Hidden Riches

concerned that Finley’s security might have picked up on it, he’d have insisted.
    It was a simple job, he reminded himself. One with little to no risk. And he’d already taken the precaution of seeing that the minimal degree of risk was all but eliminated.
    It was the all but that nagged at him.
    The door opened, and Dora stepped out wearing the red suit that showed off every glorious curve in that sexy body, highlighting her legs in a way that would make any man this side of the grave salivate.
    “What do you think?” She was holding two different pairs of earrings up to each lobe. “The drops or the knots?”
    “How the hell should I know?”
    “The knots,” she decided. “More discreet.” She fastened them on. “I’d forgotten how much better you feel once you’re in costume. There’s just those little ripples of nerves that keep the adrenaline up.” She reached for her bottle of perfume.
    He frowned as she spritzed on scent—the throat, the back of the neck, the wrists, the backs of her knees. Something about the female ritual made his stomach jitter. When she picked up her antique silver brush and pulled it slowlythrough her hair, he knew what that something was. It made him feel like a voyeur.
    “You look fine.” He had to clear his throat. “You can stop primping now.”
    “Brushing your hair isn’t primping. It’s basic grooming.” While she gave it another sweep, she caught his gaze in the mirror. “I’d swear you’re more nervous than I am.”
    “Just stick to the plan and try to remember everything you see. Don’t bring up the painting. You haven’t got a clue about the painting. Try to go through Winesap. We’re running him down, but I want your impressions—not your speculations, your impressions.”
    “I know.” Patiently she set the brush aside. “Jed, I know exactly what to do and how to do it. It’s simple. Simpler because I might have done just this if I hadn’t known about the painting. It’s a very logical step.”
    “Just watch your ass.”
    “Darling, I’m counting on you to do that for me.”
     
    Dora was impressed with the decor of Finley’s outer office, trying to pick up helpful clues. As she’d suspected, he was a collector, and their mutual interest would give them a firm foundation. Her hands were chilled. That was good, too. The honest nerves she projected were just what she needed to set the tone for her visit.
    It was difficult to hang on to those nerves, and character, when she really wanted to walk over and examine some of Finley’s treasures firsthand. She felt favorably toward anyone who put malachite vases and Chiparus figures in his waiting area. And the settee she was using was no reproduction. Early Chippendale, Dora thought reverently, high-style rococo.
    She sincerely hoped Finley would prove himself to be in the clear. She’d love to develop a business relationship.
    But if he wasn’t . . .
    The thought of that had the nerves creeping back. She fiddled with the calla lily pin at her lapel, brushed at her skirt, looked at her watch.
    Damn, it was four-ten, she thought. How long was he going to keep her waiting?
     
    “Excellent. Excellent,” Finley murmured to Dora’s video image. She was every bit as lovely as he’d expected from the faded newspaper photos Winesap had unearthed from old Show and Style sections. Her wardrobe showed a flair for color and line as well as an affection for the feminine. He respected a woman who knew how to present herself to her best advantage.
    He enjoyed the way her hands moved restlessly through her hair, over her body. Nerves, he thought, pleased. A spider gained more thrill from a panicky fly than a resigned one. And despite the nerves, he noted, her eyes were drawn again and again to pieces in his collection. That flattered him.
    They would do very well together, he decided. Very well indeed.
    He buzzed his receptionist. It was time to begin.
    “Mr. Finley will see you now.”
    “Thank you.” Dora rose, tucked her envelope bag under her arm and followed the woman to the double doors.
    When she entered, Finley smiled and stood. “Miss Conroy, I’m so sorry to have kept you waiting.”
    “I’m just happy you could see me at all.” She crossed the rug, that pool of white, and took his extended hand. Her first impression was one of vitality and health and of well-channeled power.
    “It seemed important to you. What can we offer you? Some coffee, tea or perhaps some