Regardless of the fact they’d only just met.
Regardless of the fact she was a client, placing her trust in his professionalism.
What was wrong with him? Sure, she was a beautiful woman, but he’d known many beauties. Something about her, though, intrigued him and sent anticipation tingling through his veins: The slightly wry curve of her mouth, or the kindness he sensed within her, or the intelligence in her bright blue eyes.
He’d never been tempted so intensely before. Not even by his ex, Stephanie, a successful model with a wicked sense of humor and a passion for running marathons. His heart constricted as a memory flashed though his mind, of Steph wheeling her suitcase out of their apartment and slamming the door behind her.
Bitterness gnawed, because her leaving wasn’t entirely his fault. Of course he could have done a few things differently in their relationship, but his duties for the Experts had created the rift between them. Those same duties would stand between him and a less-than-superficial relationship with any woman.
They always would.
“Don’t look so grumpy, Lucian,” Galahad mewed from Molly’s arms. How smug the squire sounded, as though he’d guessed how much Lucian liked her. The squire would know Lucian’s taste in women, though, after more than eight hundred years spent together.
“What was that meow for, Galahad?” Molly cooed.
“She likes me,” the feline said. “Ohhh, but she knows how to pet me juuuust right.”
Lucian’s fingers tightened on the desk.
“You are cheeky, with all that kitty talk.” Molly nuzzled the cat’s head.
Lucian silently groaned. If only she knew what the hormone-driven teenager she cuddled was really saying. Thankfully, she’d never find out.
As the cat shifted in Molly’s arms, Lucian straightened away from the desk. “Thanks for your patience. I’ve given your items some thought, and—”
Galahad started kneading Molly’s left breast.
“Boob,” he purred.
Lucian gritted his teeth. He and the squire would have a talk later.
“Sooo soft and plump,” Galahad said.
Hissing a breath, Lucian glared at the feline then looked up at Molly, who seemed a little startled. “Maybe you should put Galahad down. I wouldn’t want him to scratch you.”
“He’s fine. Really.” Molly beamed down at the cat. “Look at him. He’s so happy.”
The feline was positively grinning, his paws going at a furious pace. Next, he’d get one of his claws stuck in her dress, on purpose, and then—
“Did I tell you she’s wearing white lace panties?” Galahad meowed.
“Shut up!” Lucian snapped.
Molly frowned. “What?”
Damn.
“I didn’t say anything,” she insisted.
“I know,” Lucian said quickly. “I didn’t mean you. I meant Galahad. I want him to shut up.”
“He’s only kitty chatting.”
“Yeah, Lucian,” the squire shot back.
Lucian managed a tight smile. “I still think you should put him down.”
“If she sets me on the floor, I’ll have another peek up her skirt,” Galahad said. “Maybe I’ll even see some sweet, round butt cheek.”
Lucian pinched the bridge of his nose. He was sorely tempted to take the cat and shut him in the storage room for the rest of Molly’s visit. Meeting her gaze, he said: “When Galahad meows like that, he usually needs to use the litter box.”
In the midst of scratching the cat’s chin, Molly went still. “Oh.”
“Liar.” Galahad huffed. “Liar, liar—”
“Sounds like he really needs to go.” Molly set Galahad on the floor, the movement giving Lucian a prime view once again of her cleavage and all its generous promise.
He forced his attention back to the feline.
“Litter box?” the squire groused. ”My furry ass—”
Lucian picked up the cat.
“Hey!” Galahad yowled. “Put me down.”
Lucian tucked the struggling feline under his arm, carried him to the back room, and shut him in.
“We’ll talk about this later, Lucian.” Galahad yelled through the door.
Molly brushed off her hands. “He does talk a lot, doesn’t he?”
“I think he’s part Siamese. They’re known to be rather vocal. Now, as I was saying about your items….”
She moved to the opposite side of the counter. Her nearness, her scent, teased him and caused a light sweat to dampen his palms.
“What you have here is a nice collection of vintage pieces,” he said.
Her lips curved in a charming grin. “But.”
Lucian chuckled.
“I sensed that word on the tip of your tongue.”
“I’m afraid so,” he agreed. “Some clients think because a piece is a hundred or more years old, it has to be worth lots of money. That’s not necessarily true. So much depends on the condition, whether it’s decorated with a pattern that’s highly sought after or not, whether it’s mass-produced or a one-of-a-kind piece.”
She nodded, her expression thoughtful. “It must be tough sometimes, when you know the pieces you’re appraising hold a lot of sentimental value for a client.”
Sadness underscored her voice, and he sensed she was thinking about her late mother.
“Well, before I give you a dollar figure, let me tell you what you have here. The three teacups and teapot are what we call Blue Willow. It’s a pattern that was first featured on Chinese porcelain and imported into Europe in the late sixteenth and seventeen centuries. The English pottery manufacturers soon began to make their own versions of Blue Willow, which became extremely popular. These are by a well-known company named Spode, and date from the late nineteenth century.” He moved on to the turn-of-the-century plates and the hobnail bowl. As he talked, he turned each item over to point out the factory markings and condition issues, including several small chips and cracks that would affect value. “For everything,” he said, “I could give you one-hundred-and-twenty-five dollars.” A more generous offer than he should make, but the Blue Willow pieces would be an easy sell and one of his uncle’s long-time clients collected vintage plates.
Molly sighed.
“You’re disappointed.”
“A little. I’d hoped they would be worth more.”
A pang of sympathy trailed through him. Selling the antiques was obviously hard for her. “You don’t have to accept my offer. If you prefer, I can refer you to other dealers.”
“No.” She smiled, as though despite her dismay, she was determined to see the negotiations through. “One-hundred-and-twenty-five dollars is fine.”
“Is it okay if I write you a check?”
Molly nodded.
He took a ring of keys from his pocket and unlocked the drawer under the counter that held a small amount of cash and the check register. As he opened the checkbook, she said, “The items are just old belongings, after all. It’s not as though my mother is in any way attached to them.”
Chapter Three
Carrying a paper bag of groceries and a bag of dry cat food, Molly climbed the steps of the porch that fronted the single story home. Her mom had bought the house, built in 1907 and located on the outskirts of Cat’s Paw Cove, for a bargain price after its previous owner had moved into an assisted living facility.
Molly set down the cat food, and her keys clinked as she looked for the right one. She couldn’t help smiling, because she’d never forget her mother’s excitement about the purchase. Her mom hadn’t been put off by the damaged wood floors, peeling exterior paint, or overgrown garden. The house, she’d said, had just felt right—like home—the moment she’d stepped inside.
Renovating the place had taken most of her mom’s spare time and money, while she’d had a new roof installed, the floors restored, upgraded the two-and-a-half bathrooms, and turned the neglected yard into a lush garden of pentas, bougainvilleas, and perennials that attracted songbirds and butterflie
s. She’d created her own little piece of paradise.
Regret tugged at Molly, for she would have liked to keep the charming little house, maybe rent it out. But, with her finances as tight as they were, it seemed most practical to sell it.
She pushed the key into the lock. The door opened with a creak, and shutting her eyes, Molly sighed. She’d remembered to buy contact lenses, which she’d put on in the car before getting groceries, but not WD40. Thanks to Lucian, she’d forgotten.
Just recalling his name made her stomach flutter. How ridiculous, to get wound up over a man she’d only met once.
But, something had happened between them: Something thrilling, unfamiliar, and enticing. Not that she intended to pursue her feelings. There was still a lot to do at the house, and when she was still healing from her ex’s betrayal, life would be a lot less complicated if she stayed single.
Besides, a man as intriguing and hot as Lucian had to have a girlfriend or even a wife and kids.
As she crossed the threshold into the shadowed house, a loud “meow” came from across the room, followed by a higher-pitched mewl.
“Hello, girls.” Molly elbowed the switch on the wall by the door. The dusty overhead fixture came on, casting light on the worn but cozy green upholstered furniture, shelves of ornaments, books, and glassware, as well as the mounds of papers, magazines, and even more books she needed to sort through and either sell in a yard sale or donate to charity.
Two tabby cats—one sleek and gray, the other plump and ginger—padded across the hardwood floor toward her. A golden and white feline and a fluffy calico, curled together on the sofa, watched her with sleepy eyes.
The gray tabby meowed again. “Hi, Rose.” Molly nudged the door closed with her heel. “Did you miss me?”
“Meow.”
“You know, you sound a bit like Galahad, the cat I saw today.”
The ginger feline yowled as she brushed against Molly’s calf.
“Yes, Marigold, I know. You’re hungry. I did remember to buy more food. Let’s go fill your bowl.”
Molly headed across the room. Sunlight streamed through a row of windows into the spacious kitchen, crowded at one end with boxes of clutter Molly had swept off the counters to carry out a long-overdue cleaning.
Housekeeping had never been one of her mother’s strengths. There were far worse things, though, to be guilty of. Her mom had never once failed in her generous love for Molly or for the homeless cats that had found their way to her yard. Rose, Marigold, Petunia, and Daisy had all been strays. They all happened to be Sherwood cats. Each had the breed’s tell-tale mask marking around their eyes.
“Robin Hood cats,” her mom had called them. A fitting name, since the breed had originated in Nottinghamshire, England, many centuries ago and had arrived in Cat’s Paw Cove by the same shipwreck that had brought the town’s founders. Since the cats were protected by law, there could well be as many Sherwood felines in Cat’s Paw Cove as residents.
After filling the cat food bowls, Molly stashed the groceries in the pale blue fridge that had to be older than she was and then quickly checked texts and emails on her cell phone. Nothing urgent, thankfully. Setting the device aside, she ran water into the kettle to make tea. Earl Gray. Strong. The best kind.
Leaning back against the sink to wait for the kettle to boil, she folded her arms and watched the four felines jostle each other for room at the bowls.
From this angle, the bowls looked like they might be antiques. Treasures to take to Lucian?
He’d offered to look at more of her mom’s items, right after he’d written her the check. His swooping handwriting, authoritative but also elegant against the plain gray paper, had held her focus as he’d torn the check from the ledger and handed it over.
“As I mentioned earlier, we do handle entire estates,” Lucian had said, drawing her attention up from the slip of paper in her hand.
“I remember.”
“If you like, I could come to your mother’s home, look over what you want to sell, and give you estimates.” His charming smile had caused her pulse to quicken. “It might be more convenient than bringing boxes to the store.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” Glancing down at her purse, she’d stuffed the check into the side pocket. “I’d need to sort through more of Mom’s belongings before I’d be ready for that kind of appraisal.”
“I understand.” Kindness warmed his voice—as though he really did understand how hard it was to go through her late mother’s possessions. He’d picked up one of the shop’s business cards, featuring black and gold ink printed on sumptuous, cream-colored stock, and handed it to her. “If I can help in any way, you can reach me at this number.”
The boiling kettle clicked, automatically switching off and drawing Molly back to the sun-drenched kitchen. She straightened away from the counter, poured hot water over a tea bag in a mug, and leaving the cats to finish eating, headed into the master bedroom.
Sadness weighed upon her as she set the mug aside then dropped down on the edge of the queen-size bed. A fine layer of dust covered the perfume bottles, framed photos, and knick-knacks on her mother’s dresser. How vividly Molly remembered her mom leaning into the mirror to adjust the hand-painted scarf she’d tied at her neck. Molly had been home from college for fall break, and they’d been on their way to see a local theater production of Twelfth Night.
Molly dried her damp palms on her skirt. Going through the dresser drawers would be hard, but she mustn’t put it off any longer.
She pulled over an empty cardboard box and drew open the top right drawer. It slid toward her with a squeak and held a black shawl fringed with jet beads, rolled-up leather belts, gloves, and folded scarves.
Molly’s hand lingered over the closest scarf: her mom’s favorite and the one she’d worn to the theater. Notes of floral perfume still clung to the silk.
“Oh, Mom.” Tears burning Molly’s eyes, she set the scarf to one side then looked through the rest of the items in the drawer before putting them in the cardboard box.
When she tugged on the dresser’s left top drawer, it didn’t budge. She wiggled and pulled until it finally opened.
Inside were jewelry boxes of various shapes and sizes. She went through each one, setting a few pieces aside with the scarf, until only a lacquered box of costume jewelry remained.
She set the box beside her and sorted through the sparkling pins, strands of fake pearls, drop earrings, and gold and silver-toned chains, adding a few more items to the pile of things she’d keep. Some of the baubles had been her grandmother’s. She’d read in a magazine a few months back that vintage costume jewelry was highly collectible.
Anticipation skittered through her. She had a reason to visit Lucian again. Tomorrow, if she had enough items to justify a trip into town.
She sorted the remaining jewelry. Near the bottom of the lacquered box, her fingers brushed another one made of wood. She pulled out the container that covered her entire palm but didn’t have a lock or clasp.
How odd.
Even more curious, there wasn’t a single scratch in the dark-grained wood, even though the box looked very old. Its simple, stark design hearkened back to more primitive times.
Maybe Lucian could tell her when the box was made, and by whom?
Even more reason to see him tomorrow.
With an inquisitive “brrtt,” Rose landed on the bed.
“Come to help me?” Molly asked.
The feline brushed against Molly’s arm then noticed the box she held. Her ears went back. She yowled and leapt away.
“You’re scared?” Molly chuckled. “Silly cat. This can’t hurt you.”
Searching for a way to open the box, Molly turned it over. Rose meowed again, but Molly ignored the feline.
A loud thud. The gray cat had jumped onto the TV stand. Front paw raised, she was about to bat the remote onto the floor.
Molly shooed the cat away from the TV then focused again on the box. How strange, th
at there was no obvious lid. Had whoever made it intended for it to stay sealed?
Fabric rustled. Glancing up, Molly saw Rose dragging her late mother’s scarf to the end of the bed.
“Rose!”
The feline raced out of the room, taking the scarf with her.
“Stop! Come back.” Even as Molly shouted, she acknowledged yelling was pointless. Rose wouldn’t understand a word she said.
After setting the box on the dresser, Molly hurried out of the room. She could only hope the scarf wouldn’t get damaged—
She stumbled, desperate not to tread on Ginger, Petunia, and Daisy lying like feline speed bumps in the hallway. As soon as she passed Daisy and Petunia, they darted past her, turned, and blocked her way again.
Rose was nowhere in sight.
Molly exhaled a harsh breath. If she didn’t know better, she’d think the cats were conspiring against her.
Late afternoon sunshine slanted through the antique shop’s windows as Lucian set the cordless phone back on its base and jotted a note in the journal his grandfather kept near the cash register: A representative from the Cat’s Paw Cove Courier had called to offer a special discount on ads. Lucian had taken down the details in case his grandfather was interested.
Setting down the pen, Lucian rolled his shoulders to ease knotted muscles. “Almost time to close up shop,” he said to Galahad, lying on the end of the counter. On weekdays, the store usually closed at six—in just under ten minutes.
The cat sniffed and stared toward the opposite side of the room.
Lucian stifled a sigh. The squire had ignored him from the moment he’d been let out of the back room several hours ago. “You’re still giving me the silent treatment?”
“You deserve it for the next month, for shutting me away when Molly was here.”
Lucian fought not to grin. He’d love to point out—but wouldn’t—that Galahad had just nixed his silent treatment by answering Lucian’s question.
“If you’d shown some manners, I wouldn’t have had to remove you from the room.”
The cat glared.
Lucian folded his arms across his chest. “You know you were out of line.”
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