Mad About You

mold, mildew, rust, rot, grease, gunk, and various other earmarks of aged whatnots. Which was why his hands were always a mess—alternately soiled from handling the pieces he gathered from estate sales, stained from restoring the better finds, and raw from trying to scrub his nails and knuckles clean. He peered into the crate of metal bric-a-brac and frowned. Probably junk, all of it, but the clever auctioneer had bundled the box with the rug Ladden had had his eye on, so, worthless or not, it was now his.
    Ladden rolled his aching shoulders. Yesterday's scavenging had yielded him two beautiful—but heavy—iron beds, and today his body was complaining. He might have considered leaving the carpet in the truck until the afternoon, but he was so eager to examine his purchase he traipsed back outside. He paused only long enough to inhale the cool, fresh October air and rid his head of the pungent odor of which all antiques seemed to reek, then reached into the back of his rickety delivery truck and carefully, as if it were a sleeping woman, lifted the rolled carpet to his shoulder.
    Adrenaline pumped through his chest as he curled his fingers in the long fringe. He'd foraged through hundreds of great rugs in his quest to be the antique resource for Sacramento designers. But this rug... he knew it was special the second he’d unrolled it this morning in the auction hall. And the only sensation that topped the high of knowing he'd made a fabulous find was the anticipation that Jasmine Crowne, one of the city's top interior designers, would appreciate his tenacity and grace him with one of her amazing smiles as she said, "I'll take it!"
    Just the image of her big green eyes and wide, curving mouth warmed his cheeks. And that dark, straight ponytail she wore down her back drove him absolutely wild wondering how her hair would look spilling around her shoulders, sliding through his fingers...
    Ladden snorted at his musings. "Dream on, man," he muttered to himself as he eased his awkward load through the extra-wide doorway. Not only did Jasmine Crowne have a boyfriend, but the man had more buildings named after him than Ladden had calluses. And when people addressed him, they called him "Mr. Governor, sir" instead of "hey, you in the hat."
    Stepping past a row of cobwebby trunks, he settled the rug on the hardwood floor of his crowded storeroom, then pushed aside armoires, chairs, curios, and other odd pieces to clear a large space. Heart pounding, he reached into the front pocket of his jeans and withdrew a small knife to cut the binding cords. With a flick of his wrist, he unfurled the carpet, then jerked back in surprise as dozens—no, hundreds—of multicolored butterflies emerged. "What the...?"
    Dumbstruck, Ladden stared as the beautiful insects whirled and floated around him, their wings making tiny thrumming noises as they flew past his ears. Where had they come from? He quickly knelt and ran his fingers over the hand-tied pile to look for hidden cocoons and larvae he had missed during the inspection. His fingers tingled from the buildup of static electricity on the wool surface, but the only discovery within the pile was an unexpectedly small amount of dust and loose fibers.
    Ladden frowned. Maybe the rug wasn't as old as he had first assumed. Although the Mughal designs appeared to predate the 1800s, the colors seemed brighter and newer here under his own lighting. Perhaps the carpet was simply a convincing reproduction. He scanned the surface frantically. At the auction house, he had counted four holes the size of his fist that would have to be repaired by the rug weaver across town. Where were they now? Was it possible he had picked up the wrong rug? Although it seemed unlikely that two rugs so similar would be available at the same auction, he pulled a scrap of paper where he'd written the item number from his shirt pocket and compared it with the yellow tag on the rug. No mistake.
    With growing confusion, he stood and walked through the bizarre blizzard of butterflies making their way toward the open doorway. Ladden stopped in front of the makeshift library he stored in a single glass-front bookcase, fingered the spine of several reference books, then withdrew a dogeared volume on Oriental-design rugs. Thumbing through the colorful pictures, he compared the closely spaced lilies and asters on a field of raspberry red to photos in the book. A wide black and a narrow cream-colored border surrounded the