She didn’t slow down.
“Daphne.”
Closer now. She could hear his footsteps, longer and faster than hers, closing the distance without apparent effort. She cut sharply around a couple walking a small dog and ducked past a newspaper stand, but a large group of Chinese tourists crowded the sidewalk, forcing her to stop or plow through them. In that moment of hesitation, he caught her hand.
“Five minutes,” Atlas said, spinning her around to face him. “Just five minutes.”
She yanked her arm free and whirled to face him. Up close, he was even more devastatingly handsome, and those storm-gray eyes held a vulnerability that seemed at odds with everything she knew about Atlas Frost, international information broker and wanted criminal. He was also slightly out of breath, which… good. This was a man who got everything he wanted easily, and she wasn’t about to make it easy.
“Five minutes for what? More lies?” she snapped. “Or did you just want to see how gullible I really am in person?”
“No—”
“Was this some kind of joke to you? Or was it about my family?” The idea that their entire connection could have been manufactured for intelligence gathering made her stomachchurn. A year of late-night conversations, shared confidences, and intellectual challenges—all potentially just a sophisticated fishing expedition.
“It wasn’t like that.” Atlas glanced around, clearly uncomfortable having this conversation in public. “Not for long, anyway.”
“Oh, that’s reassuring.” She crossed her arms over her chest. “So it started as manipulation and evolved into... what, exactly?”
He ran a hand through his dark hair, mussing its perfect styling. The gesture was so human, so at odds with his polished appearance, that it caught her off guard.
“Yes, initially I reached out because you’re a Wilde.” His voice was exactly as she’d imagined it would be during their text conversations—low, cultured, with just a hint of something that wasn’t quite American or European but somewhere in between. “But that changed quickly.”
“When exactly? Before or after you helped Praetorian nearly kill my cousin in Antarctica?”
“That’s not exactly what happened.”
“Isn’t it? Because Elliot nearly died, and we know Praetorian had inside help with their expedition cover. And now I find out my online... whatever you were... is Atlas Frost, who just happens to broker half the black market deals in Europe. Including for Praetorian.”
“I broker information,” he corrected. “And deals, yes. I don’t take sides.”
“That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“It’s supposed to be the truth.” Atlas stepped closer, lowering his voice. “I didn’t know Praetorian was planning to release a bioweapon. By the time I figured it out, I was already helping your family behind the scenes.”
Daphne snorted. “Right. Out of the goodness of your heart.”
“Out of interest in keeping myself alive,” he countered. “A global pandemic isn’t good for anyone’s business model. Even mine.”
A mother with a stroller maneuvered around them, giving them a curious glance. Atlas took Daphne’s elbow and guided her toward a less crowded section of sidewalk near a bookshop window. She allowed it, if only to move their argument out of the flow of pedestrian traffic.
“You knew who I was from the beginning,” she said, pulling her arm free once they’d moved. “You knew and you let me... you let me think you were just some brilliant tech guy who happened to like the same obscure forums I did.”
“And if I’d introduced myself as Atlas Frost?” He raised an eyebrow. “Would you have spoken to me at all?”
She couldn’t answer that. Of course she wouldn’t have.
“That’s what I thought.” He sighed. “Look, my initial contact was professional interest. The Wildes have an impressive cybersecurity operation, and you’re the brain behind it. I wanted to know what you knew.”
“About what?”
“About me. About my clients.” He shrugged. “It’s my job to stay ahead of people who might interfere with my business.”
Daphne felt sick. All those late-night conversations, the puzzles he’d challenged her with, the way he’d seemed to understand parts of her that no one else did—had it all been intelligence gathering?
“So all of it was fake?” She hated how her voice wavered. “Every conversation we had?”
Something shifted in his expression—a crack in the polished facade. “No.” The word came out rougher than his usual controlled tone. “Not all of it. Not most of it.”