Page 3 of The Grandmaster's Pawn (Checkmate)

Before I know it, we’ve exchanged another five moves, and if I don’t sign off now, I’ll say something I can’t take back. Like…how very much I enjoy our conversations. How I look forward to our matches every night.

Daniel, when I log on later, I expect to see a photo of those pants.

* * *

Thirty university studentsgather around the exhibit, and I push my glasses up on my nose as I force a smile. “The Lewis Chessmen are from the twelfth century. They were carved out of ivory from walrus tusks, and they get their name from where they were discovered—on the Isle of Lewis in the Outer Hebrides in Scotland.”

“How come you don’t have the whole set?” one of the boys asks as he shoves another classmate aside for a closer look. “And what are those little…lumpy pieces?”

I stifle my sigh. “Those are the pawns. When the cache was discovered, it contained seventy-eight chess pieces and fifteen other artifacts believed to be from five different complete sets. That’s why you see the variation even among pieces of the same type. The British Museum holds eighty-two pieces, and the other eleven are at the National Museum of Scotland in Edinburgh.”

“They should all be in Scotland,” a tall, willowy blond says as she examines her nails. Her accent is decidedly Scottish.

“That, ladies and gentlemen, is a debate that is above my pay grade.” The American joke doesn’t play well with the students, and my cheeks flush with heat as I gesture to one of the pieces that are stained red. “One of the most interesting finds from this discovery is that in the twelfth century, chess colors weren’t black and white, but red and white.”

I continue my rambling for another half an hour until two of the boys start roughhousing around the display. They jostle the cabinet, and all hell breaks loose.

Charles runs in from the hall, my phone starts to buzz in my pocket, and lights flash as the alarms go off, the loud clanging making my headache even worse. “It’s okay, Charles,” I say as I key in my code that tells the security system this is all a false alarm. “Just a row between two boys who willdefinitelybe leaving now.” With a glare at their professor, I nod at the door. “I’m afraid the tour is over. Charles will escort you out.”

As the group follows the guard and the professor reams the boys new assholes, I sink down onto a bench and wait for the alarms to fall silent and the museum guards to come in and secure all of the exhibits so the room—and the Chessmen—can be examined and reset.

Now, more than ever, I wish I hadn’t skipped my morning coffee. Even thinking about the paperwork I’ll have to fill out this afternoon. I groan and drop my head into my hands. Within minutes, the room is emptied and the other displays locked down. “Miss Watson?” one of the guards says. “We’re ready for your report now.”

* * *

Daniel

The little tiff at the museum provides me with a a wealth of information. Gemma is calm and cool under pressure, knows all about the Lewis Chessmen, and can turn off the security alarms with her phone.

I stride quickly down the hall and duck into a bathroom by the lobby to remove my disguise. The gray wig and horn-rimmed glasses make me look like a college professor. Paired with the tweed jacket, no one looked twice at me tagging along at the back of the group.

The jacket reverses, the tie, wig, and glasses go into my briefcase, and businessman Daniel Hastings slips out the front doors.

After two months of following and observing her, I know Gemma’s routine. At precisely eleven-thirty every morning, she heads to a local shop a kilometer away, orders an almond milk latte, and sits down with a text book for twenty-two minutes. So at eleven-thirty-five, I queue up behind her.

“Earl Grey and a biscuit,” I say, just loud enough for her to hear as she’s standing at the takeaway counter. “For Daniel.”

The din surrounding us masks the hitch in her breath, but out of the corner of my eye, I pick up on the little stutter in her chest. Red silk drapes over her breasts, gathering at her waist. Black pants showcase her curvy hips and long legs, and nervous fingers fiddle with a single strand of pearls around her neck.

“Daniel?” she asks hesitantly. “Do…you play chess?”

After dropping a ten pound note on the counter and waving off change, I turn to her. “I do.” I let my brow furrow, just for a moment. “Bloody hell. Gemma?”

Her smile lights up the entire room, and as she nods, I hold out my hand.

“This is unexpected. I do apologize. If I’d known we would meet, I would have brought that photo for you.”

Her fingers are warm in mine, soft, and I hold on for a moment longer than I intend, something about her almost magnetic, especially when she laughs, like she does now. “I work down the street. I have an office above Harrods. Usually, I hit up the tea shop around the corner, but they had a power outage this morning. What areyoudoing here?”

To Gemma, I’m an art dealer. Paintings, mostly. Both modern and classical. Not affiliated with any gallery, I freelance, buying and selling for my clients. Not altogether different from my true calling. After all, the last several items I’ve stolenhavebeen paintings.

“Oh. I…I come here every day.” She accepts her latte from the barista and scans the room for a table. “Um, I know this is forward of me, but…it’s been a morning, and trying to read about the origins of color in art—” she shrugs as she hugs her textbook to her chest, “—is probably going to be a waste of time. Would you like to join me?”

“I would be delighted. Then, perhaps, you’ll let me apologize again for last night.” Picking up my biscuit and mug, I follow her to a corner table. “I did not mean to pry.”

She laughs again, and shite. The sound is so much better in person. Along with the little self-conscious flush creeping up her cheeks and the way she stares down at her hands cupped around the mug for a moment before meeting my gaze once more. “You didn’t. I…reacted badly, that’s all.”

“Then may I do so again? You can refuse, of course.” I lean forward, infusing as much care and concern in my tone as I can. I thought I would have to force the emotion, but I find it comes naturally with her this close. She nods, and I raise a brow. “Why has it ‘been a morning’?”

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