by Nora Roberts
At the jingle of bells she spun around. That anyone would be by the shop at that hour surprised her—that Slade stood inside the door frowning at her surprised Jessica more. “Well . . .” The physical exertion had winded her so that she struggled to even her breathing. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” She didn’t add that she wasn’t particularly pleased either.
She’d stripped off her jacket and pushed up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. Beneath it, small high breasts rose and fell agitatedly. Slade remembered their softness against the back of his hand very clearly. He forgot he’d come to make peace with her.
“Don’t you have more sense than to push this stuff around yourself?” he demanded. With a quick oath, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. Jessica stiffened her back as well as her tone.
“Well, good morning to you too.”
Her annoyance rolled off of him. After crossing to her, Slade leaned against the large piece she’d been struggling with. “Where do you want it?” he asked shortly. “And I hope to God you’re not one of those women who changes her mind a half dozen times.”
He watched her eyes narrow and darken as they had that night in the parlor. Oddly, he found her only more attractive when she was agitated. If it hadn’t been for that, the way her chin jutted out might have amused him. “I don’t believe anyone asked for your assistance.” For the first time he was treated to the ice in her tone. “I’m capable of arranging my stock myself.”
“Don’t be any more stupid than necessary,” he shot back. “You’re just going to hurt yourself. Now where do you want this thing?”
“This thing,” she began heatedly, “is a nineteenth-century French secretaire.”
He gave it a negligent glance. “Yeah, so? Where do you want me to put it?”
“I’ll tell you where you can put it—”
His laughter cut her off. It was very male and full of fun. It wasn’t a sound she had expected from him. With an effort, she swallowed a chuckle of her own as she stepped back from him. The last thing she wanted was to find anything appealing about James Sladerman. “Over there,” she said coolly, pointing. Turning away, Jessica picked up a washstand to carry it in the opposite direction. When the sounds of wood sliding over wood had stopped, she turned back to him.
“Thank you.” The gratitude was short and cold. “Now, what can I do for you?”
He treated himself to a lengthy look at her. She stood very straight, her hands folded loosely, her eyes still dangerous. Two mother-of-pearl combs swept her hair back from her face. He allowed his gaze to sweep down briefly. She was very slender, with a hand-spanable waist and barely any hips. The trim flannel skirt hid most of her legs, but Slade could appreciate what was visible from the knees down. Her feet were very small. One of them tapped the floor impatiently.
“I’ve thought about that from time to time,” he commented as his eyes roamed back to hers. “But I came by to see what I could do for you. Ryce was worried that you might do just what you were trying to do a few minutes ago.”
“You’ve seen David?” Her cool impatience evaporated. Swiftly, Jessica crossed the room to take Slade’s arm. “Was he up? How is he?”
Suddenly he wanted to touch her—her hair, her face. She’d be soft. He felt an almost desperate need for something soft and yielding. Her eyes were on his, wide with concern. “He was up,” he said briefly. “And not as well as he wanted to be.”
“He shouldn’t have been out of bed.”
“No, probably not.” Did her hair carry that scent? he wondered. That autumn-woods fragrance that was driving him mad? “He wanted to come in this morning.”
“Come in?” Jessica pounced on the two words. “I gave specific orders for him to stay home. Why can’t he do as he’s told?”
Slade’s eyes were suddenly keen on her face. “Does everyone do what you tell them?”
“He’s my employee,” she retorted, dropping her hand from his arm. “He damn well better do what I tell him.” As quickly as she had flared up, her mood shifted and she smiled. “He’s hardly more than a boy really, and Betsy nags at him. It’s just her way. Though I appreciate his dedication to the business, he’s got to get well.” Her eyes drifted to the phone on the counter. “If I call, he’ll just get defensive.”
“He said he wouldn’t come in until Monday.” Slade leaned against the secretaire. “He wanted you to leave the paperwork on the new shipments for him.”
Jessica stuck her hands in her pockets, obviously still toying with the idea of phoning to lecture David. “Yes, all right. If he’s going to come in on Monday, at least he’ll be sitting down. I’ll get the new stock situated in the meantime so he’s not tempted.” She smiled again. “He’s nearly as obsessed with this place as I am. If I so much as move a candlestick, David knows it. Before he got sick, he was trying to talk me into a vacation.” She laughed, tossing her head so that her hair swung behind her. “He just wanted the place to himself for a week or two.”
“A very dedicated assistant,” Slade murmured.
“Oh, David’s that,” Jessica agreed. “What are you doing here, Slade? I thought you’d be buried in books.”
Half glad, half wary that the reserve of the last few days had vanished, he gave her a cautious smile. “I told David I’d give you a hand.”
“That was very nice.” The surprise in her voice had his smile widening.
“I can be nice occasionally,” he returned. “Besides, I thought I might be able to get some information on antiques. Research.”
“Oh.” She accepted this with a nod. “All right. I wouldn’t mind having some help with the heavier things. What period were you interested in?”
“Period?”
“Furniture,” Jessica explained as she walked to a long, low chest. “Is there a particular century or style? Renaissance, Early American, Italian Provincial?”
“Just a general sort of lesson today to give me the feel of it,” Slade improvised as he nudged Jessica away from the chest. “Where do you want this?”
He lifted and carried. Jessica arranged the lighter pieces while keeping up a running dialog on the furniture they moved. This chair was Chippendale—see the square, tapered seat and cabriole leg. This cabinet was French Baroque—in satinwood, gilded and carved. She ran over a little table with a polishing cloth, explaining about Chinese influences and tea services.
During the morning they were interrupted half a dozen times by customers. Jessica turned from antique lover to salesperson. Slade watched her show pieces, explain their background, then dicker over prices. If he hadn’t been sure before, he was certain now. Her shop was no toy to her. She not only knew how to manage it, but worked harder than he’d given her credit for. Not only did she handle people with a deft skill he was forced to admire, but she made money—if the discreet price tags he’d come across were any indication.
So why, he wondered, if she was dedicated to her shop, if she turned a profit, would she risk using her business for smuggling? Now that he’d met her and spent some time with her, it wasn’t as easy for Slade to dismiss it as kicks or thrills. Yet she wasn’t lacking in brains. Was it plausible that an operation was going on under her nose without her knowledge?
“Slade, I hate to ask.” Jessica kept her voice lowered as she came close to his side. Touching came naturally to her, it seemed, for her hand was already on his arm. Irresponsible or not, he discovered that he wanted her. Turning, he trapped her effectively between the chest and himself. Her hand remained on his arm, just below the elbow. Though they touched in no other way, he suddenly had a very clear sensation of how her body would feel pressed against his. His eyes brushed over her mouth, then came to hers.
“Ask what?”
Her mind went blank. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf pounding on the shore. She could have stepped back an inch and broken the contact—stepped forward an inch to consummate it. Jessica did neither. Dimly, she was aware of a pressure in her chest, as thou
gh someone were pressing hard against it to cut off her air. In that instant they both knew he had only to touch her for everything to change.
“Slade,” she murmured. Half question, half invitation.
He snapped back, retreating from the edge, from an involvement he couldn’t afford. “Did you want me to move something else?” His voice was cool as he stepped away from her.
Shaken, Jessica backed toward the chest. She needed distance. “Mrs. MacKenzie wants to take the chifforobe with her. She’s gone out to pull her car to the front. Would you mind putting it in the back of her station wagon?”
“All right.”
She indicated the piece with a silent gesture, not moving until he was out the front door with it. Alone, Jessica allowed herself a long, uneasy breath. That was not a man a woman should lose control with, she warned herself. He wouldn’t be gentle, or particularly kind. She placed the flat of her palm on her chest as if to relieve the pressure that lingered there. Don’t overreact the next time, she advised herself.
It’s the way he looks at me, Jessica decided, as if he could see what I’m thinking. She ran an unsteady hand through her hair. I don’t even know what I’m thinking when he looks at me, so how could he? And yet . . . and yet her pulse was still racing.
When the door jingled open again, she hadn’t budged from her spot in front of the chest of drawers.
“I’m starved,” she improvised swiftly, then started to move. As Slade watched she hurried from window to window, lowering shades. She hung a sign on the door and then locked it. “You must be too,” she said when he remained silent. “It’s after one, and I’ve had you dragging furniture around all morning. How about a sandwich and some tea?”
Slade managed to smile and sneer at the same time. “Tea?”
Her laughter eased her own tension. “No, I suppose not. Well, David keeps some beer.” She hustled to the back of the shop and pulled open the door of a small refrigerator. She crouched, then rummaged. “Here. I knew I’d seen some.” Straightening, Jessica turned and collided with his chest. He took her arms briefly in reflex, then as quickly dropped them. Heart hammering, she stepped away. “Sorry, I didn’t know you were behind me. Will this do?” Safely at arm’s length, she offered the bottle.
“Fine.” His expression was bland as he took it and sat at the table. The tension had settled at the base of his neck. He’d have to be careful not to touch her again. Or to give in to the urge to taste that subtly passionate mouth of hers. Once he did, he’d never stop there. Desire tightened, a hard ball in the pit of his stomach. Almost violently, Slade twisted the cap from the beer.
“I’ll fix some sandwiches.” Jessica became very busy in the refrigerator. “Roast beef all right?”
“Yeah, that’s fine.”
What goes on in his mind? she wondered as she kept her hands busy. It’s just not possible to tell what he’s thinking. She sliced neatly through bread and meat, prudently keeping her back to him. Looking down at her own hands, she thought of Slade’s. He had such long, lean fingers. Strong. She’d liked the look of them. Now, she caught herself wondering how they would feel on her body. Competent, experienced, demanding. The flare of desire was quick, but not unexpected this time. Fighting it, she sliced the second sandwich a bit savagely.
He watched the sunlight stream through the window onto her hair. It fell softly on the varied hues of blue in her sweater. He liked the way the material clung to her, enhancing the straight, slender back and narrow waist. But he noted too the tension in her shoulders. He wasn’t going to get very far if they were both preoccupied with an attraction neither wanted. He had to make her relax and talk. Slade knew one certain way of accomplishing that.
“You’ve got quite a place here, Jessica.”
He wasn’t aware that it was the first time he’d said her name, but she was. That pleased her as much as the careful compliment.
“Thank you.” Belatedly she remembered to turn the burner on under the kettle as she brought his sandwich to the table. “People have finally stopped calling it Jessica’s Little Hobby.”
“Is that what it started out to be?”
“Not to me.” She stretched on tiptoe to reach a cup. Slade watched the hem of her skirt sneak up. “But to a lot of people it was just Justice Winslow’s daughter having a fling at business. Did you want a glass for that?”
“No.” Slade brought the bottle to his lips and drank. “Why antiques?”
“It was something I knew . . . something I loved. It’s sensible to make a career out of something you know and appreciate, don’t you think?”
He thought of the standard police-issue revolver hidden in his bedroom. “When it’s possible. How’d you get started?”
“I was lucky enough to have the funds to back me up the first year while I gathered stock and renovated this place.” The kettle shrilled, then sputtered when she switched off the heat. “Even with that, it was hard enough. Setting up books, getting licenses, learning about taxes.” She wrinkled her nose as she brought her plate and cup to the table. “But that’s a necessary part of the whole. With that, the traveling, and the selling, the first couple of years were killers.” She bit into her sandwich. “I loved it.”
She would have, he mused. He could sense the pent-up energy even as she sat there calmly drinking tea. “David Ryce work for you long?”
“About a year and a half. He was at that undecided point of his life I suppose we all go through when we’ve finished being teenagers but haven’t quite grasped adulthood.” She smiled across the table at Slade. “Do you know what I mean?”
“More or less.”
“You probably less than most,” she commented easily. “As it turned out, he resented the offer of a job and the fact that he needed one. David and I grew up together. There’s nothing harder on the ego than having big sister give you a break.” She sighed a bit, remembering his moodiness, his grudging acceptance, his initial lack of interest. “Anyway, within six months he stopped being resentful and became indispensable. He’s very quick, particularly with figures. David considers the books his province now. And he’s better with them than the selling angle.”
“Oh?”
Her eyes danced. “He isn’t always . . . diplomatic with customers. He’s much better with bookkeeping and inventory. Michael and I can handle the buying and selling.”
“Michael.” Before he drank again, Slade repeated the name as though it meant nothing.
“Michael does almost all my buying, all the imports at any rate.”
“You don’t buy the stock yourself?”
“Not from overseas, not anymore.” Jessica toyed with the last half of her sandwich. “If I’d tried to keep up with it, I wouldn’t have been able to keep the shop open year round. Watching out for estate sales and auctions just in the New England area takes me away from the shop enough as it is. And Michael . . . Michael has a real genius for finding gems.”
He wondered if her analogy was fact. Was Michael Adams shipping gems as well as Hepplewhites across the Atlantic?
“Michael’s been handling that part of the business for nearly three years,” Jessica went on. “And he’s not only a good buyer, but a terrific salesman. Particularly with my female clientele.” She laughed as she lifted her cup. “He’s very smooth—both looks and manner.”
Slade noted the affection in her voice and speculated. Just how much was between owner and buyer? he wondered. If Adams was involved in smuggling, and Jessica’s lover . . . His thoughts trailed off as he looked down at her hands. She wore a thin, twisted band of gold on her right hand and a star-shaped group of opals on her left. The sun hit the stones, shooting little flames of red into the delicate blue. It suited her, he thought, taking another swig of beer.
“In any case, I’ve gotten spoiled.” Jessica stretched her shoulders with a sigh. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had to run the shop alone. I’ll be glad to have both Michael and David back next week. I might even take Uncle Charlie up on
his invitation.”
“Uncle Charlie?”
Her cup paused halfway to her lips. “Uncle Charlie,” Jessica repeated, puzzled. “He sent you.”
Slade gave a quick silent oath as he shrugged. “The commissioner,” he said blandly. “I don’t think of him as Uncle Charlie.”
“The commissioner’s awfully formal.” Still frowning at him, Jessica set down her cup.
She’s not a fool, Slade concluded as he swung an arm over the back of his chair. “I always call him that. Habit. Don’t you like to travel?” He changed the subject neatly, adding a quick, disarming smile. “I’d think the buying end would be half the fun.”
“It can be. It can also be a giant headache. Airports and auctions and customs.” The line between her brows vanished. “I have been thinking about combining a business and pleasure trip next spring. I want to visit my mother and her husband in France.”
“Your mother remarried?”
“Yes, it’s been wonderful for her. After my father died, she was so lost. We both were,” she murmured. And after nearly five years, she mused, there was still an ache. It was dull with time, but it was still there.
“There’s nothing harder than to lose someone you loved and lived with and depended on. Especially when you think that person is indestructible; then he’s taken away with no warning.”
Her voice had thickened, touching off a chord of response in him. “I know,” he answered before he thought.
Her eyes came up and fixed on his. “Do you?”
He didn’t like the emotion she stirred up in him. “My father was a cop,” he answered curtly. “He was killed in action five years ago.”
“Oh, Slade.” Jessica reached for his hand. “How terrible—how terrible for your mother.”
“Wives of cops learn to live with the risk.” He moved his hand back to his beer.
Sensing withdrawal, Jessica said nothing. He wasn’t a man to share emotion of any kind easily. She rose, stacking plates. “Do you want something else? I imagine there’re cookies stashed around here somewhere.”
She wouldn’t probe, he realized, wouldn’t eulogize. She’d offered him her sympathy, then had backed off when she’d seen that it wasn’t wanted. Slade sighed. It was difficult enough to deal with his attraction to her without starting to like her as well.
