“I can’t believe I slammed my thumb in the desk drawer,” Jersey muttered.
“Yeah, Dana really ought to wear a warning bell when she walks around,” Risa sympathized, fighting a smile.
Shane didn’t bother to fight it. He flashed the kind of grin that made men and women alike blink and draw closer, as though to a fire.
Jersey’s blush deepened.
“You’ll get used to Dana’s walk,” Risa said. She tossed her purse on a moving belt like those at an airport checkpoint and strolled through the metal detector’s field without setting off a single buzz. “All the men do. Eventually.”
“Uh, yes’m.” But Jersey was shaking his head while he watched the screen that displayed the contents of Risa’s purse. Nothing but the usual. The metal alarm didn’t quiver. The nitrate alarm didn’t go off. Neither did any of the other chemical alarms. Not that he expected anything like that to happen—not with a consultant. But he wasn’t paid to make personal judgments. He was paid to put everyone who walked in those doors through the scanners, and that included Dana Gaynor and S. K. Niall.
Shane took Risa’s purse as it popped out the other end of the scanner. He tossed it to her with a quickness that had caught more than one person off guard.
She snagged her purse with a deceptively lazy movement of her arm. He wasn’t the only one with good reflexes. “Thanks.” She turned to Jersey. “Anything else?”
“Just this.” He handed her a staff pass dangling on a long neck chain. “New rules.”
She put on the chain and the colorful bit of plastic that stated she was a consultant. “Since when?”
Shane answered before Jersey could. “Since someone threatened half of Rarities Unlimited.”
“Dana was threatened?” Risa asked, startled.
“No. Niall.”
“Whew,” Risa said, blowing out a breath. Besides being a friend, Niall was half owner and head of security for Rarities Unlimited. Dana owned the other half and ran the “Fuzzy” or Fine Arts side of Rarities. “Remarkably stupid of whoever made the threat.” She gave her boss a speculative glance out of eyes that were a clear, dark blue. “When?”
“Three days ago.” Shane started toward the elevator at the end of a wide, short hallway. “They’re waiting in the number-two clean room.”
Without missing a beat, Risa matched her boss’s long-legged stride. If it strained the hem of her knee-length fitted skirt, too bad. No way a man was going to have her at a disadvantage. “What was the guy mad about?”
“He had a tray of Roman cameos he wanted appraised,” Shane said. “Turned out most were pretty good forgeries. He didn’t like it, so he started yelling and cursing. Niall showed up real fast and escorted the client out. The client didn’t like that either. Said he was going to send someone to teach Niall some manners.”
“Dumb, dumber, dumbest.” She shook her head at the client’s lack of insight. Not to mention simple smarts. “Niall isn’t as big as Jersey, but he’s a lot tougher.”
The corner of Shane’s mouth kicked up, and his eyes gleamed with sardonic humor. “Meaner, too. And I’ll bet on mean every time.”
“No argument here.” Risa knew better than most people just how far mean could go. Growing up cockroach poor taught you all about the difference between mean, tough, and merely big. You learned to size up men and situations fast—and accurately—or you paid in pain.
Shane slanted a speculative glance at his curator. She was very businesslike in her dark tailored skirt and loose, jewel blue jacket, her hair a sleek black cap, her makeup understated, her curvy figure all but hidden, and the kind of mouth that could make a man forget all the reasons he shouldn’t bite it. He almost hadn’t hired Risa because of her body and those sin-with-me lips. Then he had measured the unflinching intelligence in her eyes and remembered the ambition that had fairly radiated from her résumé.
Risa was everything he had wanted and more than he had bargained on getting when he asked Niall to help him find a trustworthy gold curator who would agree to live in Las Vegas. Niall had sent Risa.
Knowing that he would probably regret it, Shane had hired her. Then he had kept as much distance as possible from his new curator.
Given the nature of her work, it wasn’t enough space for comfort. Getting ready for his upcoming “Druid Gold” show had had them stepping on each other’s shadows for months. More than once he had thought about finding another curator so he could have sex with this one. But he needed Risa’s expertise and her fierce intelligence more than he needed an affair, so they just kept circling each other like strange dogs that didn’t know whether to bite or lick.
Most of the time Shane was thankful that Risa put up as many go away signs as he did. The rest of the time it irritated him that she was every bit as wary of him as he was of her. He couldn’t help wondering why she kept backing up. Certainly not out of fear of losing the only good job around. In the past year a well-known private museum and two wealthy collectors had offered Risa employment. He knew because he had bettered their offers in order to keep her.
And his common sense told him that he should have let her go. She was the kind of trouble he really didn’t need.
Risa tapped on the door of the number-two clean room, so called because it was a safe, neutral territory where buyer could meet seller and not fear fraud or outright robbery. In this case Shane was the designated buyer. At least that was what Rarities’ client hoped.
“Sorry I’m late,” Risa said to Dana and Niall, who were going over some papers on the long metal table that ran down the center of the room. “Security hold in Vegas, and then a gas tanker truck flipped on Sepulveda.”
“You two should be honored,” Shane said.
“Why?” Dana asked, looking up.
“I’m her boss, and she didn’t apologize to me.”
Risa’s eyes narrowed. She didn’t say a word.
Niall cleared his throat. Shane and Risa had been at sixes and sevens from the first day they met, but lately the air was beginning to smoke whenever they were in the same room. With a mental sigh he decided to start looking for a new opening for Risa; if she didn’t quit pretty soon, Shane would fire her. On the plus side, Shane was noted for his generous severance packages. Maybe she was holding out for that.
“Why should she apologize to you?” Dana asked, stacking the papers with brisk motions. “Rarities is paying for her time at the moment, not you.”
“Ouch,” Shane said.
“One day you’ll learn, boyo,” Niall said, grinning. “The lady could teach cutting to a sword.”
Shane cocked a dark brown eyebrow at Niall, who was kicked back in his chair as though he didn’t have a worry in the world. “Voice of experience, I presume.”
“Bloody right.” His low-voiced growl was at odds with his amused blue-green eyes and clipped brown hair. He shifted his broad shoulders and reached for his shirt buttons. “Want to see my scars?”
“I don’t think his heart could stand it,” Dana said. “And Risa is far too young for such a manly display.”
“Hey, y’all, I’m thirty-one,” Risa drawled, letting her Arkansas upbringing pour through her smoky voice. “That’s old enough to know better than to let some male show me his, um, scars.”
Dana’s laugh made her look much younger than Risa suspected she was.
“Right,” Niall said. “If you’re not interested in a manly striptease, how about a look at some old gold jewelry?”
Without waiting for an answer, he pushed back and walked to a long, spun-aluminum case at the far end of the table. The box was about the size that a professional pool player might use to protect his favorite cue. There was a similar, smaller box on the opposite end of the table.
“Recorders on,” Dana said to no one in particular.
“Running,” answered a disembodied voice from a ceiling grille.
“Is that Factoid?” Shane asked, gesturing toward the grille.
“No,” Niall said. “Our resea
rch guru is off today.”
“With Gretchen?” Shane asked, smiling. Joe-Bob McCoy, aka Factoid, had a permanent lech for his boss, the head of research. Gretchen Miller was twice his age and half again his weight. A real Valkyrie.
“At the moment she’s working with Ian Lapstrake and Lawe Donovan,” Dana said. “The Rutherby inheritance.”
“Too bad,” Shane said. “I’ve got a great menu for Factoid to try out on his next date with Gretchen, assuming he ever talks her into another one. Food guaranteed to make the woman of his dreams lust for him.”
Niall snickered. “What is it—oysters twelve ways?”
Dana rolled her dark eyes. When it came to matters biological, men were such simple creatures.
“A bit more elaborate,” Shane said. “First, a bunch of candles surrounded by agates.”
“Why?” Niall asked.
“Guaranteed, time-tested aphrodisiac.”
Dana snorted softly.
Shane kept talking. “Shrimp cocktail, celery soup, endive salad, halibut with paprika and juniper. Wine, of course. Benedictine and chocolate for dessert. Then the night of your dreams awaits.”
“For that I’d even eat endive,” Niall said.
Dana cut him a glance that said she would remember his words and use them against him. He hated endive.
Without realizing it, Risa let out a soft moan at the thought of Benedictine and chocolate. “You’re killing me. All I get for lunch is carrots and celery.”
“Why?” Shane asked, startled.
“The usual reason. I can’t afford new clothes if I eat my way out of these.”
“Are you hinting for another raise after the one that I was forced to give you to—”
“Argue on your own time,” Dana cut in. Then she said to Risa, “The client’s request is that you do a ‘cold’ appraisal. Visual inspection only.”
“Cold appraisal for hot goods?” Shane suggested.
Dana gave him a look that could have frozen fire. “The provenance on these goods is above reproach. The collector is merely reluctant to invest in a full appraisal if, after a quick look, the goods seem to be less than they were advertised to him.”
Shane smiled and tugged on his forelock like a peasant standing before his lord.
Dana ignored him, though her lips twitched around what might have been an answering smile. She had a weakness for men who were smart, easy on the eyes, and hard on the opposition.
Niall opened the first aluminum box and lifted the lid. Inside, each within its own individually cut nest, pieces of gold jewelry gleamed.
Instantly Risa forgot everything else in the room. She went to the open case and simply stared at the contents. After a long, silent minute, she began talking.
“First impression. Celtic, of course. Styles and techniques range from La Tène to Mediterranean. Age could be anywhere from fifth century b.c. to fifth century a.d. If you need dates on individual pieces, it will take several days for detailed stylistic comparisons with artifacts in museums, published papers, auction catalogs, online collections, that sort of thing. Most of my references are in Las Vegas, because you said you only needed a fast look.”
“If a more detailed appraisal is required, would you need the actual artifacts, or would the virtual ones do?” Dana asked.
With intent, narrowed eyes, Risa looked through the collection again. “Did you search for modern machining marks when you had these under the ‘scope?”
“The client assured me there were none,” Dana said. “We checked, of course. Nothing caught our expert’s eye.”
“Right.” Risa let out a breath. “Then I’d start with the virtual and go to the real only if I ran into problems.”
Dana nodded. “So noted.”
“For now,” Risa said, “of the nine real objects in this case, one shows obvious signs of recent repair—the gold alloys simply don’t match. Two of the pieces have repairs that appear much older, but that’s only a preliminary visual examination. Some of the rest certainly could use repair, but that’s to be expected. In all probability they’re two thousand years old.”
“You think they’re genuine?” Dana asked. “Again, this is a nonbinding verbal opinion based solely on a limited visual examination.”
Risa waited while the legal niceties were recorded before she said, “I haven’t seen anything to put me off. Yet.”
Nor had she seen anything that made her heart kick with excitement at being in the presence of a truly fine artifact. A showstopper, as her boss would say.
That was what Shane needed to launch his new gallery on New Year’s Eve. That was what she hadn’t found yet—a centerpiece for his Druid Gold show. She couldn’t help wondering how much more time he would give her. And who else he had looking.
Shane might have made his fortune gambling, but he never left anything to chance.
Chapter 2
Los Angeles
Friday, October 31
Morning
“Did the client agree to having these objects manually inspected?” Risa asked, frowning.
Dana nodded. “Yes, but we’ve already photographed, x-rayed, and otherwise electronically scanned the pieces, including XRF and SEM.”
Without waiting for Shane to ask, Risa translated. “X-ray fluorescence to determine the composition of the metal alloy and scanning electron microscope for all the fiddly little details.”
“The results are digitized,” Dana continued, “and can be reproduced in three dimensions, so if you would rather not take the risk of handling the objects yourself—”
Risa’s laugh drowned out the rest of Dana’s words. “I live to handle ancient jewelry, gold in particular. High-quality gold doesn’t respond easily to the acids on human skin, which means I don’t have to wear surgical gloves to handle gold for a brief inspection.”
“Why would handling gold matter to you, other than pleasure?” Niall asked.
“No photo, no computer reproduction in 3-D, no hologram, no electronic scanning, no graphs or reports, nothing works for me like actual touch. In humans the only thing more sensitive than the fingertips is the tongue. The delicacy of the work on some of the objects I’ve handled is so fine it defeats human eyes and fingertips.”
“So you lick it?” Niall asked in disbelief.
An amused, sideways glance was her only reply.
Shane’s eyelids lowered almost lazily. It was his only visible reaction to the thought of something being explored by Risa’s sensitive tongue. Certainly the idea was more interesting than any of the gold pieces on the table in front of him. While they had historic value, they left a lot to be desired in terms of pizzazz.
And that was what he needed. Impact. The kind of gold artifacts that could reach through ignorance and twenty-first-century smugness and shake the viewers to the soles of their casually shod feet. It might last only a few moments, but for that time the viewers would know that people just like them had lived for thousands of years—laughing, yearning, loving, crying, dying, and creating, always creating.
The fact that such an exhibit would also increase traffic through Tannahill Inc.’s resort casinos was nice, but it wasn’t the reason he was pursuing all that was good and enduring in gold artifacts. Quite simply, he despised the looters and scavengers of ancient cultures. It was a passion and a pursuit that only two other people were aware of—Dana and Niall. Shane worked hard to keep it that way.
The less people thought of him, the easier it was to catch them off guard.
“Did you have anything else to show me?” he asked. “These aren’t what I need. When I open the Druid Gold show, there will be press, media, and cameras until hell won’t have them. Celebrities. Politicians. Socialites. The whole tacky tortilla.”
“What Shane is trying to say,” Risa offered, “is that in Las Vegas there’s downtown, downscale, tasteless, and then there’s uptown, upscale, ostentasteless. Nothing in this lot will make a jaded tourist blink.”
Yet even as she spoke, her f
ingertips reverently brushed the cool, damaged surface of what could have been a privileged child’s torc or a votive offering to one of the four hundred named deities the Celts had worshipped. To her, even the most awkward artifact deserved respect simply for having survived when so much else had been lost.
Dana waved off the explanation and looked at Shane. She had expected his impatience. That was why she had insisted that Rarities pay for Risa’s time and travel. “Down, boy. She’s here for us, not you.” To Niall she said, “Why don’t you take him to the basement and play with guns or something.”
It was an order, not a question.
Shane laughed and held up his hands in mock surrender to the small brunette. “You rise to the bait so beautifully, Dana. Hard to resist.”
“Fight it,” Niall suggested, but the lines at the corners of his eyes gave away his silent laughter.
Dana said something that was either “men” or “merde.” No one asked for clarification.
Smiling, Risa picked up the small torc. “From its weight, it’s hollow. This torc—neckring—is most probably grave goods or perhaps an offering to the spirit of a special spring or a marsh or a river. From the color, I might guess that the torc was made from a gold-silver alloy similar to the hoard found in Snettisham, England, which has been dated to mid-first century b.c. Even if that is the case, it wouldn’t be definitive proof of origin for this object, because graves and treasure troves have been dug up and melted down and reworked for as long as people have been burying gold in the ground in the first place.”
“But you would be comfortable with labeling that torc as British Celtic, approximately first century b.c.?” Dana asked.
“If that is consistent with your XRF results—”
Running Scared Page 2
