Peyton Riley Read Online Free PDF Page A

you see. You're intimate; you have to be. Something is shared when people have sex, it can't be helped. And usually after having it , you'll find that a layer's been peeled back—some of that outer covering's removed, and it's easier to zoom into the heart of the matter—to understand what makes a person tick. Then you can use that to your advantage."
    He shook his head, his face suddenly serious. "I don't think that's true at all."
    "Oh?"
    "If it were, then all these couples having sex wouldn't drift apart. They'd be walking around, open and intimate with each other, perfectly in sync. But they're not."
    "That's because they don't know how to use sex to their advantage ," she repeated. "People confuse sex with something else—affection, maybe. Regard. Power. Love. Sex is all those things, but you don't know when it morphs into those. Every instance is different."
    She pushed the hair from her face and followed the path of a father cycling with a toddler in his bike's front basket. "There's always a side effect, though, during sex—it's like when you process crude oil, and you get this weird goopy byproduct called petroleum jelly, and at first no one realizes how useful it is. It takes an objective observer to take the byproduct and use it properly."
    "And the byproduct of sex is?"
    She chased the roll down with a slug of coffee. "Control."
    He finally put the newspaper down and gave her his full attention. "So let me get this straight: in this metaphor, control is the petroleum jelly?"
    She shrugged.
    "I've heard a lot of euphemisms for sex, but I have to say, processing crude oil is probably the worst, ever."
    "Forget it," she rolled her eyes. "Your turn. Tell me, again , what you do."
    "I am a humble art dealer," he said seriously, but his brown eyes twinkled with mischief at her raised eyebrow. "Maybe…eighty percent of the time."
    "Eighty percent?"
    "Fine. Seventy."
    Her other eyebrow shot up.
    "Sixty to fifty percent," he grinned. "I'm legit. Most of the time."
    "And the rest?"
    The grin deepened into something nearly sinister. "I help people acquire certain…pieces…that may or may not be strictly on the market." He took a small sip of his own glass of water. "I take a certain pride in accomplishing that without strictly criminal means."
    "Strictly criminal?"
    "I find that a certain amount of charm and a glib tongue gets the job done far more pleasantly than brute force."
    Movement caught the corner of Peyton's eye. On the other side of the window, the door of the building across the street opened, and a distinctive white blonde head emerged, followed by the dark young man who'd stayed the night at her flat. "There we go," she said.
    They watched in silence as the two talked on the sidewalk. Anja clutched the young man by his elbows, seemingly pleading with him with a furrowed, upset expression. The young man shook his head and gesticulated. Finally he wrapped her into a tight hug.
    "Huh," said Peyton. "Leverage."
    The young man turned to go. Anja stood rooted to the spot, watching him leave with the most wretched expression on her face. As Peyton watched her turn and walk away with slumped shoulders, she almost felt a stab of pity.
    Almost.
    "Go after him," she told Carson. "I'll tail Anja."
    He got up and left money on the table for their meal. But at the café door, he hesitated. "No funny business, Peyton."
    "Carson—"
    "I mean it. I'm not the only one keeping an eye on you." With a last meaningful look, he bounded out the door.
    Peyton finished her coffee and left in the opposite direction.
    Through the streets, past cheerful little cafes and die-hard Dutchies trying their best to enjoy the outdoor tables despite the nip in the air, across charming stone bridges arched over the water, through houseboats bobbing as their occupants went through their morning ministrations, Peyton followed Anja, watching the white-blonde curtain swing with every step.
    Suddenly the blonde stopped and turned. Peyton ducked into