by Nora Roberts
Don’t admit anything, she coached herself as she walked. They can’t prove you made a mistake if you don’t admit it. If she lost the job, she’d have to go back on welfare again. Even if her pride could stand it, she wasn’t sure her kids could.
Opal spotted DiCarlo leaning against the hood of a red Porsche. The car was dazzling enough, but the man—tall, dark, glossily handsome and wrapped in a cashmere coat of pale gray—made her think of movie stars. Terrified, awed, intimidated, she walked toward him, head lowered.
DiCarlo said nothing, simply opened the passenger door. His mouth twitched when he caught her instinctive sigh on sliding over the leather seat. He climbed behind the wheel, turned the key.
“Mr. DiCarlo, I really wish I could help you about that shipment. I—”
“You’re going to help me.” He shoved the gear shift into first, and the car shot away from Premium like a slick red bullet. He’d already decided how to play her, and gave Opal two full minutes of silence to stretch her nerves. He fought back a satisfied smile when she spoke first.
“Where are we going?”
“No place in particular.”
Despite the thrill of riding in a first-class car, she moistened dry lips. “I got to be back in a half hour.”
He said nothing to that, only continued to drive fast.
“What’s this all about?”
“Well, I’ll tell you, Opal. I figured we could deal better together away from the work atmosphere. Things have been pretty harried for you the last few weeks, I imagine.”
“I guess so. The Christmas rush.”
“And I figure you know just what happened to my shipment.”
Her stomach did a quick jig. “Look, mister, I already told you I didn’t know what happened. I’m just doing my job the best I can.”
He swung the car into a hard right turn that had her eyes popping wide. “We both know it wasn’t my screwup, honey. We can do this hard, or we can do this easy.”
“I—I don’t know what you mean.”
“Oh yeah.” His voice held the same dangerous purr as the Porsche’s engine. “You know just what I mean. What happened, Opal? Did you take a liking to what was in the crate and decide to help yourself? An early Christmas bonus?”
She stiffened, and some of her fear drained away in fury. “I ain’t no thief. I ain’t never stolen so much as a pencil in my whole life. Now you turn this car around, Mr. Big Shot.”
It was just that kind of sass—as Curtis was fond of telling her—that earned her bruises and broken bones. Remembering that, she cringed against the door as the final word faded away.
“Maybe you didn’t steal anything,” he agreed after she’d started to tremble again. “That’s going to make me really sorry to bring charges against you.”
Her throat snapped shut. “Charges? What do you mean, charges?”
“Merchandise, which my employer considers valuable, has vanished. The police will be interested to learn what happened to that shipment once it got into your hands. And even if you’re innocent, it’s going to leave a big question mark on your work record.”
Panic was pounding like an anvil at the base of her skull. “I don’t even know what was in the crate. All I did was ship it. That’s all I did.”
“We both know that’s a lie.” DiCarlo pulled into the parking lot of a convenience store. He could see that her eyes were filled with tears, her hands twisting and twisting the strap of her shoulder bag. Almost there, he thought, and shifted in his seat to offer her a cold merciless stare.
“You want to protect your job, don’t you, Opal? You don’t want to get fired, and arrested, do you?”
“I got kids,” she sobbed as the first tears spilled over. “I got kids.”
“Then you’d better think about them, about what could happen to them if you got into this kind of trouble. My employer is a hard man.” His eyes flicked over her fading facial bruises. “You know about hard men, don’t you?”
Defensively, she lifted a hand to her cheek. “I—I fell down.”
“Sure you did. Tripped on somebody’s fist, right?” When she didn’t answer he continued to press, lightly now. “If my boss doesn’t get back what belongs to him, he’s not just going to take it out on me. He’ll work his way through Premium until he gets down to you.”
They’d find out, she thought, panicking. They always found out. “I didn’t take his stuff, I didn’t. I just—”
“Just what?” DiCarlo leaped on the word and had to force himself not to wrap a hand around her throat and squeeze out the rest.
“I got three years in with Premium.” Sniffing, she dug in her bag for a Kleenex. “I could make floor supervisor in another year.”
DiCarlo bit back a stream of abuse and forced himself to stay cool. “Listen, I know what it’s like to climb up that ladder. You help me out here, and I’ll do the same for you. I don’t see any reason that what you tell me has to go beyond you and me. That’s why I didn’t do this in Tarkington’s office.”
Opal fumbled for a cigarette. Automatically, DiCarlo let the windows down a crack. “You won’t go back to Mr. Tarkington?”
“Not if you play straight with me. Otherwise . . .” To add impact, he slid his fingers under her chin, pinching as he turned her face to his.
“I’m sorry. I’m really sorry it happened. I thought I got it right afterward, but I wasn’t sure. And I was afraid. I had to miss a couple of days last month ’cause my youngest was sick, and last week I was late one day when I fell and . . . and I was so rushed I mixed up the invoices.” She turned away, braced for a blow. “I dropped them. I was dizzy and I dropped them. I thought I had everything put back right, but I wasn’t real sure. But I checked on a bunch of deliveries yesterday, and they were okay. So I thought I was clear, and nobody’d have to know.”
“You mixed up the invoices,” he repeated. “Some idiot clerk gets a dizzy spell and screws up the paperwork and puts my butt in a sling.”
“I’m sorry.” She sobbed. Maybe he wasn’t going to beat her, but he was going to make her pay. Opal knew someone always made her pay. “I’m really sorry.”
“You’re going to be a lot sorrier if you don’t find out where the shipment went.”
“I went through all the paperwork yesterday. There was only one other oversized crate that came through that lot in the morning.” Still weeping, she reached in her bag again. “I wrote down the address, Mr. DiCarlo.” She fished it from her purse and he snatched it.
“Sherman Porter, Front Royal, Virginia.”
“Please, Mr. DiCarlo, I got kids.” She wiped at her eyes. “I know I made a mistake, but I’ve done real good work at Premium. I can’t afford to get fired.”
He slipped the paper into his pocket. “I’ll check this out, then we’ll see.”
Her jaw dropped with the weight of hope. “Then you won’t tell Mr. Tarkington?”
“I said we’ll see.” DiCarlo started the engine as he plotted out his next steps. If things didn’t go his way, he’d come back for Opal and it wouldn’t just be her face that he’d leave black and blue.
At the main counter in her shop, Dora put the finishing touch of a big red bow on a gift-wrapped purchase. “She’s going to love them, Mr. O’Malley.” Pleased with the transaction, Dora patted the brightly wrapped box containing the cobalt saltcellars. “And it’ll be an even bigger surprise, since she hasn’t seen them in the shop.”
“Well, I appreciate your calling me, Miss Conroy. Can’t say I know what my Hester sees in these things, but she sure does set store by them.”
“You’re going to be her hero,” Dora assured him as he tucked the purchase under his arm. “And I’ll be happy to hold the other set for you until your anniversary in February.”
“That’s nice of you. You sure you don’t want a deposit on them?”
“Not necessary. Happy Christmas, Mr. O’Malley.”
“Same to you and yours.” He walked out, a satisfied customer, with a spring in h
is step.
There were another half a dozen customers in the shop, two being helped by Dora’s assistant, Terri. The prospect of another big day before the after-holiday lull made Dora’s heart swell. Skirting the counter, she wandered the main room of the shop, knowing the trick was to be helpful but not intrusive.
“Please let me know if you have any questions.”
“Oh, miss?”
Dora turned, smiling. There was something vaguely familiar about the stout matron with lacquered black hair.
“Yes, ma’am. May I help you?”
“Oh, I hope so.” She gestured a bit helplessly toward one of the display tables. “These are doorstops, aren’t they?”
“Yes, they are. Of course, they can be used for whatever you like, but that’s the primary function.” Automatically, Dora glanced over as the bells jingled on her door. She merely lifted a brow when Jed walked in. “Several of these are from the Victorian period,” she went on. “The most common material was cast iron.” She lifted a sturdy one in the shape of a basket of fruit. “This one was probably used for a drawing room. We do have one rather nice example of nailsea glass.”
It was currently in her bedroom upstairs, but could be whisked down in a moment.
The woman studied a highly polished brass snail. “My niece and her husband just moved into their first house. I’ve got them both individual gifts for Christmas, but I’d like to get them something for the house as well. Sharon, my niece, shops here quite a lot.”
“Oh. Does she collect anything in particular?”
“No, she likes the old and the unusual.”
“So do I. Was there a reason you had a doorstop in mind?”
“Yes, actually. My niece does a lot of sewing. She’s put together this really charming room. It’s an old house, you see, that they’ve been refurbishing. The door to her sewing room won’t stay open. Since they have a baby on the way, I know she’d want to be able to keep an ear out, and that this would be an amusing way to do it.” Still, she hesitated. “I bought Sharon a chamber pot here a few months ago, for her birthday. She loved it.”
That clicked. “The Sunderland, with the frog painted on the inside bottom.”
The woman’s eyes brightened. “Why, yes. How clever of you to have remembered.”
“I was very fond of that piece, Mrs . . . .”
“Lyle. Alice Lyle.”
“Mrs. Lyle, yes. I’m glad it found a good home.” Pausing, Dora tapped a finger to her lips. “If she liked that, maybe she’d appreciate something along these lines.” She chose a brass figure of an elephant. “It’s Jumbo,” she explained. “P. T. Barnum’s?”
“Yes.” The woman held out her hands and chuckled as Dora passed Jumbo to her. “My, hefty, isn’t he?”
“He’s one of my favorites.”
“I think he’s perfect.” She took a quick, discreet glance at the tag dangling from Jumbo’s front foot. “Yes, definitely.”
“Would you like him gift-boxed?”
“Yes, thank you. And . . .” She picked up the sleeping hound Dora had purchased at auction only the day before. “Do you think this would be suitable for the nursery?”
“I think he’s charming. A nice, cozy watchdog.”
“I believe I’ll take him along, too—an early welcoming gift for my newest grandniece or -nephew. You do take Visa?”
“Of course. This will just take a few minutes. Why don’t you help yourself to some coffee while you wait?” Dora gestured to the table that was always set with tea and coffeepots and trays of pretty cookies before she carried both doorstops back to the counter. “Christmas shopping, Skimmerhorn?” she asked as she passed him.
“I need a—what do you call it? Hostess thing.”
“Browse around. I’ll be right with you.”
Jed wasn’t completely sure what he was browsing around in. The packed apartment was only a small taste of the amazing array of merchandise offered in Dora’s Parlor.
There were delicate figurines that made him feel big and awkward, the way he’d once felt in his mother’s sitting room. Still, there was no sense of the formal or untouchable here. Bottles of varying sizes and colors caught the glitter of sunlight and begged to be handled. There were signs advertising everything from stomach pills to boot polish. Tin soldiers arranged in battle lines fought beside old war posters.
He wandered through a doorway and found the next room equally packed. Teddy bears and teapots. Cuckoo clocks and corkscrews. A junk shop, he mused. People might stick a fancy name on it, like “curio shop,” but what it was was junk.
Idly, he picked up a small enameled box decorated with painted roses. Mary Pat would probably like this, he decided.
“Well, Skimmerhorn, you surprise me.” Framed by the doorway, Dora smiled. She gestured toward the box he held as she walked to him. “You show excellent taste. That’s a lovely piece.”
“You could probably put bobby pins or rings into it, right?”
“You probably could. Originally it was used to hold patches. The well-to-do wore them in the eighteenth century, at first to cover smallpox scars, and then just for fashion. That particular one is a Staffordshire, circa 1770.” She looked up from the box, and there was a laugh in her eyes. “It goes for twenty-five hundred.”
“This?” It didn’t fill the cup of his palm.
“Well, it is a George the Third.”
“Yeah, right.” He put it back on the table with the same care he would have used on an explosive device. The fact that he could afford it didn’t make it any less intimidating. “Not quite what I had in mind.”
“That’s no problem. We have something for everyone’s mind. A hostess gift, you said?”
He grunted and scanned the room. Now he was afraid to touch anything. He was back again, painfully back in childhood, in the front parlor of the Skimmerhorn house.
Don’t touch, Jedidiah. You’re so clumsy. You don’t appreciate anything.
He blocked off the memory with its accompanying sensory illusion of the mingled scents of Chanel and sherry.
He didn’t quite block off the scowl. “Maybe I should just pick up some flowers.”
“That’s nice, too. Of course, they don’t last.” Dora was enjoying his look of pure masculine discomfort. “A bottle of wine’s acceptable as well. Not very innovative, but acceptable. Why don’t you tell me a little about our hostess?”
“Why?”
Dora’s smile widened at the suspicion in his voice. “So that I can get a picture of her and help you select something. Is she the athletic, outdoors type, or a quiet homebody who bakes her own bread?”
Maybe she wasn’t trying to make him feel stupid, Jed thought, but she was succeeding just the same. “Look, she’s my partner—ex-partner’s wife. She’s a trauma nurse. She’s got a couple of kids and likes to read books.”
“What sort of books?”
“I don’t know.” Why the hell hadn’t he just gone by the florist?
“All right, then.” Taking pity on him, she patted his arm. “It sounds to me as though we have a busy, dedicated woman. A compassionate and a romantic one. A hostess gift,” she mused, tapping her finger to her lip. “It shouldn’t be too personal. Something for the house.” With a nod, she turned away and walked to a corner that was fashioned to resemble an old-fashioned pantry. “I think this would do nicely.” Dora took down a footed wooden jar trimmed in brass.
Jed frowned over it. His parents hadn’t gone for novelty antiques. “What’s it—like for cookies?”
“How clever of you.” Dora beamed at him. “It’s a biscuit jar. Victorian. This one’s oak from about 1870. A practical and ornamental gift, and at forty dollars, it won’t cost you more than a dozen long-stem roses or a good French wine.”
“Okay. I guess she’d get a kick out of it.”
“See? That wasn’t so painful. Can I help you with anything else? A last-minute Christmas gift?”
“No, that’s it.” He followed her back into the
main room. The place smelled—cozy, he decided. Like apples. There was music playing softly. He recognized a movement from The Nutcracker and was surprised that he suddenly felt relaxed. “Where do you get all this stuff?”
“Oh, here and there,” she said over her shoulder. “Auctions, flea markets, estate sales.”
“And you actually make a living out of this.”
Amused, she took a box from behind the counter and unfolded it. “People collect, Skimmerhorn. Often they don’t even realize it. Didn’t you ever have marbles as a boy, or comic books, baseball cards?”
“Sure.” He’d had to hide them, but he’d had them.
