Rarities Unlimited 02 - Running Scared

itself, all the way down to a point that was still keen enough to penetrate cloth. The complexity was staggering, as was the skill. The ancient artist had had only his own eyes and prayers, yet a modern curator needed a microscope to appreciate his work.
    The sound of Shane’s dainty Turkish coffee cup being returned to its equally dainty saucer told Risa that she had been quiet long enough.
    “Yes,” she said blandly without looking up, “a rather nice bit of jewelry. It’s in excellent condition. Rather too excellent for my comfort. Most items that have been around since the sixth or seventh century a.d. show more wear. A lot more.”
    “Not if they have been someone’s prized possession,” Smith-White said smoothly. “Think of the pope’s ritual items, sacred symbols in gold lovingly stored and passed from generation to generation, used only on occasions of highest ceremony.”
    Then how did they end up in your hands? Risa asked silently, sardonically. Doubtless Shane was thinking the same thing. Problem was, he didn’t care as much about provenance as she did.
    Saying nothing, Risa took another long look at the brooch. She made sure when she finally swung the lamp away that she gave the security camera a good, unimpaired view of the piece. She had a mountain of research to do and damned little time to do it in.
    She would have given a lot for the database at Rarities Unlimited.
    Casually she turned the brooch over to give the camera a shot at the other side—also beautifully incised—before she picked up the gold and returned it to Smith-White.
    He put the brooch in its velvet-lined tray, then left it on the coffee table for Shane to admire and, hopefully, desire enough to pay half a million dollars for. Minimum. Deliberately Smith-White refilled his tiny coffee cup and sip-sucked noisily in the approved Turkish manner until only the grittiest dregs remained in the cup.
    The guard shifted to his other hip.
    Risa waited and thought again about ruining her manicure on Smith-White. She glanced at her watch.
    So did Shane.
    Smith-White took the hint. He reached into the aluminum carrying case again.
    “This is another nice bit,” he said. “It’s a votive offering presented to a very, very powerful Druid or made at his behest for an important religious ceremony. My guess would be winter solstice, when those poor shivering bastards prayed for the sun to return on its appointed rounds.”
    He didn’t wait for Shane to ask for the object. He simply held out the stylized horse figurine in its velvet-lined tray. Shane picked up the figurine, then almost dropped it at the jolt of energy that sizzled through his hand.
    “The weight of gold is always surprising, isn’t it?” Smith-White said with a satisfied smile.
    Risa knew it was more than that. Shane had handled enough gold that its heft didn’t take him by surprise.
    But something certainly had.
    When Shane glanced from the horse to her, she knew he would be buying it along with the brooch.
    Bloody hell, as Niall would say.
    With rapidly failing patience, Risa waited for Shane to pass the object over for her to inspect. Instead of simply giving it to her, he slid one hand under hers before he put the object in her palm with the other. She didn’t know which shocked her more—the heat of his hand or the bolt of sensation that went through her when the horse met her palm. She did know one thing: if he hadn’t been bracing her hand, she would have dropped the priceless figurine.
    A look at the infinite green of his eyes told her that he knew it, too.
    “Thank you,” she said in a husky voice.
    His smile said that it had been his pleasure.
    Without a word she got up and stalked over to her worktable. She held on to the horse with both hands the whole way. The original burning sensation had subsided, but the tingling of her palm went clear to the back of her eyes.
    It was Wales all over again.
    Dizziness like dark lightning, the soundless cries of people long dead worshipping gods who had also died . . .
    Ruthlessly she crushed the thought and the sense of time swirling around her in a silent storm. Letting out a breath, she focused the microscope on the horse.
    Like the brooch, the horse was handmade, probably cast through the lost-wax technique, incised with symbols, and undoubtedly Celtic. Unlike the brooch, it was of very early Celtic design, rather than late. The decorations didn’t cover the available surface. Instead, they were