Page 72 of The Saint

Everything.

Esme leveled her long-lashed eyes to Amelia’s again. “People trusted Hailey. She helped far,farbeyond her reach.”

“Reach of what?”

Esme continued as though she hadn’t heard Amelia. “Hailey was an art collector with uncommonly good sense and an eye that could distinguish between the real deal and a fraud from the highest-caliber counterfeiters. You know all that though, don’t you?”

Amelia nodded. “What don’t I know?”

“She was…” Esme’s eyes glittered. “A ghost.” Another unguarded smile curled onto her lips. “Hailey could get into any building, through any security, and do so without leaving a trace of DNA.”

Her spine straightened. “Hailey?”

Esme nodded again. “Mm-hmm. Jonathan also.”

Amelia tried to picture her boring sister and brother-in-law doing anything sneaky. She couldn’t. When she imagined their involvement with the CIA, her thoughts had been more of analyzing information from a computer or attending professional conferences to evaluate works of art for forgeries. Maybe they even authenticated stolen goods that real spies, the kind who sneaked into buildings and kept all their DNA, had found.

“Some people are born with intelligence and cunning. They were.” Esme’s expression faded to something more nostalgic and perhaps even proud.

Amelia bit her lip. That was a lot to take in, but it hadn’t explained how the three of them worked together. “Do you sneak into places too?”

Esme chortled. “Absolutely not.”

Amelia’s eyebrows arched as she wondered what Esme wasn’t saying.

She hummed and gave Amelia another once-over as though still trying to decide how much to share.

“That’s not why Beth brought us here,” Amelia urged.

“No,” Esme answered playfully. She lifted her hands as if to say,“What the hell?”“Hailey and Jonathan had an electric connection. They used that as part of their cover and effortlessly folded into my world. It brought them places their day-to-day lives couldn’t.”

This was the bomb. Amelia’s stomach toed its way to the edge of the cliff and readied to dive over the edge. She swallowed hard. “Your world is not the art history world, is it?”

Esme tipped her head back and laughed. “No.”

“Doyouwork for the CIA?” Amelia wondered if she should be picturing Esme as James Bond or Jason Bourne.

Her laughter continued. “Does anyonejustwork for the CIA? Or are we all out there, living the best we know how?”

Amelia glanced at Camden then back at Esme. “Was that a yes?”

Esme sighed. “It’s a complicated answer that doesn’t have to do with why you’re here.”

“It sort of does.” Hailey and Jonathan outwardly worked with art but were involved with the CIA. Esme was that connection. So Esme was a spy? “What do you do?”

“This place…” She held her arms out and eyed her office as though she could see through walls and was proud of everything in her view. “…is my club.”

What kind of club operated out of a broken-down warehouse? Even if the expansive bar was beautiful, it was inconvenient to get to and didn’t look like any of the swank establishments where DC movers and shakers milled. Not to mention, Amelia’s company threw—objectively—many of the most exclusive parties in the DC metro area. She’d never heard of Esme. The place wasn’t on her radar.

“It’s one of a few clubs I own across the globe,” Esme continued. “I spend the most time here.”

This was supposed to have been the big bomb that would ruin Amelia’s memory of Hailey and Jonathan. Esme had a club. So what was the catch? Drugs? Did Hailey and Jonathan use their work in art sales to find international drug dealers? Did the CIA deal with those types of crimes?

“Okay.” Amelia blinked and looked at Camden for his two cents.

His jaw ticked, and he swallowed hard. But he didn’t meet her eye or impart any understanding of what she was missing.

Amelia moistened her lips. “What do you do at your clubs?”

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