by Nora Roberts
“Well . . .”
It was easy to justify using the smile. Jessica could already see the desk in the front parlor. “If it’s not too much trouble,” she added.
The driver shifted to his other foot. “I guess it’ll be all right. Joe won’t mind.” He jerked his thumb at his partner, who had opened the wide double doors of the truck.
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. That desk is just what I’ve been looking for.”
Feeling triumphant, Jessica went to the back room for more tea.
As she had burst out hours before, Jessica burst in through the front door of the house. “Betsy!” She slung her purse over the newel post. “Did it come?” Without waiting for an answer, she dashed toward the front parlor.
“Since you were six, I’ve been telling you to slow down.” Betsy came through the parlor doors, intercepting her. “At least then you wore sensible shoes.”
“Betsy.” Jessica gave her a quick, hard squeeze that held as much impatience as affection. “Did it come?”
“Yes, of course it came.” The housekeeper straightened her apron with a tug. “And it’s sitting in the parlor just like you told me. It’ll be there whether you walk sensibly or run like a fool.” The last of the sentence was wasted, as Jessica was already rushing by her.
“Oh, it’s lovely!” Gently, she ran a finger over the wood, then quickly began to examine it on all sides. It was a delicate, airy little piece. A woman’s desk. Jessica opened the slant top, then sighed at the unmarred interior. “Really lovely. Wait until David sees it.” She opened one of the inner drawers. It slid out smoothly. “It’s exactly what I’ve been looking for. What luck that Michael came across it.” Crouching, she ran a hand down one of its slender legs.
“It’s pretty,” Betsy admitted, thinking that the carving would be one more thing to keep dust out of. “I bet you could have sold it for a pretty penny too.”
“The advantage of owning a shop is being able to cop some of the merchandise for yourself.” Rising, Jessica shut the lid again. Now all she needed was a frivolous little inkwell, or perhaps a porcelain box to set on top of it.
“Supper’s nearly ready.”
“Oh, supper.” Shaking her head, Jessica brought herself back to the moment. “Mr. Sladerman, I’ve neglected him all day. Is he upstairs?”
“In the library,” Betsy announced grimly. “All day. Wouldn’t even come out for lunch.”
“Oh boy.” Jessica combed a hand through her hair. He hadn’t looked like a man who would have much patience with disorganization. “I really wanted to ease him into that. Well, I’m going to go be charming so we don’t lose him. What’s for supper?” she asked over her shoulder.
“Stuffed pork chops and mashed potatoes.”
“That should help,” Jessica muttered as she headed for the library door.
She opened it slowly, enough to stick her head inside. Some things, she decided, you don’t rush into. He was sitting at a long work table, surrounded by pillars and piles of books. A thick pad was in front of him, and the pencil in his hand was worked halfway down. His hair fell over his forehead, but she could see his brows drawn together in concentration. Or annoyance, she mused. She put on her best smile.
“Hi.”
He looked up, eyes pinning her. Jessica could feel the little prickles of power all over her skin. She absorbed it, intrigued by the sensation. Without being aware of it, her smile had faded into a look of puzzlement.
Who is this man? she wondered. It was curiosity as much as courage that had her coming all the way into the room. The lamp on the desk slanted across his face, highlighting his mouth and putting his eyes in shadow. She didn’t feel safe with him this time, but unsettled. She continued toward him.
“You’ve got a hell of a mess here,” Slade said shortly, tossing his pencil aside. It was better to attack than let himself dwell on how beautiful she was. “If you run your shop like this”—he gestured widely—“it’s a miracle you’re not bankrupt.”
The specific complaint eased the tension in her shoulders. There’d been nothing personal in that look, she assured herself. She’d been foolish to think there had been. “I know it’s terrible,” Jessica admitted, smiling again. “I hope you’re not going to do the sensible thing and walk out.” Gingerly, she lowered a hip to the table before lifting a book at random. “Do you like challenges, Mr. Sladerman?”
She was laughing, he noted. Or her eyes were. But he sensed very clearly that she laughed at herself. A reluctant smile tugged at his mouth as he struggled to study her objectively. Maybe she was innocent—maybe not. He didn’t have the same blind faith as the commissioner. But she was beautiful, and he was attracted. Slade decided the attraction was going to be difficult to work around.
Letting out a long breath, he gazed around the room. How much choice did he have? “I’m going to take pity on you, Miss Winslow . . . I have a fondness for books.”
“So do I,” she began, then had to deal with another of his cool, direct looks. “Really,” she claimed with a laugh. “I’m just not neat. Do we have a deal, Mr. Sladerman?” Solemnly, she offered her hand.
He glanced at it first. Soft and elegant, he thought, like her name and her voice. With a quick curse at fate for making the commissioner her godfather, Slade took her hand in his. “We have a deal, Miss Winslow.”
Jessica slid from the table, keeping his hand in hers when he would have drawn away. Somehow she’d known it would be hard and strong. “How do you feel about stuffed pork chops?”
They were tender and delicious. Slade ate three after his stomach remembered the lack of lunch. And, he thought after a slice of cheesecake, this case had some advantages over the one he’d just wrapped up. For two weeks he’d made do on cold coffee and stale sandwiches. And his partner hadn’t been as easy to look at as Jessica Winslow. She’d guided the conversation expertly during the meal and had ended by tucking her arm through his to lead him back to the parlor.
“Have a seat,” she invited. “I’ll pour you a brandy.”
As he started to cross the room the desk caught his eye. “That wasn’t here this morning.”
“What?” With a decanter in her hand, she glanced over her shoulder. “Oh no, it just came this afternoon. Do you know anything about antiques?”
“No.” He gave the desk a cursory study before taking a chair. “I’ll leave that to you, Miss Winslow.”
“Jessica.” She poured a second brandy before crossing to him. “Do I call you James or Jim?”
“Slade,” he told her as he took a snifter. “Even my mother stopped calling me Jim when I was ten.”
“You have a mother?”
The quick, unconscious surprise in her voice had him grinning. “Everybody’s entitled to one.”
Feeling foolish, Jessica sat across from him. “You just seem to be capable of arranging the whole business without one.”
Both sipped brandy, and their eyes met over the snifters. Jessica felt the moment freeze, out of time, out of place. Do minds touch? she thought numbly. Wasn’t she sensing at that moment the turbulent spin of his thoughts? Or were they hers? Brandy slipped, hot and strong down her throat, snapping her back. Talk, she ordered herself. Say something. “Do you have any other family?” she managed.
Slade stared at her, wondering if he had imagined that instant of stunning intimacy. He’d never felt that with any woman before, any lover. It was ridiculous to imagine that he’d felt it with one he barely knew. “A sister,” he said at length. “She’s in college.”
“A sister.” Jessica relaxed again and slipped out of her shoes. “That’s nice. I always wanted a brother or sister when I was growing up.”
“Money can’t buy everything.” Slade shrugged with the words. Seeing the puzzled hurt on her face, he cursed himself. If she was getting to him already, what would it be like in a week?
“You’re quick with clichés,” Jessica observed. “I suppose that’s because you’re a writer.” After another si
p of brandy, she set the glass aside. “What do you write?”
“Unpublished novels.”
She laughed as she had in the library, drawing another smile from him. “It must be frustrating.”
“Only daily,” he agreed.
“Why do you do it?”
“Why do you eat?”
Jessica considered for a moment, then nodded. “Yes, I suppose it’s like that, isn’t it? Have you always wanted to write?”
He thought of his father, how he had bragged that his son would be the next Sladerman on the force. He thought of his teenage years, when he had written his stories in longhand in spiral notebooks late into the night. He thought of his father’s eyes the first time he had seen his son in uniform. And he thought of the first time he’d had a short story accepted.
“Yes.” Perhaps it was easier to admit to her what he had never been able to explain to his family. “Always.”
“When you want something badly enough, and you don’t give up,” Jessica began slowly, “you get it.”
Slade gave a short laugh before he drank. “Always?”
She touched the tip of her tongue to her top lip. “Almost always. It’s all a gamble, isn’t it?”
“Long odds,” he murmured, frowning into his glass. “I usually play long odds.” He studied the amber liquor, which was almost exactly the shade of her eyes. She shouldn’t be so easy to talk to, he mused. He’d find himself saying too much.
“Ah, Ulysses, I wondered where you were.”
Lifting his eyes, Slade stared at a large, loping mop of fur. It lunged, unerringly, into Jessica’s lap. He heard her groan, then giggle.
“Damn it! How many times do I have to tell you you’re not a lap dog. You’re breaking my ribs.” She twisted her head, but the wet, pink tongue found her cheek. “Stop!” she sputtered, pushing impotently. “Get down,” she ordered. “Get down right this minute.” Ulysses barked twice, then continued to lap his tongue all over her face.
“What,” Slade asked slowly, “is that?”
Jessica gave another mighty shove, but Ulysses only rested his head on her shoulder. “A dog, of course.”
“There’s no ‘of course’ about that dog.”
“He’s a Great Pyrenees,” she retorted, quickly running out of breath. “And he flunked obedience school three times. You mangy, soft-headed mutt, get down.” Ulysses let out a long, contented breath and didn’t budge. “Give me a hand, will you?” she demanded of Slade. “I’ll have internal injuries this time. Once before I was stuck for two hours until Betsy got home.”
Rising, Slade approached the dog with a frown. “Does he bite?”
“God, I’m suffocating and the man asks if he bites.”
A grin split Slade’s face as he looked down at her. “Can’t be too careful about these things. He might be vicious.”
Jessica narrowed her eyes. “Sic ’em, Ulysses!” Hearing his name, the dog roused himself to lick her face again, joyfully. “Satisfied?” Jessica demanded. “Now grab him somewhere and get me out.”
Bending, Slade wrapped his arms around the bulk of fur. The back of his hand brushed Jessica’s breast as he shifted his grip. “Sorry,” he muttered, dragging at the dog. “Good God, what does he weigh?”
“About one twenty-five, I think.”
With a shake of his head, Slade put his back into it. Ulysses slid to the floor to lay adoringly at Jessica’s feet. Taking a deep gulp of air, Jessica closed her eyes.
She was covered with loose white hair. Her own was disheveled and curled around her shoulders, the color, Slade observed, of sun-bleached wheat. With her face in repose, the slant of her cheekbones was more pronounced. Her lips were just parted. Their shape was utterly feminine—the classic cupid’s bow but for the fullness in the lower lip. It spoke of passion—hidden, quietly simmering passion. The mouth and the cheekbones added something to the tearoom looks that had Slade’s pulse responding. He couldn’t want her, he told himself. That wasn’t just irresponsible, it was stupid. He stared down at the dog again.
“You should do something about training him,” he said shortly.
“I know.” With a sigh, Jessica opened her brandy-colored eyes. Her affection for Ulysses made her forget the discomfort and the mess he usually created. “He’s very sensitive really. I just haven’t got the heart to subject him to obedience school again.”
“That’s incredibly stupid,” Slade tossed back. “He’s too big not to be trained.”
“Want the job?” Jessica retorted. Straightening in the chair, she began to brush at stray dog hair.
“I’ve got one, thanks.”
Why should it annoy her that he hadn’t once used her name? she asked herself as she rose. Dignity had to be sacrificed as she stepped over the now sleeping dog. “I appreciate the help,” she said stiffly. “And the advice is duly noted.”
Slade shrugged off the sarcasm. “No problem. You struck me as more the poodle type, though.”
“Really?” For a moment Jessica merely studied his eyes. Yes, they were hard, she decided. Hard and cool and cynical. “And I have the impression you don’t think much of the poodle type. Help yourself to the brandy. I’m going up.”
2
For the next two days there was an uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade’s way. He in turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine—which, he discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn’t take time for the social rigamarole he had expected—luncheons, clubs, committees—but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.
From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight o’clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her—or protect her if that’s what she needed—if she was always in one place while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a visit at her place of business.
Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a reason to poke around. Before he’d rounded the last curve in the steps he heard Betsy’s voice.
“ . . . nothing but trouble.”
“Don’t fuss.”
Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall, gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a bit—either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his sneakers, he didn’t see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.
“I told you she said you weren’t to come in today.” Betsy bustled after him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.
“I’m fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I’m going to mold.” He coughed violently.
“Fine, fine indeed.” Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at his back.
“Mom, lay off.” Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. “Oh, you must be the writer.”
“That’s right.” Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he thought, taking David’s measure quickly. Who hasn’t completely thrown off the youthful defiance.
“Jessie and I figured you’d be a short, stooped little guy with glasses. I don’t know why.” He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on the newel post for support. “Getting anywhere with the library?”
“Slowly.”
“Better you than me,” David murmured, wishing for a chair. “Has Jessica come down yet?”
; “She’s already gone,” Slade told him.
“There, you see.” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “And if you go in, she’ll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too.”
Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post harder. “She’s going to need help with the new shipment. Another’s due in today.”
“Lotta good you’d do,” Betsy began. Catching the look in David’s eye, Slade cut in.
“I was thinking about running down there myself. I’d like to see the place, maybe do a little research. I could give her a hand.” He watched David struggle, caught between his desire to go to the shop and his need to lie down.
“She’ll try to move everything herself,” he muttered.
“That’s the truth,” Betsy agreed, apparently switching her annoyance from her son to her employer. “Nothing stops that one.”
“It’s my job to move in the new stock, check it off. I don’t—”
“Moving furniture around shouldn’t require any great knowledge of antiques,” Slade put in casually. Knowing it was too perfect to let pass, he slipped into his jacket. “And since I was heading that way anyway . . .”
“There, it’s settled,” Betsy announced. She had her son by the elbow before he could protest. “Mr. Sladerman will go look out for Miss Jessica. You go back to bed.”
“I’m not going back to bed. A chair, all I want’s a chair.” He sent Slade a weak smile. “Hey, thanks. Tell Jessie I’m coming back on Monday. The paperwork on the new stock can wait over the weekend. Tell her to humor the invalid and leave it for me.”
Slade nodded slowly. “Sure, I’ll tell her.” Turning, he started out, deciding that the new stock interested him very much.
Fifteen minutes later Slade parked in the small graveled lot beside Jessica’s shop. It was a small, framed building, fronted with several narrow windows. The shades were up. Through the glass, he could see her tugging on a large and obviously heavy piece of furniture. Cursing women in general, he walked to the front door and pulled it open.