From the Heart

up, Jessica started back downstairs.
    If he’s annoyed, she mused, she’d just have to make the best of it. Being confined in the house was bad enough without restricting herself to her rooms. She’d almost be willing to fill out some more of those silly cards—anything to keep her hands busy until . . .
    Her thoughts broke off as she came to the foot of the stairs. For the second time the parlor doors were closed. A tremor ran up her back, urging her to turn around, go to her room, and pretend she’d never left it. She’d taken the first step in retreat before she stopped herself.
    Hadn’t she told Slade not to tell her to run? This was her home, Jessica reminded herself as she stepped forward. Whatever happened in it was hers to deal with. Taking a deep breath, she opened the parlor doors and flicked on the light switch.
     
    Slade waited as the rear door opened quietly. At first there was only a shadow, but the build was familiar. Relaxing, he stepped forward into the moonlight. Startled, David whirled around and swore.
    “You scared the hell out of me,” David complained as he let the door swing shut behind him. “What’re you doing standing around in the dark?”
    “Just checking the locks,” Slade said easily.
    “Moving right in,” David muttered. After turning on the lights, he went over to the stove. “Want some coffee?” he asked grudgingly.
    “Thanks.” Slade straddled a chair and waited for David to come out with whatever was on his mind.
    The last report Slade had received from Brewster had put David in the clear. His name and face and fingerprints had been run through the most sophisticated computers. His every movement had been under surveillance for over a month.David Ryce was exactly what he seemed—a young, faintly defiant man who had a knack for figures and an affection for antiques. He was also having what he thought was a discreet affair with a pre-med student. Slade recalled Brewster’s almost paternal amusement with David’s infatuation.
    Though he’d felt an initial twinge of guilt at keeping the knowledge of David’s clean slate from Jessica, Slade had decided she had enough trouble keeping herself under control. Better that she suspected both men than for her to be certain that Michael Adams was up to his neck in the smuggling operation.
     
    “Michael.” Jessica stared, facing the truth and not wanting to believe it.
    “Jessica.” He stood with pieces of the desk in his hand, frantically searching for some viable excuse for his presence and his actions. “I didn’t want to disturb you. I’d hoped you’d be asleep.”
    “Yes, I’m sure you did.” With a quiet, resigned sigh, she shut the parlor doors at her back.
    “There was a problem with this piece,” Michael began. “I wanted to—”
    “Please don’t.” Jessica crossed the room, poured two fingers of brandy, and drank it down. “I know about the smuggling, Michael,” she told him in a flat voice. “I know you’ve been using the shop.”
    “Smuggling? Really, Jessica—”
    “I said don’t!” She whirled sharply, pushed by anger and despair. “I know, Michael. And so do the police.”
    “Oh God.” As his color drained, he looked around wildly. Was there anyplace left to run?
    “I want to know why.” Her voice was low and steady. “You owe me that.”
    “I was trapped.” He let the pieces of the desk fall to the floor, then groped for a cigarette. “Jessica, I was trapped. He promised you wouldn’t be involved—that you’d never have to know. You have to believe that I’d never have gotten you mixed up in this if there’d been any choice.”
    “Choice,” she murmured, thinking of Slade. “We all have our choices, Michael. What was yours?”
    “In Europe a couple of years ago, I . . .” He took a greedy drag of his cigarette. “I lost some money . . . a lot of money. More than I had to lose, and to the wrong person.” He sent her a swift, pleading look. “He had me worked over—you might remember when I took those extra two weeks in Rome.” He drew in and expelled smoke quickly. “They were pros . . . . It was days before I could walk. When he gave me an alternative to crippling me permanently, I took it.”
    Dragging a hand through his hair, Michael walked over to the bar. He poured bourbon neat, splattering drops, then downed it in one swallow. “He knew who I was, of course, my family, my connection with your shop—your unimpeachable reputation.”