Midnight Jewels

answered vaguely. "The method I teach is my own. It's based on some ancient martial art techniques that most of the western world isn't very familiar with."
    She smiled suddenly, clearly relieved to be given a logical explanation. "That's fascinating. I guess it explains it."
    "Explains what?"
    "The way you move. The way you seem to sort of, well, float. It's very disconcerting." She gave up trying to explain. "Never mind. I'll get
Valley
. I've got it in a box in the kitchen closet. Remember, you're welcome to look at it since you've come all this way, but it's definitely not for sale." She dropped her purse onto the sofa, turned and went into the kitchen.
    Croft stared after her, aware that he wouldn't have minded more time with that smile. He liked the way it lit her eyes. She had very nice eyes. They were a green shade that mirrored her emotions with compelling clarity. It was like looking through a piece of translucent jade. In the short time he had known her he had seen everything from curiosity to fear in that gaze. He found himself wondering how Mercy's eyes would reflect passion.
    .Croft shook his head, a little startled by the direction of his thoughts. He was there on business, and when he was working he never allowed anything, especially sex, to distract him.
    Still, Croft acknowledged with his usual blunt honesty, he couldn't deny that Mercy Pennington interested him. It wasn't because she was exotically beautiful. He decided the earlier analogy to jade was appropriate for the rest of her.
    Jade was a subtle stone that rewarded only the careful observer.
    One had to study jade and get to know it thoroughly before one could properly appreciate it. The way it reflected light, its inner strengths and shadows, the way it wanned to the touch were all quiet manifestations of its character that were not obvious to the casual eye.
    But Croft had learned long ago to look carefully at that which interested him. And Mercy, for some reason, perhaps because of her connection with the book, definitely interested him.
    He guessed she was in her late twenties. She wasn't tall, probably only about five foot five. A good seven or eight inches less than himself. Her hair reminded him of the tawny sections of his rottweiler's black and tan coat. It was a rich, warm shade of brown that made him want to put out his hand and stroke her. He wondered in silent amusement how Mercy would feel about being compared to his dog.
    Her hair was caught up in a neat little twist at the moment. Croft guessed it would fall below her shoulders if a man were to remove the pins that anchored the silky strands. As it was it revealed the delicate nape of her neck, a soft, vulnerable curve that reminded him of a flower stem. He realized he was finding the sight sensual and provocative. His body stirred and Croft grew annoyed. He had learned to master himself over the years and it was disturbing to discover that this green-eyed slip of a woman could jar that sense of self-control.
    Her face was a collection of well-defined, reasonably attractive features. Wide eyes, faintly almond shaped, tilted up at the corners. Her nose was pert, mouth soft, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper.
    The rest of her was even softer looking than her mouth. She was wearing a variation of the Ignatius Cove uniform, khaki slacks and a close fitting green cotton polo shut. But the shirt didn't have an animal on the left breast and the slacks didn't have a designer logo. Her loafers were scuffed and pleasantly aged.
    Croft paused to think about that left breast. Both it and its companion were on the small side, but there was a satisfying fullness that appealed. It was not his nature to be attracted to the overblown look. As in everything else, it was subtlety that caught his attention.
    The khaki slacks fit well over her gently rounded hips. He could imagine cupping those well shaped buttocks in his hands, lifting her up until he could cradle her intimately against his thighs.
    "Damn," he muttered.
    "Something wrong?" Mercy called from the kitchen. A cupboard door slammed.
    "No." There was no way he could explain what was wrong. He didn't understand it himself. Better to deny it altogether. He heard her footsteps on the kitchen tile and realized she was returning with the book.
    It was the book he was there to study, not Mercy Pennington. He would do well to remember that. Normally he didn't have to caution himself about getting distracted. He seldom if ever got