The sun beat down on the cobbled streets of Tangier as the call to prayer echoed in the distance. You adjusted your scarf, trying not to lose your patience—or your cover. This wasn’t supposed to be a partnered mission. Especially not with him.

“Try not to look so tense,” Rafe Cameron said from beside you, flashing that cocky smirk that had probably gotten him out of more trouble than his trust fund ever could. “You’ll blow our cover.”

You glared at him. “If anyone’s blowing our cover, it’s you. You look like you just stepped out of a yacht ad.”

“I did,” he said smoothly. “Last week. St. Tropez. You should’ve seen it.”

You rolled your eyes so hard it nearly gave you a headache. This wasn’t a vacation. You were in Morocco chasing down a rumor—a long-lost royal crown, said to have been stolen from a Portuguese monarch and hidden somewhere in the Rif Mountains during the 18th century. It was a myth. At least, until Rafe showed up waving a torn, bloodstained map and a contract that just happened to make you co-owners in the hunt.

“Why are you even here?” you muttered, ducking into a narrow alley where a contact was supposed to meet you. “This isn’t your scene.”

He leaned against the wall like he belonged there. “Because I like shiny things. And you’re fun when you’re mad.”