From the Heart

“No problem with the shipments?”
    “No, they’re already unpacked. As a matter of fact, three pieces go out tomorrow. David’s been ill this past week. Slade helped me get things in order yesterday.”
    “Really?” Michael took out a wafer-thin gold case, then offered Slade a cigarette. Refusing with a shake of his head, Slade pulled out his own pack. “Do you know antiques, Mr. Sladerman?”
    “No.” Slade struck a match, watching Michael over the flame. “Unless we count the lesson Jessica gave me yesterday.”
    Michael sat back, tossing an arm casually over the back of the sofa. “What do you do?” His smooth, neat fingers toyed absently with Jessica’s hair. Slade took a hard drag on his cigarette.
    “I’m a writer.”
    “Fascinating. Would I have read any of your work?”
    He gave Michael a long, steady stare. “I wouldn’t think so.”
    “Slade is working on a novel,” Jessica intervened. There were undercurrents that made her uncomfortable. “You haven’t told me yet what it’s about.”
    He caught the look in her eye, recognizing it as a plea for peace. Not yet, he decided. We’ll just see what we can stir up. “Smuggling,” he said flatly. There was a loud clatter of china from the doorway.
    “Damn!” David took a firmer grip on the tray, then gave Jessica a sheepish smile. “I almost dropped the whole works.”
    “David!” She sprang up to take the coffee tray from him. “You can hardly carry yourself, much less all this.” Slade watched him give her a disgruntled look before he flopped into a chair.
    David was still pale—or had the loss of color come when smuggling had been mentioned? Slade wondered. There was a faint line of sweat on his brow between his mop of hair and his glasses. After setting down the tray, Jessica turned back to him.
    “How do you feel?”
    David scowled at her. “Don’t fuss.”
    “All right.” She leaned over until her face was level with his. “If I’d known you were going to be such a bad patient, I’d have brought you some crayons and colored paper.”
    Though he gave her hair a hard tug, he grinned. “Get me some coffee and shut up.”
    “Oh, yes, sir,” she said meekly.
    When she turned, David sent Slade a quick wink. “Gotta know how to handle these society types. Hi, Michael. Welcome back.” Reaching in his pocket, he found a crumpled pack of cigarettes. As he searched for matches, his eyes lit on the desk. “Hey, what’s this?”
    “One of Michael’s finds I’ve already laid claim to,” Jessica told him as she brought him his coffee. “You can take care of the paperwork next week.”
    “Monday,” he said firmly, eyeing the desk. “Queen Anne.”
    “It’s lovely, isn’t it?” She handed Slade a cup before crossing to it. Opening the lid, she showed off the inside.
    Slade felt the back of his neck prickle. There was a rise in tension, he felt it—could nearly smell it. Shifting his eyes from Jessica, he studied both men. Michael added cream to his coffee. David found his match. With a half shrug, Slade told himself he was getting jumpy.
    “And wait until you see the rest of the stock,” Jessica told David as she came back to the sofa. “Michael outdid himself.”
    Slade let the conversation hum around him, answering briefly if he was asked a direct question. She was crazy about the kid, he concluded. It showed in the way she teased, lightly bullied, and catered to him. Slade remembered her comment about having wanted a brother or sister. David was obviously her substitute. How far would she go to protect him? he wondered. All the way flashed through his mind. If there was one firm impression he’d gotten from Jessica Winslow, it was loyalty.
    Her relationship with Michael was less defined. If they were lovers, Slade concluded that she was very casual about it. Somehow he didn’t feel Jessica would be casual about intimacy. Passion, he thought again. There was hot, vibrant passion smoldering in that slender little body. If Michael washer lover, Slade would have seen some sign of it in the kiss they had exchanged at the door.
    If she had been in his arms, it would have been there, he thought as his gaze drifted to her mouth. It was soft and unpainted. From ten feet away he could all but taste it. Slowly, irresistibly, desire crept into him, and with it an ache—a dull, throbbing ache he’d never felt before. If he could have her, even once, the ache would go. Slade could almost convince himself of that. He