Her hair was caught up in a neat little twist at the moment. Croft guessed it would fall below her shoulders if a man were to remove the pins that anchored the silky strands. As it was it revealed the delicate nape of her neck, a soft, vulnerable curve that reminded him of a flower stem. He realized he was finding the sight sensual and provocative. His body stirred and Croft grew annoyed. He had learned to master himself over the years and it was disturbing to discover that this green-eyed slip of a woman could jar that sense of self-control.
Her face was a collection of well-defined, reasonably attractive features. Wide eyes, faintly almond shaped, tilted up at the corners. Her nose was pert, mouth soft, lower lip slightly fuller than the upper.
The rest of her was even softer looking than her mouth. She was wearing a variation of the Ignatius Cove uniform, khaki slacks and a close-fitting green cotton polo shirt. But the shirt didn’t have an animal on the left breast and the slacks didn’t have a designer logo. Her loafers were scuffed and pleasantly aged.
Croft paused to think about that left breast. Both it and its companion were on the small side, but there was a satisfying fullness that appealed. It was not his nature to be attracted to the overblown look. As in everything else, it was subtlety that caught his attention.
The khaki slacks fit well over her gently rounded hips. He could imagine cupping those well-shaped buttocks in his hands, lifting her up until he could cradle her intimately against his thighs.
“Damn,” he muttered.
“Something wrong?” Mercy called from the kitchen. A cupboard door slammed.
“No.” There was no way he could explain what was wrong. He didn’t understand it himself. Better to deny it altogether. He heard her footsteps on the kitchen tile and realized she was returning with the book.
It was the book he was there to study, not Mercy Pennington. He would do well to remember that. Normally he didn’t have to caution himself about getting distracted. He seldom if ever got distracted unless he chose to be.
He glanced around the apartment as he waited for her to appear in the doorway, unconsciously picking up further clues about Mercy. The place was filled with color and a certain amount of casual clutter. She obviously favored bright, vivid hues. There was no mauve, pale mint green or baby blue in the compact, well-lit room.
The sofa was lemon yellow, accented with turquoise throw pillows. The lamps were high tech in design, deep orange with all sorts of kinky twists and turns. The bookcase was also orange, finished in a shiny lacquer that added sparkle to the room. There was more sparkle from the mirrors on the wall behind the sofa that picked up the tiny scrap of cove view. The carpet was a strong slate gray and the walls were stark white.
The pictures on the walls caught Croft’s attention. There were dozens of them, all watercolors, all done by the same hand and all showing a terrible technique and a total lack of understanding of the medium. There were pictures of the cove as seen from the tiny balcony of the apartment, pictures of sunsets on the water, pictures of sailboats, pictures of the islands lying offshore.
The colors of sky and water had been laid on with a heavy hand. Α lot of purple and cobalt blue. The sails on the boats were far too bright. The islands were thick green blobs on the horizon instead of misty, half-seen visions. The sunsets were the same orange as the bookcase in the living room. Whatever delicacy of line or subtle color that might have been achieved had been ruined at the start by a brush that had obviously been wielded by an assertive, poorly trained, although clearly enthusiastic hand.
Croft was startled to find himself oddly charmed by the cheerful watercolors on the walls. Normally such lack of restraint would not appeal to him. At the same time he felt an urge to take the painter by the nape of her neck, lead her to the paper and show her how watercolors should be done.
He knew without asking that the pictures had been painted by Mercy Pennington.
The one other purely ornamental feature in the living room was a brilliantly hued wooden screen. It was in three parts and stood six feet high. This was a professional, not an amateurish creation. The panels were painted with a stunningly exotic tropical motif, all lush green leaves, turquoise sky, brilliant flowers and vivid orange fruit that must have come directly from the artist’s head. It didn’t look like any fruit Croft had ever seen. All in all, the scene was one of primal innocence, a tropical paradise, an unreal, too vivid dream.
But in the center panel a sleek, golden-eyed leopard crouched. It was an intruder, a lethal visitor that was not truly a part of its surroundings. It was a creature from another, far more sinister world and it brought a threat to paradise and innocence. It dominated the environment in which it found itself, faintly disdainful of the soft, bright beauty surrounding it. The expression in the leopard’s gaze was remote and superior, arrogant and detached. It was as if the leopard knew another kind of reality and preferred that other, more natural habitat. But there was a longing in those great, golden eyes, too, a silent, secret wish to be part of the lush, sweet brightness that was all around.
The impossibility of the leopard ever being accepted in paradise was what made Croft turn away from the panel painting. For its own peace of mind, the creature of the night had better continue to enjoy its separate, more dangerous reality.
Croft finished his examination of Mercy’s living room just as she walked in with an old, leather-bound book in her hand. “Did you buy your furniture to match the screen or did you buy the screen to match the furniture?” he asked out of curiosity.
She grinned, her eyes bright with appreciative laughter. “I bought the screen and then had to get new furniture to go with it. Not the most efficient way to furnish a place.”
“No, but there’s a certain logic to it,” he admitted.
“I take it you don’t approve of my taste?”
He thought about that, turning the question over in his mind while she raised her eyebrows. “It suits you,” he finally said, satisfied with the decision.
“Gee, thanks. I think. I’ll bet I can guess how your house is furnished. Very bare, with no unnecessary bits and pieces hanging around to clutter up the place, hmm? Maybe the austere, Japanese style with shoji screens, wooden floors, a couple of elegantly stark pieces of furniture? That would go nicely with your line of work and suit your image.”
He was taken aback by the easy, off-the-cuff guess. It was far too accurate. The fact that she had read his tastes so easily was mildly alarming. Lucky guess, he decided. “How did you know?”
“We all have our gifts,” she said pointedly, clearly delighted with her own perception. Her eyes were alight with the small pleasure. It was obvious she was warming rapidly to him, becoming increasingly relaxed in his presence. “Some of us can keep door bells from ringing. Others are good at taking wild guesses about strangers’ homes. Actually, it wasn’t all that hard. There’s something about you that makes me think of austerity and total self-reliance. I’d hate to know your politics. I don’t see you as the liberal type. Are you one of those crazy survivalists who lives out in the Oregon woods and collects high-powered rifles and small tanks?”
He couldn’t tell if she were teasing him or not, and that was disconcerting. “What do you think?”
She sighed. “I think that, whatever else you are, you’re not crazy. You’re far too self-controlled to be nutso the way those survivalists are.”
“I’ve managed to survive so far,” he said carefully. “But I’m not interested in guns. They’re too impersonal. And I don’t own a tank, large or small.”
“Just a Porsche.”
She nodded as if that explained something else. He was about to demand just what the car explained when she forestalled him by holding out the volume in her hand. “Here’s the book. Maybe it won’t be the copy you want, after all. Then you won’t have to feel bad about missing out on it.”
“There are only a handful of copi
es in existence. As far as I know all of them are in the hands of European collectors. I’m almost certain this is the book I want. That’s why I drove up here from Oregon this morning.”
“I’ll bet you never do much of anything unless you’re absolutely certain you’ve got all the answers first,” Mercy grumbled.
He looked up from the title page of Valley of Secret Jewels and saw the flare of deep feminine awareness in her eyes. The knowledge that she was attracted to him made his mouth curve very slightly in satisfaction. “I’ve found it pays to have answers before I take action, especially when it comes to dealing with people. There’s an old saying about knowing your enemy. I believe in it.”
She smiled a little too brightly. “Got a lot of enemies?”
“No. I’m as selective about my enemies as I am about my friends.” He checked the Roman numeral publication date of the book in his hand, turning the old, yellowed pages with care.
“How about your lovers? Are you just as selective about them?”
The question amazed him. He would never have thought Mercy Pennington bold enough to ask such a thing. Croft raised his eyes slowly from the page he was studying, aware from the slightly higher note on which she’d ended the query that she was already regretting her rashness. Then he saw the embarrassment in her gaze. He knew she would have given anything to call back the words. Unwittingly she had just revealed a great deal about herself. He could use what he was learning about her.
“A man has to be far more careful about his choice of lover than he does about his choice of either friend or enemy. Friends and enemies are well defined. You always know where you stand with them unless you’re stupid. But lovers aren’t as easy to know and understand. They can go either way, can’t they? Become friend or enemy. And who can tell the difference until it’s too late?”
The embarrassment and chagrin he saw in her green eyes were very revealing. So was the light wash of color in her cheeks. A suitable punishment for her recklessness, he decided. She was sincerely wishing she hadn’t allowed herself to be goaded into the question in the first place.
That was the thing about impulsiveness. It contained the seeds of its own retribution. He had a hunch Mercy Pennington had suffered before for her own brand of rashness. She knew the consequences but sometimes she couldn’t help herself. She was the kind of woman who would let her emotions sway her logic. In a tight situation she would follow her instincts, and those instincts would be tied to whatever emotional bonds she had established. If she had children she would be as protective as a lioness.
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 think 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 legs.
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, “Ι 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 rather, 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 that book is nothing short of erotica. An uncharitable soul might even call it porn.”
“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?”
“Νο. 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 t
o 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.