Hot Rocks (9 page)

“Good memory.” The woman, thirtyish, gym-fit and stylish, smiled at her.

“And as I recall, you were interested in the rosewood armoire.”

“Right again. I see it’s still here.” Even as she spoke, she walked to it, ran her hand over the carving on the door. “It keeps calling my name.”

“It’s such a beautiful piece.” Angie strolled around the counter. “One of my favorites.” The truth was she preferred the modern and streamlined, but she knew how to pitch. “We just got another rosewood piece today. It’s a gorgeous little davenport. Victorian. I think they’re made for each other.”

“Uh-oh.” Laughing, Melissa squeezed her husband’s arm. “I guess I have to take a look at least.”

“I’ll show you.”

“I was just on my way out, if you don’t need me . . .”

“We’re fine.” Angie waved Jenny away. “Isn’t it beautiful?” she said, aiming her pitch at Melissa as she ran a fingertip down the glossy writing slope. “It’s in wonderful condition. Laine has such a good eye. She found this in Baltimore a few weeks ago. It arrived only this morning.”

“It’s wonderful.” Leaning down, Melissa began opening and closing the small side drawers. “Really wonderful. I thought a davenport was a kind of couch.”

“Yeah, but this kind of little desk is called that, too. Don’t ask me why; that’s Laine’s territory.”

“I really love it, whatever it’s called. Dale?”

He was fingering the price tag and sent her a look. “I’ve got to think about getting both, Melissa. It’s a pretty big chunk.”

“Maybe we can chip it down a little.”

“We can work on that,” Angie told her.

“Let me take another look at the armoire.” She walked back over, opened the doors.

Knowing how to pace a sale, Angie hung back while Dale joined his wife and they began a whispered consultation.

The doors were closed again, opened again, drawers were pulled out.

“Do we get what’s inside, too?” Dale called out.

“I’m sorry?”

“Box in here.” He took out the package, shook it. “Is it like the prize in the cereal box?”

“Not this time.” With an easy laugh, Angie crossed over to take the box. “We had a big shipment come in this morning,” she began. “And we were pretty busy on top of it. Jenny must’ve gotten distracted and set this in there.”

Or had she? Things had been hopping for an hour or two. Either way, Angie considered it a lucky break the drawer had been opened before the piece was missed.

“We’re just going to talk this over for a few minutes,” Melissa told her.

“Take your time.” Leaving them to it, Angie went back to the counter. She unwrapped the package and studied the silly ceramic dog. Cute, she thought, but she didn’t understand why anyone paid good money for animal pieces.

She found soft, fuzzy stuffed animals more companionable.

This was probably Doulton or Derby or one of those things Laine was still trying to teach her.

Since, from little snatches of conversation, Melissa seemed to be wearing Dale down all on her own, Angie gave them a little more space by walking the statue over to one of a few displays of figurines and bric-a-brac to try to identify the type and era.

It was like a game to her. She’d find it in the file, of course, but that would be cheating. Identifying pieces in the shop was very like identifying character types in the bar. If you spent enough time at it, it got so you knew who was who and what was what.

“Miss?”

“Angie.” She turned, grinned.

“If we took both, what sort of a price could you give us?”

“Well . . .” Delighted with the prospect of greeting Jenny with news of a double, she set the ceramic dog down and went over to bargain with the customers.

In the excitement of closing the deal, arranging for delivery, ringing up the sale, she didn’t give the little dog another thought.

Max learned quite a bit about Laine over the next few
hours. She was organized, practical and precise. More linear-minded than what he’d expected from someone of her background. She looked at a task, saw it from beginning to end, then followed it through the steps to completion. No detours, no distractions.

And she was a nester. His mother had the same bent, just loved feathering that nest with pretty little—what did his father call them?—gimcracks. And like his mother, Laine knew exactly where she preferred every one of them.

But unlike his mother, Laine didn’t appear to have a sentimental, almost intimate attachment to her things. He’d once seen his mother weep buckets over a broken vase, and he himself had felt the mighty heat of her wrath when he’d shattered an old decorative bowl.

Laine swept up shards of this, pieces of that, dumped broken bits into a trash can with barely a wince. Her focus was on returning order to her space. He had to respect that.

Though it was a puzzlement to him how the daughter of a drifter and a grifter executed a one-eighty to become a small-town homebody, the fact that puzzles were his business made it, and her, only more interesting.

He liked being in her nest, being in her company. It was a given that the sizzle between them was going to complicate things along the way, but it was tough not to enjoy it.

He liked her voice, the fact that it managed to be both throaty and smooth. He liked that she looked sexy in a sweatshirt. He liked her freckles.

He admired her resilience in the face of what would have devastated most people. And he admired and appreciated her flat-out honesty about her reaction to him and what was brewing between them.

The fact was, under other circumstances, he could see himself diving headfirst into a relationship with her, burning his bridges, casting caution to the wind or any number of clichés. Even given the circumstances, he was poised to make that dive. He couldn’t quite figure out if that was a plus or a minus.

But side benefit or obstacle to the goal, it was time to get back in the game.

“You lost a lot of stuff,” he commented.

“I can always get more stuff.” But she felt a little tug of sorrow at the wide chip in the Derby jug she’d kept on the dining room server. “I got into the business because I like to collect all manner of things. Then I realized I didn’t need to own them so much as be around them, see them, touch.”

She ran her finger down the damaged jug. “And it’s just as rewarding, more in some ways, to buy and sell, and see interesting pieces go to interesting people.”

“Don’t dull people ever buy interesting pieces?”

She laughed at that. “Yes, they do. Which is why it’s important not to become too attached to what you plan to sell. And I love to sell. Kaching.”

“How do you know what to buy in the first place?”

“Some’s instinct, some’s experience. Some is just a gamble.”

“You like to gamble?”

She slid a glance over and up. “As a matter of fact.”

Oh yeah, he thought, he was poised and rolling up to his toes on the edge of the cliff. “Want to blow this joint and fly to Vegas?”

She arched her eyebrows. “And if I said sure, why not?”

“I’d book the flight.”

“You know,” she said after a moment’s study, “I believe you would. I think I like that.” The O’Hara in her was already on her way to the airport. “But unfortunately, I can’t take you up on it.” And that was the Tavish. “How about a rain check?”

“You got it. Open-ended.” He watched her place a few pieces that had survived the break-in. Candlesticks, an enormous pottery bowl, a long flat dish. He had a feeling she’d put them precisely where they’d been before. There would be comfort in that. And defiance.

“You know, looking around at all this, it doesn’t seem like a simple break-in. If that can be simple when it’s your place. It sure doesn’t strike me as a standard grab-and-run. It feels more personal.”

“Well, that goes a long way to relieving my mind.”

“Sorry. Wasn’t thinking. Actually, you don’t seem particularly spooked.”

“I slept with the light on last night,” she admitted. “Like that would make a difference. It doesn’t do any good to be spooked. Doesn’t change anything or fix anything.”

“An alarm system wouldn’t hurt. Something a little more high-tech than the canine variety,” he added, looking down at where Henry snored under the dining room table.

“No. I thought about that for about five minutes. An alarm system wouldn’t make me feel safe. It’d just make me feel like I had something to worry about. I’m not going to be afraid in my own home.”

“Let me just push this button a little more before we let it go. Do you think this could’ve been somebody you know? Do you have any enemies?”

“No, and no,” she answered with a careless shrug as she scooted the ladder-back chairs back to the table. But she heard Willy’s words in her head:
He knows where you are
.

Who knew?

Daddy?

“Now I’ve got you worried.” He tipped her face up with a finger under her chin. “I can see it.”

“No, not worried. Disconcerted, maybe, at the idea that I could have enemies. Ordinary shopkeepers in small Maryland towns shouldn’t have enemies.”

He rubbed his thumb along her jaw. “You’re not ordinary.”

She let her lips curve as his came down to meet them. He had no idea, she thought, how hard she’d worked for nearly half her life to
be
ordinary.

His hands were sliding over her hips when her phone rang. “You hear bells?” he asked.

She drew back with a little laugh and pulled the phone out of her pocket. “Hello? Hi, Angie.” As she listened, she shifted the chipped jug a half inch on the server. “
Both
pieces? That’s wonderful. What did . . . ? Uh-huh. No, you did exactly right. It’s called a davenport because a small desk was designed for a Captain Davenport back in the 1800s and it stuck, I guess. Yes, I’m fine. Really, and yes, this certainly perks me up. Thanks, Angie. I’ll talk to you later.”

“I thought a davenport was a couch,” Max said when she stuck the phone back in her pocket.

“It is, or a small sofa that often converts into a bed. It’s also a small desk with a boxlike form with an upper section that slides or turns to provide knee space.”

“Huh. The things you learn.”

“I could teach you all sorts of things.” Enjoying herself, she walked her fingers up his chest. “Want me to show you the difference between a canterbury and a commode?”

“Can’t wait.”

She took his hand, drew him toward her little library, where she could give a short lesson in antiques while they put the room back in order.

 

 

 

When the tall, distinguished gentleman with the trim
pewter mustache walked into Remember When, Jenny was contemplating what she might fix for dinner. Since it seemed she was hungry
all
the time, thinking about food was nearly as satisfying as eating it.

After Angie’s big sale, the pace had slowed. She’d had a few browsers, and Mrs. Gunt had come on the run to see the lotus jug and snap it up. But for the next hour, she and Angie had been puttering, and the day took on a lazy tone that had her giving Angie an early out.

She looked over at the sound of the door, pleased that a customer would temporarily take her mind off pork chops and mashed potatoes.

“Good afternoon. Can I help you?”

“I think I’ll just look around, if that’s all right. What an interesting place. Yours?”

“No. The owner’s not in today. Browse all you like. If you have any questions or need any help, just let me know.”

“I’ll do that.”

He was wearing a suit nearly the same color as his mustache and the thick, well-cut head of hair. The suit, and subtle stripe of the tie, made her think money. His voice was just clipped enough to have her assuming North.

Her saleswoman’s instinct told her he wouldn’t mind a little conversation as he wandered. “Are you visiting Angel’s Gap?”

“I have business in the area.” He smiled, and it deepened the hollows of his cheeks, turned his eyes into a warm blue and made distinguished just a little sexy. “Such a friendly town.”

“Yes, it is.”

“And so scenic. Good for business, I’d think. I have a shop of my own.” He leaned over to study the display of heirloom jewelry. “Estate jewelry,” he said, tapping the glass. “The buying and selling. Very nice pieces here. Unexpected, really, outside a metropolitan area.”

“Thank you. Laine’s very particular about what we sell here.”

“Laine?”

“Laine Tavish, the owner.”

“I wonder if I haven’t heard that name. Possibly even met her at one of the auctions. It’s a relatively small pool we swim in.”

“You might have. If you’re staying in town for a while, you could come back in. She’s usually here.”

“I’ll be sure to do that. Tell me, do you sell loose stones as well?”

“Stones?”

At Jenny’s blank look he angled his head. “I often buy stones—gemstones—to replace ones lost from an antique setting, or to duplicate an estate piece for a client.”

“Oh. No, we don’t. Of course, the jewelry’s just a small part of our stock.”

“So I see.” He turned, and those eyes scanned every inch of the main showroom. “An eclectic mix, styles, periods. Does Ms. Tavish do all the buying?”

“Yes, she does. We’re lucky to have someone like Laine in the Gap. The store’s developed a good reputation, and we’re listed in several guides to the area, and antique and collectible magazines.”

He wandered off, walking in the direction of a table set with porcelain figurines and small bronzes. “So, she’s not a local then.”

“You’re not a local in the Gap unless your grandfather was born here. But no, Laine moved here a few years ago.”

“Tavish, Tavish . . .” He angled back around, narrowing his eyes, stroking his mustache. “Is she a tall, rather lanky woman with very short blond hair? Wears little black glasses?”