Stacey Joy Netzel Boxed Set (17 page)

But this jewelry…
this
was a whole
other story. One his mother would’ve loved to poke and prod and
explore to the very origin of each piece’s creation.

He looked up at Loral with a tight smile.
“You’ve been holding out on me.”

“Oh, no, they’re not real,” she blurted.

His brows rose as her cheeks warmed to an
alluring shade of pink. So damn honest. Both a blessing and curse,
he suspected, but it was one of the things he admired about her.
Picking up a bracelet, he examined the length of metal up close
under a desk lamp to his right. Yes, the stones did indeed lack the
clarity of real jewels. Pity. He moved on to an emerald ring
surrounded by what appeared to be diamonds. Also fake.

“But I know for sure they’re from the early
1930’s.”

He lifted his gaze to Loral’s and promptly
wished he hadn’t. The hope in her voice reflected in her eyes for a
split second before she transferred her attention to the shelf to
his left. Instead of lingering on her delicate features and look
like a fool for staring too long, he returned his concentration to
her offerings.

Costume jewelry had been his mother’s area
of expertise, her passion, and after he’d sold her extensive
collection, he’d purposely stayed away from the memories jewelry
evoked. He didn’t realize he’d tensed until a muscle ticked along
his jaw.

Relax
.

Setting down the ring with one hand, he
picked up the dragonfly brooch with his other and tested its
weight. Surprisingly dense for the delicate piece. He flipped it
over.

Unsigned.

A flash of disappointment shot through him.
It would’ve been so much better if they’d been signed by the
designer. Beautiful as they all were, unfortunately, his clients
expected either the real deal, or rare signed pieces of costume
jewelry like his mother used to specialize in. He might get a fair
price for the dragonfly simply because of its beauty, but the other
pieces were questionable.

Still, he’d buy them. He took everything
Loral brought him, good acquisition or not. And while he could pad
his offers to her a little without her suspecting, it probably
wouldn’t be enough. She’d be back.

He felt a twinge of guilt for the
anticipation of seeing her again before she’d even left—if he was
still in business by then. With a little luck—
oh, get real,
man
—a
lot
of luck, he’d have solved his current
financial situation and feel more comfortable asking her to coffee
or dinner the next time she came in.

Anticipation made his heart thump against
his ribs and he had to redirect his attention again. Picking up a
tear-drop shaped pendant with aquamarine rhinestones that matched
her eyes, he turned it over for inspection, too. She would expect
no less.

Mac
.

The signature etched in the gold plating
sharpened his interest. His mother had talked endlessly about
McClelland Barclay any time she found a piece designed by the man.
A McClelland Barclay signature was good, but a Mac signature was
gold to serious collectors. It meant Barclay had custom designed
the piece for an individual—usually one of a kind.

One by one, he reexamined the other three
items and found the same signature. Loral remained silent, but
shifted restlessly from one foot to the other. She glanced at her
watch, then out the door where the downtown streetlights chased
away the evening darkness, joining the multitude of Christmas
lights in shop windows.

Jake frowned slightly at her distracted,
almost anxious, demeanor. He missed their casual,
bordered-on-flirting banter of visits past. “You can relax, Loral,
I’m not going to kick you out the moment the clock strikes
seven.”

Her brow crinkled with confusion, then
cleared. “Oh, no, I have to catch…um...I’m just kind of in a
hurry,” she finished awkwardly.

Replacing the faux ruby bracelet set in
silver plated channels on the glass showcase, he followed her gaze
outside. “Where’d you get these?”

Her back stiffened and he realized his words
had sounded like an accusation when her eyes turned to indignant
blue-green ice chips.

“I didn’t steal them.”

He lifted a hand and smiled gently to put
her at ease. “I didn’t mean it that way, honestly. It’s just that
they’re very rare, and unlike anything else you’ve brought in so
far.”

She regarded him for a moment before the
defensiveness left her expression.

“You’re right about them being from the
30’s,” he continued. “The designer, McClelland Barclay, made
jewelry from 1932 to 1938. He was killed in 1943 during World War
II.”

Amazing how he could remember the little
details his mother used to throw out in the middle of an endless
stream of chatter. When she was alive and well, he’d tried his
damnedest to tune her out, because while he’d loved her, the woman
could talk circles around an auctioneer.

Loral picked up the bracelet, draped it
across her palm, and lightly ran a finger down its length. Jake’s
pulse quickened at the thought of those slender fingers trailing
across his skin.

“They were my great-grandmother’s,” she said
softly. Regret colored her words and the sadness in her expression
tugged at his heart.

He understood the emotion in her voice, only
he’d gotten rid of the most painful reminders instead of trying to
hang on to them. The jewelry had been his mother’s pride and joy
above all else in the store.

Looking at Loral’s face, he quelled the urge
to take her hand in his. She probably wouldn’t welcome the gesture.
And if he touched her, any thoughts of comfort would be incinerated
by the attraction that always heated his blood in her presence.

“At one point, they were real,” Loral told
him. “She sold the originals during the Depression, but not before
having replicas made.”

He imagined the bracelet with real rubies,
real gold. Genuine stones would add extra clarity to rival the
brooch. He glanced at the dragonfly but couldn’t imagine it any
more breathtaking than it was now.

Something about that piece drew him…he
couldn’t quite put his finger on it, so he picked it up again.

“Have you ever researched these? Had them
appraised?”

“What’s the point, I know for a fact they’re
fakes.” She set the bracelet down and flattened her palms on the
glass. After a discreet, deep breath he guessed she didn’t want him
to notice, she asked, “What’s the best you can do?”

He let his gaze drift from one to the other,
adding things up in his mind while cringing at the thought of
Robert’s reaction.

“I’ll give you one-fifty for the earrings,
two for the bracelet, one for the pendant, and another one-fifty
for the ring.”

Disappointment darkened her gaze, and her
shoulders drooped. Resignation settled in her expression. “That’s
more than fair.”

He kicked himself for not going higher.
Screw her suspicions and obvious pride, and to hell with his bank
statement.

“And the dragonfly?”

He angled the brooch in the light, admiring
the platinum setting that made the faux jewels sparkle so
brilliantly. Even though she’d assured him otherwise, he’d swear
these stones were real. Obviously she needed the money, but
something in his gut made him shake his head to refuse the
dragonfly.

She swallowed hard. “I know it’s not signed,
but it must be worth something. Fifty bucks at least?” Her voice
lilted at the end, making the statement sound like a plea.

“I have a feeling it might be worth more
than that,” he said. “Let me look into it before you decide to
sell. I could have it appraised and—”

“Just give me a price,” she stated,
desperation edging her voice as he set the brooch down.

“Loral—”

She locked her gaze with his. “Please,
Jake.”

The entreaty came out as barely a whisper.
Compassion squeezed his chest tight. He leaned forward and covered
her hands with his. Cold fingers shocked his heated skin. Her dark
lashes widened, her lips parted as her breath caught. His heart
pounded with the desire to gather her close, warm her, and protect
her. Anything to wipe away the stark desolation he glimpsed in
those expressive aqua eyes.

“How much do you need?” he asked. “I’ll loan
you the money.”

Mortification flooded her face and she
jerked her hands away.

Jake grimaced as her eyes brightened with
moisture. He hadn’t meant to say that. At least, not like she was a
charity case. He felt like a first-class jerk. He’d recognized her
pride early on, so why had he just torn it to shreds?

She blinked fast, swallowed hard again. And
then, as if drawing on a steel reserve deep inside, she gathered
her tattered dignity around her and bit out, “I can’t pay the rent
on what you feel, Jake, so just give me a price.”

Fine
. His brother was going to flip,
but what did he care anymore?

“One thousand.”

Loral’s jaw dropped in surprise, then
snapped closed. Her expression turned colder than her hands.
“That’s even more insulting.”

“It might be worth more,” he reasoned.

“I don’t need your pity.”

Suddenly angry, as much at himself as her
defensiveness, he narrowed his gaze and leaned forward. “Take it or
leave it.”

She wanted to leave it. He read it in the
rigid set of her small corduroy-clad shoulders, the tense line of
her jaw, and the ice in her eyes. And, until he saw a flicker of
that earlier despair in their blue-green depths, he actually
thought she might turn and walk out the door.

“Can you pay in cash?”

Loral hunched her shoulders and jogged
toward the bus stop. Despite the December chill biting through her
coat, humiliation still burned her cheeks. It was bad enough that
she knew he knew she was desperate enough to sell their family
heirlooms piece by agonizing piece, but to have him offer her money
outright? Mortified didn’t begin to cover it.

The first time she’d met Jake, her heart
hadn’t stopped racing until after she’d left the antique shop and
driven half-way home. She’d been captivated by his dark good-looks
the moment she first walked through the doors, and then he’d smiled
that sincere, casual smile that reached all the way to his amber
eyes. It was his smile that kept her coming back, even though it
became harder and harder to face him with her head held high.

The worst part was she always wondered if he
paid more for the items she brought than they were worth. Though he
never paid more than the list prices she looked up at the library,
it was certainly more than he should in order to make a profit.
But, unable to resist the lure of seeing him again and again, of
deepening what she hoped was a budding friendship, she’d pushed
aside her suspicion instead of finding another dealer.

Now she knew. She didn’t have to touch the
sixteen one hundred dollar bills stuffed deep in her jeans pocket
to know they were there. One thousand dollars for the dragonfly.
She snorted with annoyance.

Sure, it was beautiful, but she’d have seen
through that ridiculous offer even if he hadn’t tried to give her a
handout moments earlier. Pain had sliced through her, because while
she’d melted inside from the heat of his electric touch on her
hands, seconds later he’d revealed he only felt sorry for her.

Well, at least it was over. She’d sold him
the last of what she and her mother owned that would bring in the
amount of cash they needed. She had no clue what they’d do next
month, but now she had no reason to see Jake Coburn again.

A lump formed in her throat. She swallowed
it down and increased her stride as fat, wet snowflakes began to
sink from the city-lit sky above her. Turning the corner, she saw
the blue bus at the end of the block, accelerating away from her
stop.

“No!”

She ran faster on the slick sidewalk, but it
was no use. The taillights grew smaller and smaller until they
became a blur, blending with other vehicles and the Christmas
lights twinkling along the street.

Loral came to a defeated halt, lungs
burning, her breath pluming out to mingle with the snow as she
braced her hands on her knees. Another bus wouldn’t come for
forty-five minutes, and given the fact that she needed every damn
dollar in her pocket, a cab wasn’t even a consideration; she’d have
to wait.

Headlights flashed behind her. After a quick
glance over her shoulder at a black sedan driving toward her, she
straightened and shoved her hands deep into her pockets.

She’d wait for the next bus, just not out
here on the freezing street. In the dark. Alone. Walking briskly
down the block, she waited for the car to pass. Anxiety rippled
along her spine with the realization that it’d slowed to keep pace
with her. Her numb fingers curled around the can of pepper spray at
the bottom of her pocket.

“Loral? What are you doing?”

Jake’s disapproving voice jerked her
attention to the car. Her heart pounded loud in her ears. Not
wanting him to see she was cold, she hugged her arms across her
middle to stop her shivering as she peered through his passenger
side window. He watched her from his leather seats with the street
light above casting light onto his head through the sun roof.
Great—nothing like adding insult to injury.

She resumed walking. “What does it look like
I’m doing?”

The engine of his car revved as he caught up
with her again. “Did your Tahoe break down? Do you need me to call
someone for you?”

Okay, just shoot me now
. She glanced
in the direction the bus had disappeared, and lifted her chin while
keeping her voice indifferent. “I sold the Tahoe two months
ago.”

“You’re not walking home, are you?” The tone
of his voice conveyed his disbelief. “It’s below freezing.”