From the Heart (21 page)

“Want the job?” Jessica retorted. Straightening in the chair, she began to brush at stray dog hair.

“I've got one, thanks.”

Why should it annoy her that he hadn't once used her name? she asked herself as she rose. Dignity had to be sacrificed as she stepped over the now sleeping dog. “I appreciate the help,” she said stiffly. “And the advice is duly noted.”

Slade shrugged off the sarcasm. “No problem. You struck me as more the poodle type, though.”

“Really?” For a moment Jessica merely studied his eyes. Yes, they were hard, she decided. Hard and cool and cynical. “And I have the impression you don't think much of the poodle type. Help yourself to the brandy. I'm going up.”

F
or the next two days there was an uneasy truce. Perhaps it lasted that long because Jessica made a point of staying out of Slade's way. He in turn stayed out of hers while patiently noting her routine—which, he discovered, was no routine at all. She simply never stopped. She didn't take time for the social rigamarole he had expected—luncheons, clubs, committees—but worked, apparently inexhaustibly. Most of her time was spent at the shop. At the rate he was going, he knew he would find out little in the house. His next move was the House of Winslow. It followed that he needed to make peace with Jessica to get there.

From his bedroom window, he watched her drive away. It was barely eight o'clock, a full hour before she normally left. Slade swore in frustration. How did the commissioner expect him to watch her—or protect her if that's what she needed—if she was always in one place while he was in another? It was time to improvise an excuse to pay her a visit at her place of business.

Grabbing a jacket on the way, Slade headed for the stairs. He could always claim that he wanted to do a bit of research on antique furniture for his novel. That would buy him a few hours, as well as give him a reason to poke around. Before he'd rounded the last curve in the steps he heard Betsy's voice.

“ . . . nothing but trouble.”

“Don't fuss.”

Slade stopped, waiting as the footsteps came his way. There was a tall, gangly man walking down the hall. His mop of dark blond hair was long and straight, cut rather haphazardly just below the collar of a chambray workshirt. He wore jeans and wire-rim glasses and stood hunched over a bit—either from habit or fatigue. Because he was staring down at his sneakers, he didn't see Slade. His face was pale and the eyes behind the lenses were shadowed. David Ryce, Slade concluded, and kept silent.

“I told you she said you weren't to come in today.” Betsy bustled after him, a feather duster gripped in her hand.

“I'm fine. If I lie around in bed another day, I'm going to mold.” He coughed violently.

“Fine, fine indeed.” Betsy clucked her tongue, swinging the duster at his back.

“Mom, lay off.” Exasperated, David started to turn back to her when he spotted Slade. He frowned, choking back another cough. “Oh, you must be the writer.”

“That's right.” Slade came down the last two steps. Just a boy, he thought, taking David's measure quickly. Who hasn't completely thrown off the youthful defiance.

“Jessie and I figured you'd be a short, stooped little guy with glasses. I don't know why.” He grinned, but Slade noted that he placed a hand on the newel post for support. “Getting anywhere with the library?”

“Slowly.”

“Better you than me,” David murmured, wishing for a chair. “Has Jessica come down yet?”

“She's already gone,” Slade told him.

“There, you see.” Betsy folded her arms over her chest. “And if you go in, she'll just send you right back home. Thunder at you too.”

Because his legs threatened to buckle, David gripped the newel post harder. “She's going to need help with the new shipment. Another's due in today.”

“Lotta good you'd do,” Betsy began. Catching the look in David's eye, Slade cut in.

“I was thinking about running down there myself. I'd like to see the place, maybe do a little research. I could give her
a hand.” He watched David struggle, caught between his desire to go to the shop and his need to lie down.

“She'll try to move everything herself,” he muttered.

“That's the truth,” Betsy agreed, apparently switching her annoyance from her son to her employer. “Nothing stops that one.”

“It's my job to move in the new stock, check it off. I don't—”

“Moving furniture around shouldn't require any great knowledge of antiques,” Slade put in casually. Knowing it was too perfect to let pass, he slipped into his jacket. “And since I was heading that way anyway . . .”

“There, it's settled,” Betsy announced. She had her son by the elbow before he could protest. “Mr. Sladerman will go look out for Miss Jessica. You go back to bed.”

“I'm not going back to bed. A chair, all I want's a chair.” He sent Slade a weak smile. “Hey, thanks. Tell Jessie I'm coming back on Monday. The paperwork on the new stock can wait over the weekend. Tell her to humor the invalid and leave it for me.”

Slade nodded slowly. “Sure, I'll tell her.” Turning, he started out, deciding that the new stock interested him very much.

Fifteen minutes later Slade parked in the small graveled lot beside Jessica's shop. It was a small, framed building, fronted with several narrow windows. The shades were up. Through the glass, he could see her tugging on a large and obviously heavy piece of furniture. Cursing women in general, he walked to the front door and pulled it open.

At the jingle of bells she spun around. That anyone would be by the shop at that hour surprised her—that Slade stood inside the door frowning at her surprised Jessica more. “Well . . .” The physical exertion had winded her so that she struggled to even her breathing. “I didn't expect to see you here.” She didn't add that she wasn't particularly pleased either.

She'd stripped off her jacket and pushed up the sleeves of her cashmere sweater. Beneath it, small high breasts rose and fell agitatedly. Slade remembered their softness against the
back of his hand very clearly. He forgot he'd come to make peace with her.

“Don't you have more sense than to push this stuff around yourself?” he demanded. With a quick oath, he pulled off his jacket and tossed it over a chair. Jessica stiffened her back as well as her tone.

“Well, good morning to you too.”

Her annoyance rolled off of him. After crossing to her, Slade leaned against the large piece she'd been struggling with. “Where do you want it?” he asked shortly. “And I hope to God you're not one of those women who changes her mind a half dozen times.”

He watched her eyes narrow and darken as they had that night in the parlor. Oddly, he found her only more attractive when she was agitated. If it hadn't been for that, the way her chin jutted out might have amused him. “I don't believe anyone asked for your assistance.” For the first time he was treated to the ice in her tone. “I'm capable of arranging my stock myself.”

“Don't be any more stupid than necessary,” he shot back. “You're just going to hurt yourself. Now where do you want this thing?”

“This
thing,
” she began heatedly, “is a nineteenth-century French secretaire.”

He gave it a negligent glance. “Yeah, so? Where do you want me to put it?”

“I'll tell you where you can put it—”

His laughter cut her off. It was very male and full of fun. It wasn't a sound she had expected from him. With an effort, she swallowed a chuckle of her own as she stepped back from him. The last thing she wanted was to find anything appealing about James Sladerman. “Over there,” she said coolly, pointing. Turning away, Jessica picked up a washstand to carry it in the opposite direction. When the sounds of wood sliding over wood had stopped, she turned back to him.

“Thank you.” The gratitude was short and cold. “Now, what can I do for you?”

He treated himself to a lengthy look at her. She stood very straight, her hands folded loosely, her eyes still dangerous. Two mother-of-pearl combs swept her hair back from her
face. He allowed his gaze to sweep down briefly. She was very slender, with a hand-spanable waist and barely any hips. The trim flannel skirt hid most of her legs, but Slade could appreciate what was visible from the knees down. Her feet were very small. One of them tapped the floor impatiently.

“I've thought about that from time to time,” he commented as his eyes roamed back to hers. “But I came by to see what I could do for you. Ryce was worried that you might do just what you were trying to do a few minutes ago.”

“You've seen David?” Her cool impatience evaporated. Swiftly, Jessica crossed the room to take Slade's arm. “Was he up? How is he?”

Suddenly he wanted to touch her—her hair, her face. She'd be soft. He felt an almost desperate need for something soft and yielding. Her eyes were on his, wide with concern. “He was up,” he said briefly. “And not as well as he wanted to be.”

“He shouldn't have been out of bed.”

“No, probably not.” Did her hair carry that scent? he wondered. That autumn-woods fragrance that was driving him mad? “He wanted to come in this morning.”

“Come in?” Jessica pounced on the two words. “I gave specific orders for him to stay home. Why can't he do as he's told?”

Slade's eyes were suddenly keen on her face. “Does everyone do what you tell them?”

“He's my employee,” she retorted, dropping her hand from his arm. “He damn well better do what I tell him.” As quickly as she had flared up, her mood shifted and she smiled. “He's hardly more than a boy really, and Betsy nags at him. It's just her way. Though I appreciate his dedication to the business, he's got to get well.” Her eyes drifted to the phone on the counter. “If I call, he'll just get defensive.”

“He said he wouldn't come in until Monday.” Slade leaned against the secretaire. “He wanted you to leave the paperwork on the new shipments for him.”

Jessica stuck her hands in her pockets, obviously still toying with the idea of phoning to lecture David. “Yes, all right. If he's going to come in on Monday, at least he'll be sitting down. I'll get the new stock situated in the meantime
so he's not tempted.” She smiled again. “He's nearly as obsessed with this place as I am. If I so much as move a candlestick, David knows it. Before he got sick, he was trying to talk me into a vacation.” She laughed, tossing her head so that her hair swung behind her. “He just wanted the place to himself for a week or two.”

“A very dedicated assistant,” Slade murmured.

“Oh, David's that,” Jessica agreed. “What are you doing here, Slade? I thought you'd be buried in books.”

Half glad, half wary that the reserve of the last few days had vanished, he gave her a cautious smile. “I told David I'd give you a hand.”

“That was very nice.” The surprise in her voice had his smile widening.

“I can be nice occasionally,” he returned. “Besides, I thought I might be able to get some information on antiques. Research.”

“Oh.” She accepted this with a nod. “All right. I wouldn't mind having some help with the heavier things. What period were you interested in?”

“Period?”

“Furniture,” Jessica explained as she walked to a long, low chest. “Is there a particular century or style? Renaissance, Early American, Italian Provincial?”

“Just a general sort of lesson today to give me the feel of it,” Slade improvised as he nudged Jessica away from the chest. “Where do you want this?”

He lifted and carried. Jessica arranged the lighter pieces while keeping up a running dialog on the furniture they moved. This chair was Chippendale—see the square, tapered seat and cabriole leg. This cabinet was French Baroque—in satinwood, gilded and carved. She ran over a little table with a polishing cloth, explaining about Chinese influences and tea services.

During the morning they were interrupted half a dozen times by customers. Jessica turned from antique lover to salesperson. Slade watched her show pieces, explain their background, then dicker over prices. If he hadn't been sure before, he was certain now. Her shop was no toy to her. She not only knew how to manage it, but worked harder than he'd
given her credit for. Not only did she handle people with a deft skill he was forced to admire, but she made money—if the discreet price tags he'd come across were any indication.

So why, he wondered, if she was dedicated to her shop, if she turned a profit, would she risk using her business for smuggling? Now that he'd met her and spent some time with her, it wasn't as easy for Slade to dismiss it as kicks or thrills. Yet she wasn't lacking in brains. Was it plausible that an operation was going on under her nose without her knowledge?

“Slade, I hate to ask.” Jessica kept her voice lowered as she came close to his side. Touching came naturally to her, it seemed, for her hand was already on his arm. Irresponsible or not, he discovered that he wanted her. Turning, he trapped her effectively between the chest and himself. Her hand remained on his arm, just below the elbow. Though they touched in no other way, he suddenly had a very clear sensation of how her body would feel pressed against his. His eyes brushed over her mouth, then came to hers.

“Ask what?”

Her mind went blank. Some sound filled her head, like an echo of surf pounding on the shore. She could have stepped back an inch and broken the contact—stepped forward an inch to consummate it. Jessica did neither. Dimly, she was aware of a pressure in her chest, as though someone were pressing hard against it to cut off her air. In that instant they both knew he had only to touch her for everything to change.

“Slade,” she murmured. Half question, half invitation.

He snapped back, retreating from the edge, from an involvement he couldn't afford. “Did you want me to move something else?” His voice was cool as he stepped away from her.

Shaken, Jessica backed toward the chest. She needed distance. “Mrs. MacKenzie wants to take the chifforobe with her. She's gone out to pull her car to the front. Would you mind putting it in the back of her station wagon?”

“All right.”

She indicated the piece with a silent gesture, not moving until he was out the front door with it. Alone, Jessica allowed herself a long, uneasy breath. That was not a man a woman
should lose control with, she warned herself. He wouldn't be gentle, or particularly kind. She placed the flat of her palm on her chest as if to relieve the pressure that lingered there. Don't overreact the next time, she advised herself.