The Lost Story of Eva Fuentes

Chapter One

Margo

London

2024

She was late.

Not late by normal standards-when Margo Reynolds glanced at the secondhand Cartier watch on her wrist, she was relieved to see that she had five minutes before her appointment-but late by her standards. Even when she accounted for the unpredictable London commute in her calculations-Would the Tube be delayed? Would the sidewalks be filled with tourists gawking at the sights? Would her heel get caught in one of the street grates requiring a dash into Harrods to purchase a replacement pump?-she hadn't considered the fact that all three of those things would happen. So despite the cold, damp December day, she was now sweating beneath her coat collar, her legs transitioning to that stride somewhere between a purposeful walk and a full-out run as she fairly propelled herself to her meeting by sheer force of will.

Something wet fell on her head.

Margo looked away from the street in front of her for a moment to gaze skyward, praying that she was wrong, that they weren't headed into the first snow of the season.

That five minutes was feeling more and more tenuous now.

Another wet drop of snow-if it could even be called that, considering the watery mixture-hit her square in the face.

She should have called a car.

"Is it snowing?" a woman exclaimed.

Margo winced at the delighted shriek beside her, at the way the word "snowing" seemed to travel through the crowd with the same unbridled glee as a celebrity sighting in front of a double-decker tour bus.

London might not have been Margo's home by birth, but it was perhaps more powerfully by choice, and yet, on days like this when the throngs of tourists overwhelmed the sidewalks, she had to admit she had a love-hate relationship with the place. But weren't cities like that? They didn't make it easy for you to love them. No, they demanded sacrifice, that you hustle for the pleasure of calling them home. And just when you'd had a spectacularly bad day, when you thought to yourself, Maybe I should move somewhere quiet, somewhere easy, they dispensed a bit of magic your way in the form of a whimsical holiday shop window, or the perfect meal, or an unexpected connection with a stranger, ensuring you were really and truly ensnared.

London had its hooks in her whether she liked it or not.

Margo turned down the street in front of her, and then she saw it, up ahead on the right, exactly the way her assistant Bea had described it when she briefed her on the meeting's particulars.

There was no number, no name over the entrance, just a simple, unassuming black door with a doorman posted out front, his impeccable dark coat fairly daring a drop of snow to besmirch it.

Margo took a deep breath, steadying herself, checking her watch once more.

Three minutes to showtime.

Hardly ideal, but at least she couldn't be accused of being late.

She walked up to the club's entrance, fighting the urge to smooth down her hair in case the drop of snow had done some damage.

The minor inconveniences of the day disappeared in an instant; the insecurities that nagged at her in the late hours of the night receded into the background of her mind. This was no place for impostor syndrome, no time to second-guess whether she would be taken seriously because she was young, and a woman, and many of her clients tended to look down their noses at women, particularly young ones.

Margo had earned every ounce of her reputation, and in these moments right before she had to impress, she buoyed herself with the knowledge that she had fought hard to get where she was, and no one could take that away from her.

She gave her name at the door, her American accent somewhat incongruous in such a bastion of all that seemed to represent the enclave of British society. There were clubs like this throughout the city, catering to a clientele that often wanted to exclude. Margo would always be an outsider here, but she'd come to welcome the position rather than shy away from it.

If Margo had set the meeting, she would have chosen a place on her terms where she could control the setting, where she would feel comfortable and in charge, but the client had pled discretion when requesting her presence at his club, and sometimes allowances were made, especially when six years after she'd finished grad school, student loans still needed to be paid.

It was always like this before an introductory meeting with a client. Sourcing valuable items-art, jewelry, antiques, and the like-wasn't war, but given some of the negotiations she'd been a party to, the sting of defeat-and swell of victory-sometimes it seemed like it.

When you ran your own business, when you were your own brand, your successes and failures rested on your shoulders. Sometimes it was empowering, like Margo had the potential to decide her future. Other times, the pressure threatened to tear her down. She'd tried as hard as she could to keep the overhead of running Reynolds Acquisitions as low as possible. Her assistant Bea was her only staff, the office space they rented in Chelsea a necessity for the image it presented to her clients. Much like the watch on her wrist and the outfit she'd carefully selected.

The man at the door handed her over to another man, who bid her to follow him as he led her through the club's entrance and down a narrow, wood-paneled hallway flanked by framed paintings of-former members, perhaps? They certainly looked like the type who would frequent a club such as this one, their disdain dripping through the oil and canvas. The club's interior was as small as it appeared from the outside, but then again considering the neighborhood in central London, real estate was ever at a premium even for the obscenely wealthy. The smell that Margo associated with antique shops, luxury goods, and exclusive clubs like this one instantly assailed her. It was the scent of history, and money, and the realization that beneath the layers of wood, citrus, and smoke, there were secrets and scandals lingering under the surface.

They reached the end of the hallway, where another man wearing a suit greeted them. He took Margo's black pea coat from her, slipping it off her shoulders and whisking it away with the practice of someone who had done it thousands of times before.

There was a quiet efficiency to the club, a whisper of wealth that had found its way in her ear since the first moment she had approached the lacquered door.

Her new heels clicked against the wood floors.

Margo took a deep breath, and then another, the stiffness in her neck and shoulders loosening some. It had been ages since she'd been to a Pilates class, given the demands of her recent travel schedule, and the telltale tightness reminded her of the need for a break.

The choice of meeting place was beginning to paint a clear picture of how connected the client was. Today's dossier was thinner than she would have liked, but sometimes that was part of the territory.

Besides, the fee the client was dangling in front of her was staggeringly high-as was the cost of living in London.

Margo clasped her hands together, trying to stave off the nervous energy that had lit its way through her body. Her fingers skated across her ring finger, ready to twist her engagement ring and wedding band around only to come up bare.

Divorce was staggeringly expensive, too.

Occasionally, the secrecy in her line of work was warranted-a high-profile client eager to obscure their identity-and other times, it was more a product of a dramatic imagination, a cloak-and-dagger desire that fueled the hunt for the prospective buyer. Some of her clients seemed to enjoy the search more than the attainment of the actual item, whereas others shot off quick one-line emails with little concern for the process, only the solution. Some of them appeared to view the entire business as something akin to a treasure hunt, and they relished playing up the romanticism and intrigue of such an endeavor as though it was a welcome departure from the duller aspects of their daily lives.

When they reached the end of the hallway, the man led her into a cozy dining room. Half a dozen round tables sat neatly spaced apart, only two of them occupied. One table was filled with a group of men, their laughter carrying through the room. The other table sported a lone occupant.

Presumably her new client.

The man sat with his back to the wall and his gaze at the entrance. He wore an expensive-looking blue gray suit and an open white-collared shirt, no tie, exposing a tan he certainly hadn't acquired in the gloomy London winter.

He rose, his expression expectant, and she'd have bet anything that he had a dossier of sorts on her that was much thicker than hers, considering he seemingly recognized her immediately.

The man-William Greer, according to the appointment his assistant had scheduled with Bea-looked a decade or so older than her, early forties perhaps, his close-cropped dark hair interspersed with gray threads at the temples. There was something military-like in his bearing, in the way his gaze tracked her and the rest of the room, his body tense and alert despite the languid setting. He didn't look like he was born to a private club like this one, and despite choosing the meeting point, he didn't appear particularly comfortable, either.

"Ms. Reynolds," he said in greeting, those two words revealing an American accent.

"Mr. Greer," she returned, meeting his gaze, and holding it. He may have chosen the location for their meeting, but she refused to be cowed just because they were on his turf. She had no interest in a client who was going to be a pain to work with; better he learn now that her tolerance for ego was finite.

The corner of Greer's mouth turned up in a ghost of a smile. He didn't bother returning her perusal with one of his own, as though he had already gleaned everything he needed to know about her.

Most of her clients came to her by referrals from previous clients she had worked with or other professional contacts, ensuring that they had at least been somewhat vetted. Greer had been recommended to her by an art dealer in New York who she had collaborated with on a handful of transactions. In his introduction, he'd stated that Greer had deep pockets and a reputation for discretion. There had been nothing objectionable in his email-no tendencies to the illegal or immoral-and so she had agreed to this initial meeting.

Margo slid into the open seat, Greer following suit.

The maître d' whisked himself away quietly, only to be immediately replaced by a waiter who took their drink order and was gone just as swiftly.

"I need you to find something for my employer," Greer said, bypassing social pleasantries entirely. Somehow, the effect wasn't as jarring as she'd otherwise have considered it. It fit the impatience that wafted off him.

Some of her clients became friends. They sent her Christmas cards and asked how she was doing, and had more recently begun trying to set her up on dates with men she had absolutely no interest in. Others were more transactional. She didn't have a preference. Each had their benefits. Sometimes it was nice just to do a job and move on to the next. Other times-when she found a lost family heirloom or procured a gift for a beloved family member-she was invested in her clients' lives, as though she had a place on the periphery of their histories. For as much time as Margo spent working and as little time as she spent on her personal life, if you whittled her phone contacts down to those who weren't professional connections, she'd be left with a very thin list.

Greer was an intermediary, then. No wonder she couldn't find much about him. She'd bet anything that his employer was the one who was the club member. Had the art dealer known that someone else was behind the acquisitions? Somehow, she didn't think so.

There was something in his voice, a hard edge that seemed at odds with the graceful lines of the club. His accent was difficult to place-American, yes, but she struggled to narrow it to a specific region. He was either a man who hadn't lived in one place too long or had trained himself to eradicate traces of where he came from.

If her referral hadn't realized he was dealing with an intermediary, what else was he wrong about?

"I don't deal in illegal items," she said. "Mr. Mitchell should have told you that. I won't do anything unethical, either. No amount of money is worth more than me being able to sleep at night. I'm intentional about the items I source."

Not that people hadn't tried to press the issue a time or two. The problem with this line of business was that occasionally people forgot themselves when they wanted something badly, and they were ready to go to any lengths to obtain it. Collectors could become obsessive in their desires, and Margo often found herself wondering what she would do if she were in their shoes, if there was anything she was willing to go to any lengths to obtain. She couldn't imagine it.

There was a dangerous side to sourcing the valuable and rare-after all, some of the items people were searching for were worth vast sums, and when money was involved, people could be capable of just about anything. She was careful in the clients she took on, in the items she searched for. She'd turned down a job a time or two-and wished she had more than once-when things ventured into grounds she wasn't comfortable with. Despite the concerns her ex-husband had raised, she wasn't reckless when it came to her safety, and no amount of personal ambition pushed her to accept clients who were involved in more nefarious matters like smuggling or theft.

Greer smiled again. "Of course. Like many of your clients, my employer is an avid collector, the sort of man who appreciates the beauty of things. Of late, he has taken an interest in books. There's one book that has sentimental value for him. He's tried to find it, but it's a relatively obscure title and he hasn't had much success. He would like you to acquire it for him."

She hadn't expected a book.

While she had found rare editions for clients in the past, books were hardly her specialty. Still, it sounded simple enough, considering she knew the perfect person to help her track down the title.