From the Heart

never considered that her business would outgrow her. When it had, she’d hired Michael Adams to handle the overseas buying. He was charming, capable, and knowledgeable. The women customers adored him. Gradually their relationship had mellowed from business to friendship to easy affection.
    As business had continued to thrive, Jessica had hired David Ryce. He’d been hardly more than a boy, at loose ends, bored enough to find trouble if it got in the way. Jessica had hired him because they’d grown up together; then she had come to depend on him. He was quick with figures and tireless with details. He had a streak of street sense that made him a good man to have in business.
    Street sense, Jessica mused. James Sladerman. Odd that the term would bring him back to her mind. Even in that quick exchange at the foot of the stairs, she’d felt something in him. It told her he was a man who would know how to handle himself—in business, maybe. In an alley, definitely. With ahalf laugh, she stuck her hands in her pockets. Now why should she think that?
    The fingers that had gripped her arm had been strong. His build had been wiry. But no, it had been his eyes, she thought. There was something . . . hard in his eyes. Yet she hadn’t been repelled or frightened, but drawn. Even when he’d looked at her for those first three or four seconds, with that intensity that seemed to creep beneath her skin, she hadn’t been afraid. Safe, she realized. He’d made her feel safe. That was odd, Jessica decided, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. Why should she suddenly feel safe when she had no need for protection?
    The door of the shop jingled open. Pushing speculation aside, Jessica turned.
    “Miss Winslow, I apologize. I’m very late.”
    “Don’t give it a thought, Mr. Chambers.” Jessica considered telling him that she’d also been late, then decided against it. What he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him. Behind her, the kettle whistled. “I’m just making tea. Why don’t you join me before we look over the new snuffboxes?”
    Chambers removed a rather fussy hat from a balding head. “Wonderful. I do appreciate you calling me when you get a new shipment in.” He smiled, revealing good dentures.
    “You don’t think I’d let anyone see the snuffboxes before you.” In the kitchen Jessica poured boiling water into cups. “Michael found these in France. There are two I think you’ll be particularly interested in.”
    He preferred the ornate, Jessica thought with a smile as she lifted the tray. He loved the foolishly gaudy little boxes that men with lace cuffs used to carry. She glanced at Chambers’ stubby form and wondered if he pictured himself as a cavalier or perhaps a Regency buck. Still, his fascination with snuffboxes had made him a regular customer who had more than once recommended her shop to other people. And he was rather sweet in his fussy little way, she thought as she placed the tea tray on a table.
    “Sugar?” she asked him.
    “Ah, I shouldn’t.” Chambers patted his ample middle. “But perhaps one cube.” His glance flicked briefly down to herlegs as Jessica crossed them. A pity, he thought with an inward sigh, that he wasn’t twenty years younger.
    Later he left happily with two eighteenth-century snuffboxes. Before Jessica could file the invoice, she heard the grumble of an engine. Glancing up, she saw the large delivery truck pull in front of the shop. She read the company logo on the side of the steel doors and frowned a bit. She could have sworn the delivery that Michael was shipping wasn’t due until the following day.
    When she recognized the driver, Jessica waved, then walked to the front door to meet him.
    “Hi, Miss Winslow.”
    “Hello, Don.” She accepted the itemized list he handed her, muttering about not expecting him until tomorrow. He shrugged.
    “Mr. Adams put a rush on it.”
    “Mmm.” She jiggled the keys in her pocket as she scanned the list. “Well, he seems to have outdone himself this time. And another delivery on Saturday. I don’t . . . oh!” Her eyes lit up with pleasure as they fixed on one item. “The writing desk. The Queen Anne. I meant to tell Michael to keep his eyes open for one, then forgot. It must be fate.” Of course, she should uncart it first, at least take a look. No, impulses were the best, Jessica decided. Smiling, she looked back up at the driver. “The rest comes in here, but that goes to my home. Would you