Hidden Riches

looked at them, and it was . . . it was like watching someone masturbate. I kept telling myself I was imagining it because he was being so charming. We had dinner, this elegant dinner in this elegant room on elegant china. And we discussed art and music, and so forth. He never touched me in a way that wasn’t perfectly correct, but . . .”
    She laughed a little. “I’d really appreciate it if you wouldn’t say I was being an overimaginative female when I tell you this, because that’s exactly how I feel. But I felt as though he was seeing me naked. We’re spooning up this incredibly delicate soufflé with Georgian silver and I felt as though he could see right through my dress. I have no explanation for it, just that unshakable and very creepy feeling.”
    “Maybe he was thinking of you that way. Men do, even elegant ones.”
    She could only shake her head. “No, it wasn’t like that—not really sexual on either side. It was more like being defenseless.”
    “You were alone.”
    “Not really—or not often. He has an army of servants. I wasn’t really afraid that he’d hurt me. I was afraid he wanted to. And there was that business in the bathroom.”
    “He took you into the bathroom?”
    “No. I went into the powder room after dinner. I was freshening my makeup, and I kept feeling like he was right there, watching over my shoulder.”
    She blew out a breath, grateful that Jed didn’t snort and tell her she was being a fool. “I honestly didn’t think he had anything to do with this whole business after I’d left his office this afternoon. And now, I don’t know what to think. I do know that I wouldn’t want to go back into that houseeven if he offered me my pick of his pomanders. Which, I might add, were wonderful.”
    “You don’t have to go back. We’ll see if the IRS wants to poke a few fingers into Finley’s pie.”
    “Good.” There was a throbbing over her left eye she couldn’t quite rub away. “You might see what you can find out about a sapphire brooch—possibly sixteenth-century. The stone looked to be about eight carats in a horizontal setting of gold filigree with some small, round-cut diamonds. He made a real issue of showing it to me.”
    “Fine. You did good.”
    “Yeah.” She gave him a sleepy smile. “Do I get a detective’s gold star?”
    “That’s gold shield, Nancy. And no. You’re retiring.”
    “Good.”
    “You want something for that headache?”
    She stopped rubbing her temple long enough to grimace. “Morphine, but I didn’t bring any along. I do have something less effective in my makeup bag.”
    “I’ll get it. Stretch out.”
    She took him up on it without bothering to crawl under the sheets. “I forgot. I saw this guy in a dark sedan—God, that sounds like a Charlie Chan movie. Anyway, I saw him pull out after the limo when we left. Then he drove up a few minutes after I got back. I don’t know why Finley would have me followed to and from his house though.”
    “He didn’t. I did. Where the hell do you keep pills? You’ve got all these little bottles.”
    “The pills aren’t in a bottle, they’re in a box. What we call a pillbox in the trade.”
    “Smartass.”
    “The little one with the enameled violets. What do you mean you had me followed?”
    “I’ve had you tailed all day. Local PI.”
    She was smiling when he walked out with the pills. “Almost as good as flowers,” she murmured. “You hired a bodyguard for me.”
    “I hired him for me,” he said lightly.
    After pillowing her head on her folded arms, she shut her eyes.
    Straddling her, he began to rub her neck and shoulders. “Relax, Conroy, you don’t get rid of a stress headache by tensing up.”
    But his fingers were already working their magic. “Jed?” Her voice was a thick murmur, hardly audible.
    “Yeah.”
    “Mirrors. I forgot. He has dozens of them. You couldn’t walk into a room without seeing yourself coming and going.”
    “So he’s vain.”
    “I’ve got a cheval glass I could probably sell him.”
    “Shut up, Conroy. You’re off the clock.”
    “Okay, but I don’t think he just likes to watch himself. I think he likes to watch.”
    “Okay. He’s a vain pervert.” He ran the heels of his hands down the sides of her spine.
    “I know. That doesn’t make him a smuggler. I wish . . .”
    “Wish what?”
    But whatever she wished, it would remain unsaid. She was asleep.
    Quietly, he turned down the covers and, lifting her, slipped