Midnight Jewels

respectable book collectors of the twentieth century. In the late seventeen hundreds and well into the eighteen hundreds,
Valley
had undoubtedly been frequently read for its original intended purpose, which was, of course, outright titillation. Such usage could prove extremely wearing on a book.
    But, Mercy reminded herself, she was a book dealer with a legitimate interest in antiquarian treasures. She wasn't the type to mar me cover of
Valley
with sweaty hands. Her interest in the volume was purely professional.. After all, the book was worm a couple of thousand dollars and represented the start of a new direction in her career.
    She lifted it out of its box and carried it into the bedroom to study for a while before sleep claimed her.

    Mercy rose early the next morning, padding into the shower with her eyes only half open. It was a luxury to be able to take her time waking up. Six days a week she made herself bounce out of bed and scurry through an efficient, organized routine of showering, dressing and eating breakfast. On the seventh day she wandered far more slowly through the same routine.
    It was as she dawdled over her second cup of coffee that she allowed herself to think about Croft Falconer.
    There was, of course, a very good possibility he had given up trying to get her to introduce him to Erasmus Gladstone and had left for Oregon.
    On the other hand, he had said he would be going with her to Colorado, and while Mercy had no intention of letting him accompany her to the mountains she was convinced he wouldn't give up so easily.
    He had said he wanted the time with her as much as he wanted to meet Gladstone.
    Maybe he had lied.
    Mercy was packed for the trip to Colorado by ten o'clock. She was considering a quick visit to Pennington's Second Chance to check that everything was ready for Dome to take charge on Monday when she glanced out her front window and realized what a perfect scene was captured within the confines of her small scrap of view.
    The cove was filled with colorful sailboats skimming a glistening sea. The sky was a perfect blue and there was a sun-drenched perfection to the cliffs above the cove. The rooftops below her window that tumbled down the hillside toward the water were awash with light. Her painting instructor would be thrilled by such an opportunity.
    Mercy knew she was never going to get a better chance to capture the scene. Perhaps immersing herself in her water-colors would help take her mind off Croft Falconer. Quickly she set about dragging her paint box and easel outside onto the small deck.
    Half an hour later, when she saw the black Porsche ease into the parking lot, Mercy acknowledged that she had been half right. This was, indeed, the perfect chance to capture the view with watercolors, but the project hadn't done much to take her mind off Croft. She realized as she stared down, watching eagerly as he climbed out of the car, that on some level she had been waiting for him.
    He looked up with that riveting gaze as he closed the Porsche door. "Good morning, Mercy."
    "Hello, Croft." She had to stop herself from adding that she thought he would never get there. Ridiculous to be so excited. Deliberately she made herself put down her paintbrush, get to her feet and walk over to the railing. She leaned against it, watching him climb the steps to her apartment. He was a fascinating foil for the warm summer light, a creature of the night roaming at ease during the day. Croft was wearing jeans and a dark, short-sleeved shirt that left his sinewy arms bare. The jeans were close fitting, riding low on his lean hips. The open collar of the shirt emphasized the strong column of his neck. The darkness of his hair caught the sunlight and absorbed it.
    When he reached the deck he paused, his eyes going from her to the unfinished scene on the easel. "So I was right. You're the source of all the paintings on your walls."
    "I'm taking lessons. As you can see, I've got a few things to learn."
    He nodded, not denying it. "Yes, you have."
    Mercy wrinkled her nose. "You could at least tell me I've caught a unique interpretation of the scene or that I've got obvious talent," she informed him.
    He gave her a questioning look, as if to be certain she was teasing him. Then he apparently decided she was. "You've caught a unique interpretation of the scene."
    "What about obvious talent?"
    He hesitated and then said carefully, "If you've got any obvious talent, I'm afraid it's buried under all those