Mad About You

and some change.
    "See you tonight," she said, then waved and scampered off.
    Kat watched her retreat, noticing several male heads turn. She scanned Denise's picked-over salad, then frowned and glanced down at her own plate of fettuccini Alfredo. "I'm starting a diet," she murmured, then twirled the noodles onto her fork. "Tomorrow."
    But as she walked back to the museum, Kat pushed aside thoughts of her snug waistband. The manuscript would arrive by courier from London around three o'clock. Upon arrival, she and the courier would note the condition of the document, then place it in the vault for the evening, where it would await the ministrations of a team of international experts on eighteenth-century British manuscripts.
    Sending the letter to the States had been a brilliant move on the part of the owner, she noted. Most British historians had been outraged at the supposed content of the letter, and, naturally, most American historians had been delighted. The letter would make its debut next week at Jellico's, San Francisco's most renowned private museum and gallery.
    As she badged in at the rear staff entrance, Kat laughed to herself, wondering if George would be amused at the new little war he'd started between England and the United States. Her smile dissolved when she saw her boss, Guy Trent, standing two feet inside the door, arms crossed, toe tapping.
    "Where have you been? I’ve been calling you."
    Kat adopted her own authoritative stance—not too difficult considering she towered over him by a good six inches. "To lunch," she retorted. "I turn off my phone for an hour of peace and quiet."
    She didn't miss his gaze flitting over her unfashionably round figure. "Well, while you were having lunch," he said as if she'd committed a grievous sin, "the courier arrived."
    Kat's pulse jumped. "I wasn't expecting him for another two hours."
    Frowning, her boss walked to another door and flashed his badge in front of the card reader. "They're waiting in the painting vault with Andy."
    "They?" She rushed to keep up with him as he trotted down the hallway.
    He looked at her as if she were half-witted. "The courier and the armed guard."
    Now it was Kat's turn to frown. She mentally scanned the details of the Mercer deal as they stopped before the door of the vault room and signed in at the guard's desk "There was no mention of an armed guard in our negotiations."
    Guy flashed his badge again, and the light over the doorknob blinked. Placing his hand on the knob, her boss said, "Tell that to Her Majesty's secret service man."
    Kat frowned, then lightly patted her tight chignon, even though she knew every dark hair was in place, as usual. She gave her black crepe suit a quick glance and smoothed a hand over her hips, sending the hem of her long skirt swishing around her ankles as she followed her boss into the vault.
    The temperature- and moisture-controlled room was lined with narrow metal cages fitted with handles to slide them from their respective slots. Each cage was designed to hold a separate piece of art—in this particular vault, paintings, and in some cases, documents.
    Two men stood beside her coworker Andy Wharton, and Kat’s eyes were instantly drawn to one of the strangers. Dressed in a slate-gray Armani suit, the dark-haired man stood well over six feet tall, his brown eyes squinting slightly as he sized her up in return. Tiny hairs rose on the exposed nape of her neck. The slight bulge of a shoulder holster beneath the fabric of his breast pocket confirmed his position, but this man was no rental cop.
    "Gentlemen," Guy said, smiling grandly. "May I present the curator who will be handling the letter, Ms. Katherine McKray. Kat, this is Mr. Muldoon, the courier."
    Kat dragged her eyes from the tall stranger to offer her hand and a smile to a smaller, wiry man. Mr. Muldoon nervously relinquished his grasp on the letter transport box long enough to give her a two-finger handshake.
    Guy swept his hand up and toward the larger man. "And this is Mr.—"
    "Donovan," the man supplied, his English accent lazy and rumbling. The right side of his mouth lifted as he captured Kat's gaze and held it. " James Donovan." As he spoke, a dimple appeared, then disappeared.
    His schtick should have been cheesy. Instead, awareness of the man's blatant sex appeal skittered over her nerve endings as she clasped the roomy hand he offered her. "How do you do, Mr. Donovan."
    The left side of his mouth joined the right, resulting