Hidden Riches

completely safe in her own home. Because of it, she felt compelled to switch on lights as she went.
    Once settled in the storeroom, she picked up the tedious task of continuing the reorganization of the files DiCarlo had upended.
    As always, the steady work and the quiet relaxed and absorbed her. She enjoyed putting the proper thing in the proper place, and pausing occasionally to study a receipt and remember the thrill of the sale.
    A paperweight commemorating the New York World’s Fair, at $40. A marquetry toilet mirror, at $3,000. Three advertising signs, Brasso, Olympic ale and Players cigarettes, at $190, $27 and $185, respectively.
    Jed stood midway down the stairs watching her. She’d set all the lights burning, like a child left home alone at night. She was wearing the green robe and an enormous pair of purple socks. Each time she leaned down to read a piece of paper, her hair fell softly over her cheek and curtained her face. Then she would push it back, the movement fluid and unstudied, before she filed the paper away and reached for another.
    His heart rate, which had spiked when he’d seen the hallway door open, settled comfortably. Even with the desire that seemed to nag him whenever she was close, he was always comfortable looking at her.
    He’d already settled his weapon back under his jacket when she turned.
    She caught a glimpse of a figure and stumbled back. Papers went flying as she choked on a scream.
    “What are you doing?” she said furiously. “Trying to scare me to death?”
    “No.” He came down to the base of the steps. “What the hell are you doing, Conroy? It’s after midnight.”
    “What does it look like I’m doing? I’m practicing the minuet.” Humiliated by her reaction, she crouched down to pick up scattered papers.
    “You were very graceful.” He bent down, placed a hand over hers. “I’m sorry I scared you. I guess you were too involved to hear me.”
    “Never mind.”
    “You should be in bed.” He tilted her face up toward the light. “You look tired.”
    “Thanks so much.”
    “And you’re bitchy, too.”
    “I am not bitchy.” She sucked in an insulted breath. “I resent that term both as a feminist and as a dog lover.”
    Patiently, he tucked her hair behind her ear. She’d managed to cover it remarkably quickly, he mused. But her eyes had been worried and wary after the first fright had faded. He’d hurt her already, and was very likely to do so again.
    “Come on upstairs, baby.”
    “I haven’t finished yet.”
    He lifted a brow. There was the faintest edge of resentment in her tone. It made him feel small and incredibly stupid.
    “You’re pissed at me.”
    “I’m not.” She straightened, drew a deep breath and, with an effort of will, made the statement the truth. “I am not,” she repeated, calm again. “If I’m out of sorts it’s because I feel useless having to keep the shop closed, and deceitful because I’m lying to my family.”
    “You don’t have to do either of those things. There’s no reason not to open tomorrow, and you’d feel better if you came clean with your family.”
    She considered it. “I will open,” she decided, “but I’m not telling my family. Not yet. It’s for me to deal with.”
    He started to argue and found he couldn’t. Wasn’t that the same rationale he was using to ease his conscience? He wasn’t going to tell her about his meeting with the commissioner or his decision to pick up his badge. Not yet.
    “Come upstairs,” he repeated. “I’ll give you a back rub.”
    “Why?”
    “Because you’re tense,” he said between his teeth. “Damn, Conroy, why do you care why? All you have to do is lie there and enjoy it.”
    Eyes narrowed, she stepped back. “You’re being nice to me. Why? You’re setting me up for something, Skimmerhorn. You’re planning on doing something you know I won’t like.” She raced up the steps after him.
    “Don’t keep things from me.” She laid a hand on his arm as he unlocked his door. “Please. It’s something about DiCarlo, isn’t it? About the painting, the whole mess.”
    It was more than that. And less. He wondered if it wasthe coward’s way out to give her that one part.
    “I’m going to LA to have a talk with DiCarlo’s boss.”
    “Winesap?” Her brow creased as she concentrated. “That’s who the shipment was supposed to go to, wasn’t it?”
    “The top man’s name is Finley, Edmund G.,” Jed told her. “I’ll start with