a friend could be anyone," she answered. "Tell me, or I'll walk out this door."
    "Careful, are we?"
    "One needs to be, in this business." A thumb went to rub her lip. "The name."
    "Ivor Rasimoff of the Imperial Gallery."
    "Warsaw," she said quietly.
    "You get around?" Carson asked, his tone light.
    "Where the business takes me." She tried for nonchalance but failed miserably. Anja Rubinstein sounded like a breathy little girl, trying to get into a conversation with the grown-ups.
    "You're very pretty," said Carson, leaning in his seat, and Peyton rolled her eyes. "Did you ever model?"
    "Mr. Varis," she said, and Peyton heard a trace of a giggle. "I really don't have much time. Um. Can you tell me what it is you wanted to meet about?"
    "Call me Carson." He went and took one of her hands. Peyton would get a migraine from rolling her eyes too hard, if he kept this up. "That is, if I may call you Anja?"
    "You may." The little blonde trollop was smiling.
    "I assume you did your research on me?"
    "I did."
    His fingers stroked the back of her hand. "And what did you learn?"
    She giggled again. "It can't all be true, can it?"
    "Sadly, as you know, damaging reputations is really a poor way of handling competition, but many of our colleagues are not above it."
    She tilted her head and tucked her hair behind her ear, keeping her other hand underneath Carson's grasp.
    "Here's the deal," he continued. "I have a hot piece and a ready buyer. But I can't be involved."
    "One of those stories about you?" she asked shyly.
    Carson chuckled. "Less a story and more of a…hmm. Misunderstanding."
    "I got you," she smiled.
    "Offer a cut," said Peyton.
    Carson ran his hand through his curls. "Now all I need is someone who'll just put it together. Connect the piece to the buyer. That's all."
    Anja pulled her hand away and ran her thumb over her lips. "I don't know…"
    "You're a bright girl; people have