Midnight Jewels (5 page)

If she had a lover, she would be fiercely, passionately loyal unless she felt she had been betrayed. Then she would be dangerous.

Croft smiled slightly, satisfied he understood Mercy's fundamental qualities. He went back to examining the volume in his hand. He turned a few pages until he found a beautifully drawn black and white plate of a man and woman making love. "This is the volume I want. It's an original."

"Of course it's an original. Did you mink I was trying to pass off a reproduction?" Mercy was obviously miffed.

"It's possible you might have made a mistake," he said placatingly.

"Well, I didn't. I described the book very carefully to Mr. Gladstone and he said he could tell from my answers over the phone
that it was an original. He was very pleased and didn't doubt me for a minute."

"Mr. Gladstone?"

"The man from Colorado who's buying it."

"You'll have to tell me more about Mr. Gladstone." Croft turned to another plate. This one was a lovingly rendered detail of a voluptuous woman reclining on her back while
being artfully pleasured by a man who was kneeling between her tegs.

Mercy stepped forward to peer down at the plate. "I don't have to tell you anything about Mr. Gladstone. I have an obligation to protect my clients. Besides," she added in a rush of honesty, "I don't know much about him. I do hope you're not going to stand there and drool over the pictures. The saliva stains might lower the value of the book."

"I try to save my drooling for the real thing."

"That's not exactly a compelling image," she retorted crossly. "Have you read
Valley
?"

"No. This is the first time I've actually seen it. Until now I only knew of it. I had a reason to learn about it three years ago."

"What reason?"

"It was part of a very valuable collection. I was interested in the man who owned it. I wanted to learn as much as I could about his book collection, and in the process I learned something about this particular book. You have to admit
Valley
is rattier, uh, distinctive."

"Why were you so interested in that particular book collection?" she demanded. "Did you want to acquire part of it?"

"No. I wanted to know as much as possible about the owner. The kind of books a man collects can tell you a great deal about him."

There was a short, intense silence. "Yes," Mercy finally agreed. Her eyes were wide and serious. "A person's book collection could tell you much about him."

"Or her." Croft closed
Valley
carefully. "Have you read this book, Mercy?"

"If I had I wouldn't stand here and admit it. Not to you at any rate."

"Why not to me?" he asked curiously.

"You're a stranger, for heaven's sake. And tint book is
nothing short of erotica. An uncharitable soul might even call it pom."

"And you aren't about to admit to a stranger that you read that sort of thing?"

She gave him a mockingly smug smile. "Any examination I may have made of
Valley
was done purely to establish its identity and verify its provenance and authenticity. I'm an ex-librarian, you know. I was taught to examine books from an objective, professional viewpoint."

"Of course." He knew he was smiling faintly again and that Mercy was the cause. "I have great respect for professionalism of any kind."

"Good. Have you finished with
Valley
?"

"No. I told you, I want it."

Irritation replaced the taunting expression in her eyes. "Well, you can't have it. I've told you, the book has already been sold. I'm not going to sell it out from under my client."

"When does he take possession?"

"Tuesday."

"Gladstone is coming to Ignatius Cove to pick it up?" This might turn out to be easier than he had first thought.

She shook her head impatiently. "No, I'm going to deliver it to him. May I please have the book back if you're finished with it?"

He continued to hold it in his right hand. "You're going to deliver it? In person?"

"That's right."

"How?" He saw her flinch slightly in surprise and realized his voice had contained far too much command. For an instant the soft flicker of awareness in her eyes was dimmed with caution.

"I'm taking a few days off to fly to Colorado. I'll be renting a car in Denver and driving to Mr. Gladstone's home. I don't see what business this is of yours."

"No, you wouldn't understand. Where does Gladstone live?"

"He has a place in the mountains, he said. He didn't give me directions over the phone. Much too complicated apparently. There will be a map waiting when I pick up the car in Denver." She made a sudden grab for the book he was holding.

Croft had seen her telegraph the move with her eyes and rather lazily moved
Valley
out of reach. He didn't move it far, just a couple of inches. Enough to ensure her curving fingers missed their target. Mercy's growing irritation now bordered on anger. Her hand fell to her side as she regarded him with smoldering annoyance. Her head came up with proud challenge.

"Are you going to abuse my hospitality by stealing
Valley
?"

He sighed, reluctantly handing the book to her. "No, I'm not here to steal it. But I'm growing very curious about your client."

She shrugged, snatching the volume from his grasp and hugging it possessively. "Well, maybe you can convince him to resell
Valley
to you. Once Mr. Gladstone has the book, he can do anything he wants with it. I, however, am under an obligation to deliver it to him."

"Do you always fulfill your obligations, Mercy?"

"I try," she replied stiffly.

"So do I," he heard himself say softly, his gaze never leaving hers. "That's why I'm here. We have something in common, Mercy Pennington."

She shook her head in denial, but she couldn't hide the flash of reluctant curiosity in her eyes. "I doubt it."

"Give it a chance." He kept his tone low and persuasive, watching her intently. Croft was certain now that the expression in the depths of her green eyes was more than mere feminine awareness. She saw him as a man who, while he
might yet prove dangerous, was also proving fascinating. She was just impetuous enough to act on the shining allure of such an unusual possibility.

Her streak of rashness would work in his favor, Croft decided. With some careful coaxing she could be made to ignore the warning bells of her common sense and respond, instead, to the pull of a very basic sexual attraction. He had already proven himself adept at silencing warning bells.

That the attraction existed and that it existed on both sides, Croft didn't bother to deny to himself. He accepted the fact that he found Mercy Pennington sexually intriguing with the same matter-of-fact attitude with which he accepted hunger or cold. If necessary he could ignore all three. But he didn't have to ignore Mercy. For her sake, in fact, it would be better if he didn't. She was proving to be a stubborn little . thing, and in this case her recalcitrance might prove dangerous.

There were too many unknowns at the moment. He needed to find answers quickly and Mercy Pennington was the shortest route to those answers. That meant he had to find the shortest route to Mercy Pennington, and
that looked as if it would be via the sensual awareness that was flaring to life between the two of them.

"Dinner," he said succinctly.

She frowned, still clutching
Valley
. "What about it?"

He smiled again. "I'd like to take you to dinner. It's the least I can do under the circumstances."

"That's not necessary."

"It would be my pleasure."

"Don't you have to get back to Oregon?"

"Not this evening. I'm staying at an inn here in town tonight."

"Oh."

He gave her a few seconds to absorb that and then pushed gently. "Do you have other plans?"

"No. Tomorrow is a workday. I have to get up early."

Croft nodded. "I'll have you home early. I give you my word."

She looked at him with an odd curiosity, as though she were searching for something in him. It wasn't the first time she'd studied him in such a manner. There had been those few moments back in her shop when he had told her she was safe with him.

She had had the same strange curiosity in her eyes then. It had been followed by a clear acceptance of his words. That expression of acceptance was in her eyes again now. She probably didn't even realize the full implications, but Croft did. She trusted him on some basic, feminine level, whether she knew it or not.

He liked that. And he could use it.

"I was going to have dinner here this evening," Mercy said finally, as if feeling her way through a mine field. "I bought some buckwheat pasta. I planned to open a bottle of zinfandel I've been saving. After all, it's Friday."

"Fine." Croft nodded equably.

She blinked warily. "I beg your pardon?"

"I said that sounds fine. I like buckwheat pasta and I like zinfandel."

Mercy stared at him. She looked as though she didn't know whether to laugh or scream in outrage.

Croft smiled to himself. Mercy was quickly falling right into the palm of his hand.

Twenty minutes later Mercy still couldn't decide whether to laugh or scream. She ceased rinsing broccoli, picked up her wineglass and leaned back against the counter to take a sip. Her guest, whom she had decided fell into the uninvited category, was straddling one of the diamond shaped, black wire mesh kitchen chairs, his arms resting easily along the back. He held his own wineglass lightly cradled in his hand.

The rich, deep, near purple color of the zinfandel looked right clasped within those strong fingers. It was another example of darkness suiting him, Mercy decided.

Whatever else could be said about the man, he didn't appear to have a drinking problem. He was savoring his wine, but he sipped with great restraint. Mercy had a hunch Croft Falconer did everything with restraint. She wondered if that applied to making love and decided it probably did. He might be very skillful at it, but he would also be very much in control. It was hard to envision this man surrendering to any kind of strong emotion.

She still wasn't quite certain how she had come to let him stay for dinner, but she had the distinct impression there had been a certain inevitability about the situation from the start. She was too aware of him, too intrigued by him, too curious about him for her own good and she knew it. But he was there and she was the one who had let him stay.

"How long have you owned the schools of self-defense?" she made herself ask casually. Mercy had been doing her best for the past twenty minutes to keep all conversation light and superficial. She wanted the time to think about and evaluate him as well as her own unfamiliar reactions.

"I opened the first one nearly three years ago. The second one a year after
that and the third six months ago."

"Where did you pick up the expertise?"

"I've studied. And traveled."

"Do you do a lot of traveling in your, uh, field?" she pressed.

"No, not anymore, except when I visit my schools to teach special courses or give demonstrations."

"Who teaches the regular classes?"

"Friends. Former students. They handle the day to day management of the schools."

"Leaving you free to sit by the shore and twiddle your thumbs in Oregon?" She smiled.

"You could say that."

"Nice work if you can get it," she declared with humorous envy. "Beats my routine."

His mouth lifted at the edge. "You said you were an ex-librarian. When did you go into business for yourself?"

"A couple of years ago." She set down her glass and went back to work on the broccoli. She didn't particularly want to encourage the discussion in that direction.

As if he sensed her desire not to talk about it, Croft deliberately focused on the one direction Mercy didn't wish to go. "What made you decide to open a bookstore?"

"It's only natural for a librarian to be interested in trying to sell the product she's been loaning out for years, isn't it? I see bookselling as the mercenary side of librarianship."

"Are you from Washington?"

Mercy shook her head, beginning to worry that he wasn't going to let the subject drop. "California."

"Why didn't you open your bookshop down there?"

"I looked around for several months before choosing a location. I like Washington, I like Ignatius Cove and I thought it could support the kind of store I wanted to run." She was very busy with the broccoli now, cutting the florets, running them under cold water again and stacking them neatly in the perforated steamer pan.

There was a short silence. "Why did you leave California?" he asked.

Mercy stifled a groan. "I told you. I did a lot of looking and decided business odds were better up here."

"I think there was more to it than just a business decision. For you to pull up stakes and move to another state there must have been some other reason involved. You're not the kind of woman who would move easily. You forge ties and put down roots."

She whirled around, startled by his cool deduction. "Why on earth do you say that?"

He took a sip from his glass and contemplated her flaring eyes. "Was it a man?"

She closed her teeth with a small snap and wondered how one got rid of a dinner guest before dinner. "That," she informed him, "is none of your business, is it?"

"It was a man." He inclined his head once, as if satisfied. Then he took another swallow of wine. "Were you running away from him?"

His casual invasion of her privacy infuriated Mercy. She slammed the lid on me steamer. "No, I was not running away from him. I was engaged to him. When the engagement ended, I decided I wanted a fresh start somewhere else."

"Why did the engagement end? Did he cheat on you?"

Her fingers were trembling, Mercy realized as she ran water for the pasta into a kettle. She focused her attention on the small task. "I don't know. If he did, I wasn't aware of it. That wasn't the reason the engagement ended."

"It would take a lot for you to walk out on a man."