Midnight Jewels

out on the sidewalk, lounging easily against the fender of a black Porsche. His gaze was centered on the shop door as he waited for Mercy to emerge.
    His brand of patience was that of a hunter waiting for its quarry.
    Mercy sucked in her breath and set down the books she'd been holding. She darted toward the door, reaching for the dead bolt. Once she had him locked out she could either slip out the back way or call the police.
    As if he had read her mind, the man moved, reaching the door before she did. The knob turned, the door slid open just far enough to admit the toe of his boot, and Mercy knew she had lost the short race. The bell overhead tinkled this time, which was absurdly reassuring for some reason. That shot of confidence united with the adrenaline in her blood to make Mercy abruptly angry.
    "If you don't mind," she snapped, shoving the door against his foot, "this is my shop and I would like to lock up for the night. Get out of here."
    He stared down at her assessingly. "You're afraid of me, aren't you?"
    "Let's just say you aren't the sort of customer I like to encourage."
    "It's all right, Mercy Pennington, you have nothing to fear from me. I just want to see the book. I won't hurt you."
    Mercy opened her mouth to tell him that under the circumstances he could hardly expect her to believe that, but when she met his eyes the protest died in her throat.
    For some groundless, totally illogical reason she
did
believe him. Somehow, she realized, she would know if she were truly in danger from him. The information would be there in his gleaming hazel eyes. At the moment she was safe. Mercy didn't know how she could be so certain of that, but she was. The strange sensation of having communicated with this man on a subliminal level went through her again, providing reassurance even as it raised odd questions.
    Tense seconds ticked past as her gaze locked with his. Neither of them moved. There would be no harm in simply showing him her precious copy of
Valley
, Mercy thought suddenly. Her hand fell away from the door.
    "I'll get my purse," she muttered and turned back toward the counter. He stepped out onto the sidewalk as she moved away from him. It was the lack of music from the bell rather than the sound of it that warned her he was gone again.
    When she emerged onto the sidewalk a moment later and closed the door firmly behind her, the bell chimed as brightly as ever. Her unusual customer spoke as she turned the key in the lock.
    "Doesn't that damn bell annoy you?"
    She glanced at him in surprise. "It lets me know when someone's entering or leaving the shop. It's not an annoyance, it's a warning."
    "I would find it a definite nuisance. It's unnecessary. The sound it makes isn't even very pleasing. And there are other ways of knowing someone's around."
    She had known he was around even though the bell hadn't rung when he had entered the shop the first time, Mercy reflected. She frowned. Then she dropped her keys into her red leather shoulder bag, letting them jangle as she did so. The small action was deliberate. She just knew that he would never jangle a set of keys. They would slide silently into his pocket.
    "What I would like to know," Mercy announced with a touch of aggression as she set a brisk pace down the street, "is why that bell didn't make any noise when you were entering or leaving."
    "I told you," he said, moving silently along beside her, "I don't like the sound it makes."
    Mercy glanced at him sharply but he wasn't paying any attention. He was examining the deliberately quaint, tree-lined, unmistakably prosperous street. Most of the boutiques and shops were closed for the day. The storefronts were elegantly rustic, the goods in the windows discreet and expensive. The few cars that were still parked at the curb tended to fall into the BMW-Volvo-Mercedes category. The people on the sidewalk were casually dressed in polo shirts with little animals embroidered on them, designer shorts and name brand sport shoes. They looked sleek and healthy.
    "I don't believe we've been properly introduced," Mercy pointed out.
    "My name is Croft Falconer."
    "Where are you from, Mr. Falconer?"
    "Call me Croft or Falconer if you prefer, but skip the mister. I'm from Oregon."
    "I see. Then you really haven't come such a long way for
Valley
after all, have you? Oregon is just a three- or four-hour drive."
    "Not all distances are measured in terms of miles."
    She couldn't quite decide how to respond to such a cryptic