Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

dessert chefs are simply the best outside of Manhattan. Probably inside, too.”
    “I’ll be sure to pass along your pleasure,” Shane said. “More coffee?”
    Risa wanted to kick him for offering.
    Smith-White hesitated, realized that Shane wasn’t going to open the subject of business, and mentally gave the owner of the Golden Fleece high marks for his poker face. If Shane had anything more on his mind than a pleasant conversation with a visitor, it sure didn’t show anywhere, even in his body language. With a tiny sigh, Smith-White accepted that he would have to open the negotiations. Shane Tannahill could teach patience to a statue.
    “Thank you,” Smith-White said. “I know that both of us have many demands on our time. It was gracious of you to see me on such short notice.”
    Shane nodded pleasantly as he poured another dark, syrupy dollop of liquid into Smith-White’s dainty cup, which was too small even to be called a demitasse. When Shane finished, he reached for his own coffee. Rather than slamming it in one slurping swoop like a native, he took a bare taste of the thick, incredibly sweet Turkish coffee. Between caffeine and sugar, the stuff had a kick like a crazed camel.
    Smith-White’s compact, well-manicured fingers caressed the aluminum box.
    Shane took another sip of coffee.
    Risa thought about the joys of homicide.
    The guard shifted his suit coat slightly and watched the visitor’s hands. He sincerely hoped the prissy visitor didn’t have anything more than gold inside the box. It was real close quarters for any kind of gun work.
    The sound of the four-dial lock being manipulated was quite loud in the silence. Smith-White was making long work of what should have been a familiar combination.
    “Has the torc arrived yet?” Shane asked Risa in a lazy voice.
    “I’ll check.”
    She stood and walked over to her computer. The fact that Shane was watching her with eyes that were anything but lazy made her wish she had worn a head-to-heels burlap bag. Not that her slacks and jacket were tight—indeed, they were fashionably loose and unstructured—but he made her feel every bit of her ample female curves as though he had run his hands over her. Not for the first time, she wished she was thin and cat-sleek. But she wasn’t and never would be.
    Get over it, she told herself curtly.
    She keyed in a familiar URL and waited.
    “According to their tracking system,” she said, “the torc left the airport at ten thirty-six this morning and is on the way to us as I speak.”
    “Good. Thank you.”
    Something in the quality of his voice made her look at him. It was there in his eyes, too.
    Heat.
    Smith-White realized that his attempt to create suspense had failed. He cleared his throat and finished opening the lock with nimble fingers. Then he held the lid up so that he was the only one who could see inside.
    And the guard, of course. Smith-White didn’t really notice him, because he wasn’t a buyer.
    While Smith-White pulled on surgical gloves, the guard took a good look inside the box, then another one just to be sure. Finally he hitched a hip against one of the sturdy display cabinets and relaxed. If anything inside the guest’s aluminum box shot bullets, had a cutting edge, or exploded, he would eat a yard of plastic poker chips—no salt, no ketchup.
    Risa settled into her chair and checked her nails for problems. Nothing ragged. Nothing torn. Nothing chipped. And if that dear man didn’t pull something more than his hand out of the aluminum box real quick, she was going to go right over the coffee table after him and ruin a perfectly good manicure ripping his smug face off.
    “Here we go,” Smith-White said blandly. “A rather nice bit of jewelry, don’t you think?”
    First impressions flooded through Risa as she looked at the circular, hand-size brooch resting in a shallow box lined with black velvet. Celtic, no doubt about it. Fine. A sun symbol shaped in gold to hold a chief’s or Druid’s robes. Probably fourth to seventh century a.d. Possibly Irish. Possibly Scots. Gold with red champlevé inlay repeating the sinuous lines etched in the metal itself. Apparently intact.
    And she had never seen a gold brooch like it. Bronze, yes. Silver, yes. But never gold.
    She looked at her boss. From Shane’s expression, Smith-White could have been holding out a tuna sandwich, no mayo.
    Risa hoped that her poker face was half as good as Shane’s. It was all she could do not to snatch