Hidden Riches

you.”
    “Oh, and Abel.” Finley enjoyed watching the man stop on a dime and cringe. “I really think, under the circumstances, you should return the caddy spoon.”
    “Oh.” Winesap’s face fell. “Of course.”
    In much better spirits, Finley leaned back as the door closed respectfully. He’d been in a state of mental turmoil since reading the article, and now calmed himself by doing his deep-breathing exercises. There was nothing quite like yoga for soothing the soul.
    He would have to keep a closer eye on Abel, he thought sadly. A much closer eye. If things got too sticky over DiCarlo, he would simply throw dear, devoted Abel to the wolves like so much dead meat.
    But he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be necessary.
    He wasn’t worried for himself. When a man was rich enough, and powerful enough, Finley mused, he was above the common reach of the law.
    The police couldn’t touch him. No one could. And if, by some minor miracle, they came too close, there would always be small prey—like Abel—to throw off their scent.
    But he was a forgiving man. Smiling, Finley took the etui he’d brought back to his office with him from his desk and fondled it. A very forgiving man—sometimes to a fault.
    As long as Abel followed instructions carefully and managed Miss Conroy, there would be no need to kill him. No need at all.

CHAPTER
TWENTY-EIGHT
    I t was good to be home in the simple routines of each day. Dora comforted herself with that and tried not to think of the meeting with Mr. Petroy she still had to face.
    She hadn’t realized she was ordinary enough, mundane enough, to wish for a lack of adventure. But the bald truth was, she wanted her simple life back. More, she wanted the chance to be bored.
    At least Jed hadn’t noticed her lack of appetite. Dora was certain he’d have made a few choice remarks if she hadn’t covered it so well. The same held true for the female art of cosmetics. Her eyes might have been shadowed, her skin pale and drawn, but with facials and creams and powders, she presented a very competent mask.
    She hoped it didn’t slip until after Thursday.
    She was rubbing at the throbbing between her eyes thatthe doses of aspirin seemed unable to ease when the shop door opened. Nothing could have made her happier than her father’s smiling and slightly tipsy face.
    “Izzy, my sweet.”
    “Dad, my own true love.” She stepped away from the counter to kiss him, then found herself pressing her face against his shoulder and hugging him fiercely.
    He returned the embrace. Though concern clouded his eyes, they were smiling again when he drew back. “All alone, little girl?”
    “Not anymore. It’s been a slow morning. Want some coffee?”
    “Half a cup.” He speculated, watching her move to the coffee service and pour. He knew his children—their faces, the tones of their voices, the subtleties of their body language. Isadora was hiding something, he mused. He would find out what easily enough.
    “Your mother sends me as ambassador.” He accepted the cup, then pulled out his flask to add a generous dollop of whiskey. “To extend an invitation to cocktails and conversation to you and your young man.”
    “If you’re referring to Jed, I think he might object to the description, but accept the invitation. When?”
    “Thursday night.” His brow lifted as he saw something flicker over her face. “Pretheater, of course.”
    “Of course. I’ll be happy to check with him.”
    “I’ll extend the invitation myself. Is he upstairs?”
    “No, I think he’s out.” She sipped her coffee, grateful when a couple of window shoppers passed on without coming in. “You can check with him later, if you like.”
    Quentin watched her toy with the sugar bowl. “Have you had a lovers’ tiff?”
    “We don’t tiff.” She managed a smile. “We do fight now and then, but tiffing isn’t part of our ritual.” She picked up a cookie, put it down again. “You know, I’m feeling a little restless today. Do you want to take a walk?”
    “With a beautiful woman? Always.”
    “Let me get my coat.”
    Quentin’s eyes narrowed in speculation, wondering if his hand-picked partner was making his little girl so unsettled. But he was all smiles again when she returned, buttoning her coat. “I seem to recall someone who enjoys busman’s holidays. Perhaps we should take a little ride over to NewMarket and check out some shop windows.”
    “My hero.” Dora flipped the Closed sign over, then