by Nora Roberts
“You’re nervous,” Jed repeated. “You talk too much when you’re nervous. Actually, you talk too much all the time but there’s a different quality to the babble when you’re nervous. And you can’t keep your hands still.” He laid his gently over hers.
“Obviously I’ve already become too predictable. The first death knell in any relationship.”
He simply turned her around, keeping her hands in his. “You’ve got a right to be nervous. I’d be more worried about you if you weren’t.”
“I don’t want you to worry.” Because she didn’t, she willed her hands to relax in his. “I’m going to be fine. Classic opening-night jitters, that’s all it is.”
“You don’t have to do this. I can keep the appointment for you.”
“I never give the understudy a chance to steal my thunder.” She inhaled and exhaled twice, deeply. “I’m okay. Wait till you read the reviews.”
Since she so obviously needed him to, he played along. “What did you used to do before opening night?”
Thinking back, she sat on the edge of the bed. “Well, you’d pace a lot. Pacing’s good. And you’d keep running lines in your head and going over the blocking. I’d get out of my street clothes and into a robe—sort of like a snake shedding. And vocalize. I used to do a lot of tongue twisters.”
“Such as?”
“Moses supposes his toeses are roses, that kind of thing.” Grinning, she waggled her tongue between her teeth. “You’ve got to limber the tongue.”
“Yours has always seemed pretty limber to me.”
“Thanks.” She laughed and looked back at him. “Good job, Skimmerhorn. I feel better.”
“Good.” He gave her hair a brotherly tousle, then turned to the phone. “I’ll order up some room service, then we’ll go over the routine again.”
Dora groaned and flopped back on the bed. “I hate heavy-handed directors.”
But he didn’t let up. Two hours later they had eaten, argued, discussed every possible contingency, and he was still unsatisfied. He listened to her reciting tongue twisters in the bathroom and frowned at the door. He’d have felt better if she’d been wearing a wire. Foolish, he supposed, as she’d be walking into a fully staffed office building in broad daylight, but it would have eased his mind. If he hadn’t been concerned that Finley’s security might have picked up on it, he’d have insisted.
It was a simple job, he reminded himself. One with little to no risk. And he’d already taken the precaution of seeing that the minimal degree of risk was all but eliminated.
It was the all but that nagged at him.
The door opened, and Dora stepped out wearing the red suit that showed off every glorious curve in that sexy body, highlighting her legs in a way that would make any man this side of the grave salivate.
“What do you think?” She was holding two different pairs of earrings up to each lobe. “The drops or the knots?”
“How the hell should I know?”
“The knots,” she decided. “More discreet.” She fastened them on. “I’d forgotten how much better you feel once you’re in costume. There’s just those little ripples of nerves that keep the adrenaline up.” She reached for her bottle of perfume.
He frowned as she spritzed on scent—the throat, the back of the neck, the wrists, the backs of her knees. Something about the female ritual made his stomach jitter. When she picked up her antique silver brush and pulled it slowly through her hair, he knew what that something was. It made him feel like a voyeur.
“You look fine.” He had to clear his throat. “You can stop primping now.”
“Brushing your hair isn’t primping. It’s basic grooming.” While she gave it another sweep, she caught his gaze in the mirror. “I’d swear you’re more nervous than I am.”
“Just stick to the plan and try to remember everything you see. Don’t bring up the painting. You haven’t got a clue about the painting. Try to go through Winesap. We’re running him down, but I want your impressions—not your speculations, your impressions.”
“I know.” Patiently she set the brush aside. “Jed, I know exactly what to do and how to do it. It’s simple. Simpler because I might have done just this if I hadn’t known about the painting. It’s a very logical step.”
“Just watch your ass.”
“Darling, I’m counting on you to do that for me.”
Dora was impressed with the decor of Finley’s outer office, trying to pick up helpful clues. As she’d suspected, he was a collector, and their mutual interest would give them a firm foundation. Her hands were chilled. That was good, too. The honest nerves she projected were just what she needed to set the tone for her visit.
It was difficult to hang on to those nerves, and character, when she really wanted to walk over and examine some of Finley’s treasures firsthand. She felt favorably toward anyone who put malachite vases and Chiparus figures in his waiting area. And the settee she was using was no reproduction. Early Chippendale, Dora thought reverently, high-style rococo.
She sincerely hoped Finley would prove himself to be in the clear. She’d love to develop a business relationship.
But if he wasn’t . . .
The thought of that had the nerves creeping back. She fiddled with the calla lily pin at her lapel, brushed at her skirt, looked at her watch.
Damn, it was four-ten, she thought. How long was he going to keep her waiting?
“Excellent. Excellent,” Finley murmured to Dora’s video image. She was every bit as lovely as he’d expected from the faded newspaper photos Winesap had unearthed from old Show and Style sections. Her wardrobe showed a flair for color and line as well as an affection for the feminine. He respected a woman who knew how to present herself to her best advantage.
He enjoyed the way her hands moved restlessly through her hair, over her body. Nerves, he thought, pleased. A spider gained more thrill from a panicky fly than a resigned one. And despite the nerves, he noted, her eyes were drawn again and again to pieces in his collection. That flattered him.
They would do very well together, he decided. Very well indeed.
He buzzed his receptionist. It was time to begin.
“Mr. Finley will see you now.”
“Thank you.” Dora rose, tucked her envelope bag under her arm and followed the woman to the double doors.
When she entered, Finley smiled and stood. “Miss Conroy, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
“I’m just happy you could see me at all.” She crossed the rug, that pool of white, and took his extended hand. Her first impression was one of vitality and health and of well-channeled power.
“It seemed important to you. What can we offer you? Some coffee, tea or perhaps some wine.”
“Wine would be lovely.” And would give her the prop of a glass to twist in her hands as she told her story.
“The Pouilly-Fumé, Barbara. Please sit, Miss Conroy. Be comfortable.” In a move calculated to disarm her, he rounded the desk and took the chair beside her. “And how was your flight?”
“Long.” Dora’s smile was fleeting. “But I shouldn’t complain. The weather was turning nasty at home. But of course, I’ll go back tomorrow.”
“So soon?” His bright eyes glinted with just the right touch of curiosity. “I’m flattered to have such a pretty young woman travel all this way just to see me.”
His receptionist had uncorked the bottle. Obviously, Dora mused, her duties included those of a wine steward. She passed Finley the cork and tipped an inch of wine in his glass for approval.
“Yes,” he said after rolling the wine on his tongue and swallowing. “That will do nicely.” When the wine was poured in both glasses, the secretary slipped soundlessly out of the room. Finley raised his glass. “To your health, Miss Conroy, and a safe journey home.”
“Thank you.” It was beautiful wine, silk on the tongue, with just a hint of smoke. “I know it might sound foolish, coming all this way just to see you, Mr. Finley. But I honestly felt com
pelled.” As if overcome, she looked down into the pale gold wine in her glass, let her fingers tighten on the stem. “Now that I’m here, I don’t know where to start.”
“I can see you’re upset,” Finley said kindly. “Take your time. You told me on the phone this had to do with Anthony DiCarlo. Are you . . .” He paused delicately. “A friend?”
“Oh no.” There was horror in her voice, in her eyes as she dragged them back to Finley’s. She imagined DiCarlo’s voice whispering in her ear to bring the rusty edge of revulsion into her voice. “No. He—Mr. Finley, I need to ask how much you know about him.”
“Personally?” Thinking, he pursed his lips. “I’m afraid I don’t know many of my branch employees as well as I might. The company is very large now, and unfortunately that depersonalizes matters. We had a meeting here just before Christmas. I noticed nothing out of the ordinary. He seemed as competent as always.”
“Then he’s worked for you for some time?”
“Six years, I believe. More or less.” He sipped more wine. “I have studied his file since this odd disappearance, to refresh my memory. He has an excellent record with the company. Mr. DiCarlo worked his way up the corporate ladder rather quickly. He showed initiative and ambition. Both of which I believe in rewarding. He came from a poor background, you know.”
When she only shook her head, he smiled and continued. “As I did myself. The desire to better oneself—this is something I respect in an employee, and also tend to reward. As one of my top executives on the east coast, he’s proven himself to be reliable and cunning.” He smiled again. “In my business, one must be cunning. I’m very much afraid of foul play. As Mr. DiCarlo’s work record would indicate, he isn’t a man to neglect his responsibilities this way.”
“I think—I think I might know where he is.”
“Really?” There was a flash in Finley’s eyes.
“I think he’s in Philadelphia.” As if to bolster her courage, Dora took another quick sip, and her hand shook lightly. “I think he’s . . . watching me.”
“My dear.” Finley reached for her hand. “Watching you? What do you mean?”
“I’m sorry. It’s not making sense. Let me try to start at the beginning.”
She told the story well, with several pauses for composure, and one significant break in which she described the attack.
“And I don’t understand,” she finished, with her eyes wet and shimmering. “I don’t understand why.”
“My dear, how horrible for you.” Finley was all baffled sympathy while his mind performed rapid calculations. It appeared DiCarlo had left out a few significant details, he mused. There had been no mention in his report of an attempted rape, nor of a knightly neighbor coming to the rescue. It explained the bruises on his face during his last, and final, visit, however.
“You’re telling me,” Finley began, his tone lightly shocked, “that the man who broke into your shop, the man who attacked you, was Anthony DiCarlo.”
“I saw his face.” As if overcome, Dora covered her own with her hand. “I’ll never forget it. And I identified him to the police. He’s killed a police officer, Mr. Finley, and a woman. He left another woman for dead, one of my customers.” The thought of Mrs. Lyle urged the first tear down her cheek. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so upset, so frightened. Thank you,” she managed when Finley gallantly offered his handkerchief. “None of it makes any sense, you see. He only stole a few trinkets, and as for Mrs. Lyle, my customer, he took nothing of any real value. Just a china dog, a statue she’d bought from me the day before. I think he must be crazy,” she murmured, lowering her hand again. “I think he must be mad.”
“I hope you understand this is difficult for me to take in. Mr. DiCarlo has worked for me for years. The idea of one of my own staff attacking women, murdering police officers. Miss Conroy—Isadora.” He took her hand again, gently, a father comforting a child after a bad dream. “Are you absolutely certain it was Anthony DiCarlo?”
“I saw his face,” she said again. “The police said he had a record. Nothing like—like this, and nothing for several years, but—
“I knew he’d had some trouble.” With a sigh, Finley sat back. “Just as I felt I understood the need to overcome the past mistakes. But I would never have believed . . . It seems I misjudged him, badly. What can I do to help you?”
“I don’t know.” Dora twisted the handkerchief in her hands. “I guess I’d hoped you’d have some idea what to do, where the police might look. If he contacted you—”
“My dear, I assure you, if he contacts me, I will do everything in my power to lead the authorities to him. Perhaps his family knows something?”
She dried her tears and, calmer, shook her head. “The police have questioned them, I believe. I actually thought of going to see his mother myself, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t face that.”
“I’ll make some calls. Do whatever I can to help you.”
“Thank you.” She let out a shaky sigh followed by a shaky smile. “I feel better doing something. The worst is the waiting, the not knowing where he is or what he’s planning. I’m afraid to go to sleep at night. If he came back—” She shuddered, sincerely. “I don’t know what I’d do.”
“You have no reason to think he will. Are you sure he gave you no idea why he chose your shop?”
“None. That’s what’s so terrifying. To be picked at random that way. Then Mrs. Lyle. He shot her housekeeper and left Mrs. Lyle for dead, all for some little statue.” Her eyes, still wet, were guileless and trusting. “A man doesn’t kill for that, does he?”
“I wish I knew.” Finley heaved a heartfelt sigh. “Perhaps, as you say, he’s gone mad. But I have every confidence in the authorities. I’ll say, with full confidence, that you won’t be bothered by Mr. DiCarlo again.”
“I’m trying to hold on to that. You’ve been very kind, Mr. Finley.”
“Edmund.”
“Edmund.” She smiled again, courageously. “Just talking it out has helped. I’d like to ask, if you find anything, anything at all, that you’d call me. The police aren’t very free with information.”
“I understand. And, of course, I’ll keep in touch with you. We have an excellent security team on retainer. I’m going to put them on this. If there’s a trace of DiCarlo, they’ll find it.”
“Yes.” She closed her eyes, let her shoulders relax. “I knew I was right to come here. Thank you.” When she rose, he took both her hands in his. “Thank you so much for listening to me.”
“I only regret I can’t do more. I’d consider it a favor if you’d agree to have dinner with me tonight.”
“Dinner?” Her mind went sheet blank.
“I don’t like to think of you alone, and upset. I feel responsible. DiCarlo is, after all, my man. Or was,” he corrected, with a small smile.
“That’s very kind of you.”
“Then indulge me. Ease my conscience a bit. And, I admit, I would find it very pleasant to spend the evening with a lovely young woman who shares some of my interests.”
“Your interests?”
“Collecting.” Finley gestured toward a curio cabinet. “If you run an antique and collectibles shop, I think you’d be interested in some of my treasures.”
“Yes, I am. I’m sure you’re much more knowledgeable than I, but I’ve already admired several of your pieces. The horse’s head?” She nodded toward a stone figure. “Han dynasty?”
“Precisely.” He beamed, a professor to a prize student. “You have a good eye.”
“I love things,” she confessed. “Owning things.”
“Ah, yes. I understand.” He reached up to brush a fingertip lightly over her lapel pin. “A plique-à-jour—early nineteen hundreds.”
She beamed back at him. “You, too, have a good eye.”
“I have a brooch I’d like you to see.” He thought of the sapphire, and the pleasure it would give him to taunt her with it. “I only recently acquired it, and I know you’d appreciate it. So it is
decided. I’ll have a car pick you up at your hotel. Say, seven-thirty.”
“I . . .”
“Please, don’t misunderstand. My home is fully staffed, so you’ll be well chaperoned. But I don’t often have the opportunity to show off my treasures to someone who recognizes their intrinsic worth. I’d love your opinion on my pomander collection.”
“Pomanders?” Dora said, and sighed. If she hadn’t been on a mission, she’d have agreed in any case. How could she resist a collection of pomanders? “I’d love to.”
* * *
Dora strolled back into the hotel room filled with the warmth of success. She found Jed pacing, the air blue with smoke and rattled by an old war movie on television he wasn’t watching.
“What the hell took you so long?”
“It was only an hour.” She slipped out of her shoes as she