Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

wasn’t.
    “You and Niall,” she said, shaking her head. “I always end up laughing when I should be furious.”
    That wasn’t quite the truth, but Ian knew better than to point it out. The times when Dana had not ended up laughing were vivid in his memory, like a fresh brand.
    She watched him with eyes as dark as his own and said simply, “I’ve been trying to get in touch with you. The Donovan is worried.”
    “Kidnap threat?” Ian asked instantly.
    “No one is threatening to steal Susa and ransom her for a few mil,” Dana said. “Your job is to be real visible so that it stays that way.”
    “So he wants a guard for her, not her paintings.”
    “As her husband, the Donovan, put it, Susa can create more paintings but no number of paintings can create more Susa.”
    Ian smiled. “A man with priorities.”
    Dana all but winced. “And not shy about sharing them. Normally one of the Donovan men would be traveling with Susa, but…” she shrugged. “Sometimes a husband, four sons, and two sons-in-law just aren’t enough to go around.”
    “What are friends for?” Ian said, accepting the quiet assignment with grace. “One strapping gofer coming right up. What about the Lazarro icon shipment?”
    “Niall’s problem, not yours.”
    “The Kenworth scrolls?”
    “Belong to Mary.”
    “The possible Louis Fourteenth—”
    “As of now,” Dana interrupted, “Susa Donovan is your full-time assignment. Your other projects have been parceled out.”
    Ian grinned. “You’re really determined to get all the Donovans into the Rarities Unlimited fold, aren’t you?”
    “Haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about.” Dana winked and walked away. “Check your e-mail for details of where and when you pick up Susa this afternoon.”
    Ian watched the smooth locomotion of Dana’s hips with a male appreciation that didn’t need to fondle in order to enjoy. Then he shoved his hands in the pockets of his slacks and headed for the coffee machine. Right now it looked like caffeine was going to be the only excitement in his life until Susa Donovan’s big charity bash was over.
    That and checking e-mail.

Savoy Ranch
    Southern California
    Tuesday morning
3
    E ven the stately colors and textures of Ward Forrest’s big dining room couldn’t soothe him this morning. Watched by the worried brown eyes of Honey Bear, his golden retriever, Ward was up and pacing the Persian rug. He avoided the antique furniture without even seeing it, and didn’t spare a glance to the paintings of founding ancestors. They weren’t his anyway, as his dead wife had taken great pleasure in pointing out. Even if the paintings had been of his blood kin, he would have ignored them. Right now he was riding a real hard mean.
    He hadn’t run a profitable land-based empire into the twenty-first century by being sweet-tempered and churchgoing. Hell, in all his seventy-odd years, no one had expected him to act like a sugar cookie.
    Until now.
    Angelique White was a pain in the ass. Too bad she held the future of Savoy Ranch in her pious little fist. Talk about a Savoy Curse. Christ. There was one for the supermarket headlines.
    “God damn all women to hell anyway.”
    Honey Bear thumped his tail enthusiastically at the sound of Ward’s voice.
    Rory Turner, sheriff of Moreno County and Ward’s former son-in-law, looked up from the report he’d brought to the ranch house. Unlike Ward, who was dressed to go pheasant hunting, Rory was in uniform, right down to side arm and hat.
    “What are you talking about?” Rory asked.
    “Saint Angelique makes Mother Teresa look like a party girl.”
    The ripe disgust in the older man’s voice made Rory want to laugh, but he knew better. Ward had really wanted some dirt on the CEO of New Horizons, who happened to be the only daughter of a televangelist and a Savannah socialite. NH was a cash-rich investment fund looking to diversify by building communities with “room for family, community, church, and God.” Savoy Ranch had been courting NH and Angelique for ten months, but every time it got down to signing papers, something happened. Blissy, usually. His daughter had a genius for hitting the headlines at all the wrong times. Or one of his grandkids would be on TV spouting something offensive to somebody—Christians, usually—and Angelique would draw back.
    Each time she backed away, she screwed another concession out of Ward before she returned to the bargaining table. She might