Hidden Riches

bought it from a hotel in San Francisco. I couldn’t resist that headboard.”
    It was high, covered with deep blue brocade and gently curved at the top. She’d added a lushly quilted satin spread and an army of fussy pillows.
    “I like to sit up late and read with a fire going.” She closed the jewelry box. “One of the things that sold meon this building was the size of the rooms, and that I could have a fireplace in my bedroom. It’s—as my father would say—the cat’s meow.” She grinned. “Sorry, Captain, it doesn’t look like I have a crime to report.”
    He should have been relieved. But he couldn’t ignore the tickle at the back of his neck. “Why don’t you give me a list of the stolen goods? We—Brent can have some men check out the pawnshops.”
    “I’ve already reported it.”
    “Let me help.” This time he went with the urge to touch her, to see if she’d back away. But when he ran a hand down her arm, she only smiled.
    So he was forgiven, he thought. Just that simply.
    “All right. It wouldn’t be smart to turn down the services of a police captain over a simple shoplifting. Let me—” She started forward, but he didn’t move with her or aside. All she accomplished was to come a step closer. Her heart stuttered in her chest with an emotion that had nothing to do with fear. Nothing at all. “The list’s downstairs.”
    “I think you should know, you were right.”
    “That’s always good to know. What was I right about this time?”
    “I was tangled up about what was happening between us.”
    “Oh.” It came out shaky; she couldn’t help it. “What was happening between us?”
    His eyes darkened. She thought of the cobalt glass on display in the shop. “I was wanting you. I was wondering what it would be like to undress you, and to touch you, and to feel you under me. I was wondering if your skin tasted like it smelled.”
    She stared at him while her stomach muscles danced. “Is that what was happening?”
    “On my end. It was making me a little crazy.”
    “And it’s better now?”
    He shook his head. “Worse. Now I can imagine doing all those things in that bed. If you want to pay me backsolid for last night, all you have to do is tell me you’re not interested.”
    She let out the air that had backed up in her lungs. “Interested” wasn’t precisely the word she would have chosen. “I think . . .” On a weak laugh, she pushed both hands through her hair. “I think I’m going to say I’m going to consider your offer carefully, and get back to you on it.”
    “You know where to find me.”
    “Yeah, I do.”
    He hadn’t expected to fluster her, but he was enjoying it. “You want to have dinner? We could . . . discuss the terms.”
    The quick, wild fluttering of her heart made her feel very young, and very foolish. “I can’t. I have a date—with my nephew.” She picked up a silver-backed brush from her bureau, set it down again. “He’s at that stage where he detests girls, so every now and again I take him out to the movies or the arcade. A kind of guys’ night out.”
    “You’re a girl.”
    “Not to Richie.” She picked up the brush again, twisting the handle through her hands. “I don’t mind sitting through ninety minutes of Zombie Mercenaries from Hell —that makes me one of the guys.”
    “If you say so.” He flicked a glance down to her nervous hands and grinned. “We’ll try guys’ night out later, then.”
    “Sure. Maybe tomorrow.”
    “I think I can work it into my schedule.” Gently, he took the brush from her restless fingers and laid it aside. “Why don’t we go get that list?”
    When they’d passed safely out of the bedroom, Dora let out a small, relieved breath. She was definitely going to think this over—as soon as some of the blood returned to her head.
    “Got your keys downstairs?” Jed asked her when they stepped into the hall.
    “What—oh, yeah.”
    “Good.” He turned the lock before shutting the door.
    * * *
    DiCarlo might have enjoyed his luxurious suite at the Ritz-Carlton, with its soft, king-sized bed, a fully stocked honor bar, excellent room service and masseuse on call.
    He might have enjoyed it—if he’d had the painting in his possession.
    Instead he fumed.
    Without the man in apartment two’s ill-timed arrival, DiCarlo figured he would have had the painting—or known its whereabouts.
    He hesitated to call Finley. There was nothing to report for the night’s work but failure,