Gift of Gold

appraised.”
    Jonas smiled blandly. “As I said, you’re welcome to have your own expert examine them, but I can’t make another trip here to your office. I intend to close a deal as soon as possible and I have three other potential buyers to see today. The other three are experts themselves and won’t have to waste time hiring someone to check out the pistols. I’m sure you understand. However, if I don’t reach an agreement with one of those three today, feel free to contact me again and set up a time to have your man look over the guns.”
    The subtle insult had its effect. Kincaid clearly did not like the implication that he was not enough of an expert to reach his own decision. But he covered his reaction with cool poise. “I’ll consider that. Keep me informed about the outcome of your negotiations today.” He deliberately turned away from Jonas and walked over to stand beside Verity at the window. “Lovely view, isn’t it, Miss Ames?”
    “Very.” She practiced her smile and noticed that Damon Kincaid seemed quite fascinated by it. Maybe she ought to use it on more men more often. “You’re lucky to have this office, Mr. Kincaid. If I had it, I don’t think I’d get much work done. The view is too much of a distraction.”
    “You get accustomed to it,” he assured her with a smile. “It’s easy to become accustomed to beauty. Too easy, perhaps. Eventually one finds that a superficially beautiful view or pistol or woman needs more than simple attractiveness to hold a man’s attention.”
    Verity looked up at him. “The pistols are beautiful in their own way, but because they’ve never been used for their intended purpose, they lack a certain element of interest for you.”
    Kincaid smiled approvingly. “You are very perceptive, Miss Ames. That is exactly the case.” He indicated the swords and rapiers on the walls. “These weapons all have histories. I do not collect ceremonial or dress swords, only those that I have reason to believe were used by the men who carried them.” He glanced at Jonas. “Do you know anything about swords, Mr. Quarrel, or is your expertise limited to pistols?”
    Jonas’s eyes were cold and unreadable as he took in the sight of Damon Kincaid standing very close to Verity. “I know a little about swords.” He flicked a glance toward a long, tapered rapier on the wall nearest him. “Enough to know that the dagger hanging next to that Italian rapier is a reproduction.”
    “A reproduction!” Kincaid’s suave poise was momentarily shattered. He recovered quickly, however. “You must be mistaken. I bought that dagger from a very reliable source. It’s late sixteenth century.”
    Jonas raised his brows and strolled over to take a closer look. “Mind if I handle it?”
    Kincaid hesitated, then shrugged. “Go ahead.”
    Verity realized she was holding her breath. She wondered if Jonas was going to test himself again. She knew he was eager to explore his new command of his talent, but this wasn’t the time or place for such experiments. However, she couldn’t think of any way to stop him. She braced herself for the impact of finding herself in the long corridor.
    Then she remembered that he had claimed the dagger was a fake. If it was a reproduction, she told herself in relief, it shouldn’t have any effect on him. She relaxed again.
    Jonas took the dagger down from the wall. Verity trembled as a flickering image of the psychic tunnel slithered in and out of her mind. It didn’t take a firm, solid shape the way it had the last time she had seen it. It was as if this part of the corridor were not as completely constructed; as if it were somehow
newer.
    There was a brief impression of Jonas’s presence but she couldn’t see him. She was turning around to look at him when a hazy image appeared in the corridor behind her. Thinking it might be Jonas, she hurried toward it. She did not like being alone in this psychic tunnel.
    She was almost on top of the image before it crystallized briefly into a scene of an old-fashioned, formal dining room. There was a man seated in an ornate armchair at the far end of an inlaid table. He was clutching at his heart, a stricken expression on his aging, florid face. He seemed to be staring past her toward someone who was not present.
    Heart attack,
Verity thought, instinctively moving forward. But even as she watched the man pitched forward, the upper half of his body sprawling across a plate of what appeared to be