Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

just for the pleasure of hearing the laughter in her voice, Ian walked over to the bin and began flipping through the cardboard-backed, glassine-shielded posters. Musicals and more musicals. Though he didn’t collect them, he smiled at the colorful exuberance of the singers and dancers coming and going beneath his fingertips. Like Westerns, musicals celebrated a less world-weary America. He was all for that. Christ knew that the world had enough brutality without making movies about it.
    The scent of soap and something feminine drifted to him even as he heard footsteps behind him. She wasn’t nearly as wary of him now. She came up almost close enough to kiss. He’d always enjoyed women like her, unself-conscious and intelligent. The fact that there was definitely a female body wrapped around the package sure didn’t hurt.
    He would have to browse this store again. Soon. Since the charity art show wouldn’t happen until the end of the week, he should have enough time to explore the shop, and maybe even the woman. There hadn’t been any rings under all the paint and grime on her hands. But then, maybe she didn’t wear jewelry while painting or working in storage sheds.
    “Any luck?” she asked, watching his mouth, wondering idly if his kiss was half as warm as his smile.
    “Not yet. Nice collection, though.”
    “Thanks. A lot of them were my grandfather’s.”
    “Was he in the movies?”
    “Nope. Unless set painting counts.”
    “Keeps bread and beans on the table,” Ian said. “That always counts.”
    Lacey’s smile slipped. She remembered more than one loud argument between her father and grandfather on the subject of how the elder Quinn earned his living.
    “Now here’s a prime one,” Ian said.
    Lacey stepped around him and looked. The poster was indeed prime. “John Wayne in Hondo .” She started to say that her customer bore more than a passing resemblance to the younger Wayne. At the last second she changed her mind. He might take it as a come-on.
    He might be right. It had been a long time since she’d seen anything as deep down interesting as this man’s smile, obvious pleasure in the posters, and offhand intelligence.
    “That was one of my grandfather’s favorites,” Lacey said.
    Ian glanced at the discreet sticker on the back of the cardboard and sighed. “You know what you have, don’t you?”
    “You bet.”
    “Any give on the price?”
    “Not much.”
    “How much is not much?” he asked.
    “You live in California?”
    He nodded.
    “I’ll eat the sales tax,” she said.
    He glanced at his watch. There was just enough time to make Susa’s plane and still buy the poster. “Bon appétit,” he said, smiling. “Check or credit card?”
    Lacey blinked. There it was, slow and warm and so gentle it had to be seen to be believed. A smile like that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Mentally she shook herself and focused on the business at hand.
    “Local check?” she asked.
    “If Upland is local, I’m local.”
    She hesitated. Upland wasn’t exactly local, but it wasn’t that far away, either. And she really hated giving the credit card barons two percent of her hard-won sales.
    “Pleased to meet you, neighbor,” she said, holding out her right hand. “I’m Lacey Quinn, half owner of the shop.”
    “Ian Lapstrake, neighbor at large.”
    He shook her hand. Its competent feminine strength reminded him of Dana. He released Lacey’s hand before she could feel uneasy about her humorous gesture of “neighborliness” when they actually lived one to three hours apart, depending on how clogged the freeways were.
    “Will you be taking the poster with you or do you want it shipped?” she asked.
    He glanced at her left hand—freshly scrubbed, no visible rings or ring marks—and decided he would come back for the poster. “Could you hold it for a day or two?”
    “Sure.”
    He pulled a folding checkbook out of his jacket pocket, and braced it on his thigh. “Can I borrow your pen?”
    She patted her jean pockets. “I don’t have one.”
    “How about this one?” Deftly he pulled a pen out of the curls dancing around her right ear.
    “What are you, a magician?”
    “Only in my dreams.” He wrote swiftly, tore out the check, and tucked the pen back into its nest of curls before she could react. “I didn’t know hair came in that many shades of dark and gold and almost red. It’s beautiful.”
    Before the compliment registered, he was on his way out the