Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

The Druid in the picture was imposing, dark-haired, dressed in white robes, wore a gold gorget that covered most of his chest . . . and he had eyes the exact color of Shane’s. He was looking at her, into her.
    And he was Shane Tannahill.
    She had a dizzying feeling of something turning under her feet like loose stones, throwing her off balance.
    “Risa?” His hand waved in front of her face. “Where are you?”
    She shook her head sharply. “Guess I shouldn’t have drunk that second Cosmopolitan last night. I feel a little odd. So, what about this Druid?”
    “Not this Druid, the Druid hoard.”
    “Have you taken up smoking crack?” she asked impatiently.
    “No. Just a little light reading. The Druid hoard—”
    “Doesn’t exist,” she cut in. “There is no treasure hoard of sacred golden objects buried by Merlin in sixth- or seventh-century Wales or Cornwall just before Druidic learning was finally and forever trampled into the mud by Christianity. There are other hoards that have been found and melted and sold and hidden and buried and found and kept and passed from family to family. But—listen closely, this is important— there is no Druid hoard .”
    “It would be a great casino attraction,” Shane pointed out, deadpan. “Just what I need for the show.”
    “If it existed, it would be wonderful.” She took a breath and spoke with great care. “If. It. Existed. It doesn’t.”
    “It does.”
    “Shane—”
    He talked over her. “A guy just offered to sell some of it to me. Two million. Cash. And that’s a minimum bid. Plus my ten thousand reward, no questions asked. For that I get first look and last bid.”
    She put her head in her hands. “Please, God. Not again. How many times have you been offered Druid sacred objects in the last year? Three? Five? Eight?”
    “Nine, but who’s counting?” he said. “Given the fact that I’m rich, collect gold artifacts, have a Celtic name, and am opening a whole new gold gallery based on Celtic gold, I’m offered Celtic objects more often than I’m offered sex.”
    “Bullshit,” she muttered into her hands.
    She wasn’t quiet enough.
    “It works better if you look at me when you tell me you think I’m sexy and irresistible,” he said.
    Her head snapped up. “I didn’t say that!”
    “Sure you did. Think about it.”
    “But—”
    He kept on talking. “And while you’re thinking about that, think about this: I’ve got a feeling about this tenth offer. A Druid hoard kind of feeling.”
    She thought he was jerking her chain. Then she took a better look at his eyes.
    He wasn’t teasing her.
    “Oh, shit,” she said on an outrush of air.
    He smiled. “Now you’re getting it.”
    She thought fast. She was good at that. It had gotten her out of trouble in the past. Maybe it would keep Shane out of trouble in the future.
    “Okay. Great,” she said quickly. “I’m not going against your gambler’s instincts. Hell, who would?” It was the truth. Those instincts had made Shane a millionaire many, many times over before he was thirty. “But consider this. Are you listening? Really listening, gambler’s instincts and all?”
    His smile shifted and warmed. “I love it when you go all big-eyed and appealing.”
    “You aren’t listening.”
    “Right now I’d have to close my eyes to listen to you.”
    “Stop,” she said, throwing her hands up in the air. “I’m not trying to jerk your chain, so stop yanking mine and listen to me. ”
    He closed his eyes.
    She let out a soundless, relieved breath and asked bluntly, “Does the word ‘provenance’ mean anything to you?”
    “Yeah.” He opened his eyes. “It means you have your work cut out.”
    She wondered if screaming would help. A single look at his level, too-intelligent eyes told her that she should save her breath for the discussion that was coming.
    Discussion. She almost laughed out loud. Lord, what a neutral word for the verbal donnybrook that was shaping up between them. No matter how dubious the provenance of an artifact or how regularly Shane ended up very quietly returning the wrongly purchased artifacts to the country or person who had a better legal claim than mere possession, she had never talked her boss out of anything he really wanted.
    But she had to win this time. She couldn’t let him smear his reputation—and hers—by buying something whose ownership wouldn’t be legally defensible even if you had all nine Supreme Court justices lined up