From the Heart

his arm. “He damn well better do what I tell him.” As quickly as she had flared up, her mood shifted and she smiled. “He’s hardly more than a boy really, and Betsy nags at him. It’s just her way. Though I appreciate his dedication to the business, he’s got to get well.” Her eyes drifted to the phone on the counter. “If I call, he’ll just get defensive.”
    “He said he wouldn’t come in until Monday.” Slade leaned against the secretaire. “He wanted you to leave the paperwork on the new shipments for him.”
    Jessica stuck her hands in her pockets, obviously still toying with the idea of phoning to lecture David. “Yes, all right. If he’s going to come in on Monday, at least he’ll be sitting down. I’ll get the new stock situated in the meantimeso he’s not tempted.” She smiled again. “He’s nearly as obsessed with this place as I am. If I so much as move a candlestick, David knows it. Before he got sick, he was trying to talk me into a vacation.” She laughed, tossing her head so that her hair swung behind her. “He just wanted the place to himself for a week or two.”
    “A very dedicated assistant,” Slade murmured.
    “Oh, David’s that,” Jessica agreed. “What are you doing here, Slade? I thought you’d be buried in books.”
    Half glad, half wary that the reserve of the last few days had vanished, he gave her a cautious smile. “I told David I’d give you a hand.”
    “That was very nice.” The surprise in her voice had his smile widening.
    “I can be nice occasionally,” he returned. “Besides, I thought I might be able to get some information on antiques. Research.”
    “Oh.” She accepted this with a nod. “All right. I wouldn’t mind having some help with the heavier things. What period were you interested in?”
    “Period?”
    “Furniture,” Jessica explained as she walked to a long, low chest. “Is there a particular century or style? Renaissance, Early American, Italian Provincial?”
    “Just a general sort of lesson today to give me the feel of it,” Slade improvised as he nudged Jessica away from the chest. “Where do you want this?”
    He lifted and carried. Jessica arranged the lighter pieces while keeping up a running dialog on the furniture they moved. This chair was Chippendale—see the square, tapered seat and cabriole leg. This cabinet was French Baroque—in satinwood, gilded and carved. She ran over a little table with a polishing cloth, explaining about Chinese influences and tea services.
    During the morning they were interrupted half a dozen times by customers. Jessica turned from antique lover to salesperson. Slade watched her show pieces, explain their background, then dicker over prices. If he hadn’t been sure before, he was certain now. Her shop was no toy to her. She not only knew how to manage it, but worked harder than he’dgiven her credit for. Not only did she handle people with a deft skill he was forced to admire, but she made money—if the discreet price tags he’d come across were any indication.
    So why, he wondered, if she was dedicated to her shop, if she turned a profit, would she risk using her business for smuggling? Now that he’d met her and spent some time with her, it wasn’t as easy for Slade to dismiss it as kicks or thrills. Yet she wasn’t lacking in brains. Was it plausible that an operation was going on under her nose without her knowledge?
    “Slade, I hate to ask.” Jessica kept her voice lowered as she came close to his side. Touching came naturally to her, it seemed, for her hand was already on his arm. Irresponsible or not, he discovered that he wanted her. Turning, he trapped her effectively between the chest and himself. Her hand remained on his arm, just below the elbow. Though they touched in no other way, he suddenly had a very clear sensation of how her body would feel pressed against his. His eyes brushed over her mouth, then came to hers.
    “Ask what?”
    Her mind went blank. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf pounding on the shore. She could have stepped back an inch and broken the contact—stepped forward an inch to consummate it. Jessica did neither. Dimly, she was aware of a pressure in her chest, as though someone were pressing hard against it to cut off her air. In that instant they both knew he had only to touch her for everything to change.
    “Slade,” she murmured. Half question, half invitation.
    He snapped back, retreating from the edge, from an