Читать книгу His Wanted Woman - Linda Turner - Страница 12

The sun peeked over the horizon the following morning, ending the longest night of Mackenzie’s life. Too worried to get more than three hours of sleep, she’d spent most of the night searching through her father’s records for the playbill’s receipt. It was like looking for fairy dust. There were loose papers literally everywhere—stuffed in the pages of books, on shelves, all over the shop’s private upstairs apartment, even in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake! And that was only the tip of the iceberg. The attic was overflowing.

Overwhelmed and so tired she could barely stand without swaying on her feet, she sank into a chair in front of the fireplace and fought the need to cry. She’d found plenty of receipts, but none that had anything to do with the playbill from Ford’s Theatre. And that horrified her. What if Patrick O’Reilly was right about her father? Over the course of the last three months, she’d sold hundreds of historical letters and maps and rare books she’d inherited along with the shop. How many of them had been stolen?

Her blood chilling at the thought, she tried to convince herself she was overreacting. She was tired and obviously wasn’t thinking straight. Just because she hadn’t found any records didn’t mean they didn’t exist. She just hadn’t come across them yet.

She would, she grimly promised herself. Even if she had to tear the shop apart. She just couldn’t do it today. She had reserved a booth at a Civil War collectors’ show that opened in Arlington in two hours, and she still had to pack her van and take a shower. Groaning at the thought, she pushed to her feet and hurriedly started filling a cardboard box with Civil War memorabilia for the show.

An hour and a half later, when she arrived at the collectors’ show and started setting up her booth, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the wonders of a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. She was still tired—nothing short of some serious sleep was going to change that—but things didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had a few hours ago.

And there was nothing she loved more than historical collectors’ shows. The history buffs who attended the shows lived and breathed American history and made no apologies for it. They always had a story to tell, a new collectible to show off, a research question they were hungry to have answered.

And then there were the rare books and private historical letters that the exhibitors sold at their individual booths. Invariably, someone always had a newly discovered map, letter or document for sale that no one else had even suspected existed, and it became the talk of the show. She couldn’t wait to see what the buzz would be about today.

Setting up the last of her own exhibit, she checked to make sure everything was in its place, then turned, intending to take a quick tour of the room before the show opened to the public. She’d only taken two steps, however, when a pair of irritatingly familiar green eyes met hers across the room.

Agent Patrick O’Reilly.

Surprised, she frowned. What was he doing there?

Maybe he’s following you to make sure you don’t sell any more stolen documents.

The thought came out of nowhere, catching her off guard. Stunned, she told herself she was just being paranoid. He had better things to do than follow her around to shows and examine everything she sold. After all, he had no proof that she’d done anything unethical, let alone illegal. Was he here to harass her?

The very idea that he might do something to embarrass her in front of her customers and colleagues almost sent her storming across the small convention hall to confront him. But even as she considered telling him exactly what she thought of him, she knew that wouldn’t be a wise move on her part. If the other exhibitors discovered that an agent from the National Archives was suspicious of her, the business her father had spent a lifetime building would be completely destroyed.

Swearing softly, she turned back to her booth. If Agent O’Reilly thought he was going to rattle her so easily, he could think again. She was made of sterner stuff than that.

Patrick usually worked memorabilia shows with Bill Rhoades, an investigative archivist with a photographic memory who could spot a counterfeit document without even lifting a magnifying glass to it. Bill, however, was home in bed, suffering from a nasty bout of food poisoning, so Patrick was on his own. Normally, he would have cancelled, but he’d wanted to see Mackenzie Sloan in action. If the lady thought she could sell stolen documents right under his nose, she could think again.

Setting up a card table, he laid out brochures that not only explained what the National Archives did, but also educated the public on how to spot a stolen document or one that should belong to the U.S. government. His real purpose here, however, was to check for stolen documents…which was why he planned to watch Mackenzie like a hawk. He didn’t think she was brazen enough to sell a questionable item right in front of him, but the lady had already proven that she didn’t lack for nerve when she had refused to cooperate unless he produced a search warrant. If she thought she could slide something past him when he wasn’t looking, she just might try it.

The doors to the convention center opened then, and history lovers flooded inside. Patrick wasn’t surprised by the size of the crowd. Collecting historical memorabilia was a popular pastime and very much a history buff’s treasure hunt. Depending on their own particular interest, he’d seen people buy everything from Civil War ammunitions records to a stuffed buffalo head that supposedly had hung in Custer’s office, though no one could really verify that for sure.

Grinning at the memory of the little old lady who had bought the buffalo, Patrick glanced over at Mackenzie…just in time to see her accept a credit card from a short, roly-poly elderly man who was looking at what appeared to be an old map. Clearly thrilled with his impending purchase, he grinned broadly as he waited for his receipt.

Swearing, Patrick headed straight for Mackenzie’s booth. “Excuse me,” he told the older man, “but would you mind if I took a look at that?”

“Of course he minds,” Mackenzie retorted indignantly. “Go away.”

Confused, the older man frowned at Patrick. “Who are you? Why do you want to look at my map?”

“I’m an agent with the National Archives, sir. I’m just checking for authenticity.”

“Authenticity?” the man sputtered. “Are you saying it’s fake?”

“No, of course not!” Mackenzie said quickly, scowling at Patrick. “Agent O’Reilly just meant—”

“There’s been some items circulating in the D.C. area that should be in the National Archives,” Patrick said easily.

The older man scowled fiercely. “What do you mean should be? Are they stolen?”

“Not necessarily,” Mackenzie answered before Patrick could reply. “Documents fall into private hands all the time. That doesn’t mean they’re stolen.”

“That’s right,” Patrick agreed. “With time, some documents become less important and the government releases them into the public domain. And sometimes they don’t, and even dealers like Ms. Sloan don’t realize that they are stolen. We’ve had a lot of calls about it, so we’ve been checking out the shows, seeing if we can discover what’s going on. So if you don’t mind…”

He lifted a dark brow at the other man, silently asking permission to examine the map. Without a word, he handed it to Patrick.

Beside him, Patrick could practically feel Mackenzie seething. She didn’t, however, say a word as he unrolled the map.

It was a hand-drawn, colorful map that depicted the Colonies before the Revolutionary War broke out, complete with cities, rivers, forests and ports. It was an important map and beautifully drawn, the kind of thing that a history buff would love to have hanging over his mantel. There were, however, no forts on the map, no military encampments or anything that connected it to the upcoming war. And while it was historical, it wasn’t something that appeared to have ever belonged in the Archives.

Whether it was stolen from another museum or library, however, was another matter. There was nothing the least bit suspicious about it, though, so Patrick had no choice but to believe that Mackenzie had acquired it legitimately.

She would, no doubt, gloat over that, but he’d never been afraid to err on the side of caution. Especially, he thought, when all the evidence he’d been able to collect on Mackenzie so far pointed to the fact that when it came to her business, she was not a woman to be trusted.

Handing the map back to its new owner, he said, “Congratulations, sir. You bought a great map.”

“You’re sure it’s not stolen?”

“As sure as I can be,” Patrick replied. “Take it home and enjoy it.”

He didn’t have to tell him twice. Pleased, the older man hugged his new treasure and moved on to the next booth.

He was hardly out of earshot when Mackenzie hissed, “What do you think you’re doing? This is harassment!”

Far from concerned, he only grinned. “Are you kidding? You think I’m harassing you because I checked what you’re selling? That’s my job. It’s nothing personal.”

“So why aren’t you checking anyone else’s documents?” she demanded. “Why are you just watching me?”

“As far as I know, no one else here is selling stolen documents on the Internet. If you know someone else who is, point them out and I’ll be happy to check them out.”

Horrified that he was making no effort to keep his voice down, she caught the curious glances of nearby vendors and wanted to sink right through the floor. Heat spilling into her cheeks, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms.

“You’ve got to stop this!” she snapped in a low voice that didn’t carry past the hallway. “Do you hear me? If you don’t back off, I’m calling the police!”

Far from impressed, he lifted a mocking brow at her. “Are you sure you want to do that? Right now, you just have to deal with me, and I’m easy. You bring in the local cops and you could have all kinds of headaches. But if you really want to talk to someone, use my phone. The reception is probably better on mine. Go ahead. I’ve got unlimited minutes.”

More frustrated than she’d ever been in her life, Mackenzie gave serious thought to telling him exactly what she thought of him, and she didn’t care who heard her. And that stunned her. She was usually easygoing and rarely lost her temper. But there was something about Patrick O’Reilly that drove her crazy.

“You know something, you’re a very irritating man,” she said, scowling at him as a mocking smile curled the corners of his mouth. “You think you have me right where you want me, don’t you?”

Amused, he said, “Don’t I?”

“No,” she retorted. “For your information, you’re in danger of making a complete fool of yourself.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “Really? And that concerns you?”

“Not at all,” she said dryly. “If you want to waste your time trying to prove I’m a thief while the real thief gets away with stealing thousands of dollars’ worth of historical documents from the American people, have at it. It’s your career.”

“It’s yours, too,” he pointed out. “Of course, maybe you don’t care about your reputation. Maybe you just want to unload everything, get out from under the business and go back to California.”

Surprised, she blinked. “How do you know I lived in California?”

“I checked you out, of course,” he retorted, grinning. “I know everything about you, right down to that C you made in biology your second year of college at Duke and the name of your first boyfriend.”

“Oh, really?”

“He really was a nerd, Mackenzie. What were you thinking?”

Steaming, Mackenzie couldn’t miss the amusement dancing in his eyes. Oh, he was enjoying this. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was incredibly charming. All too easily, she could imagine what he was like when he pursued a woman: fun, teasing, wickedly mischievous. The kind of man, she silently acknowledged, that she’d always had a weakness for.

The thought came out of nowhere to steal the breath right out of her lungs. Had she lost her mind? He was right. What was she thinking?

“So now that I know just about everything there is to know about you, are you going to trust me and let me look at your files or not?”

Thankful that he’d brought the subject back to the matter at hand, she looked at him sharply. Trust. It was such an easy word. And even though he’d checked her out, she seriously doubted that he had a clue just how difficult it was for her to trust anyone.

It was, she silently acknowledged, something she’d struggled with for a long, long time…ever since her mother died and she discovered that there were no guarantees in life. If you couldn’t count on the people you loved to always be there for you, how could you count on strangers?

And what, after all, did she know about Patrick O’Reilly? she reminded herself. She didn’t know if he was a man of his word or not, if he was the kind to trick a “suspect” into confiding in him so he could then use that confidence to haul the poor trusting idiot off to jail. Could she really take a chance and trust him when she didn’t know for sure if her father had stolen documents from the Archives? What kind of charges could she be setting herself up for if some of the documents she’d sold really had belonged to the Archives?

“Look,” he said when she hesitated, “we got off to a bad start. Okay? I’m not trying to destroy your business or your father’s reputation. I’m just trying to get to the truth. If your father didn’t steal those documents, then he bought them from whoever did and you sold them. I need to know who that person is, and you can help me. Somewhere in your father’s papers, there’s bound to be a record of who he bought these things from. I just need this jackass’s name, but you’re protecting him by refusing to let me look at your father’s records.”

Surprised, Mackenzie hadn’t thought of it that way. “I’m not protecting anyone,” she retorted, stung.

“Of course you are. And frankly, I don’t understand why. You’re so concerned about protecting your father’s reputation, but you’re protecting the one person who could have destroyed it. Is that what you really want?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then talk to me!”

“My lawyer told me not to.”

He frowned. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, what do you need a lawyer for?” Before she could even begin to answer, understanding dawned. “This is about your father.”

“He was an honorable man,” she said huskily. “He would have never knowingly bought anything stolen.”

“So what are you saying? You’re not responsible for what’s in his shop?”

“Yes.”

“Did I imply that you were?”

When she blinked in surprise, Patrick was stunned. Did she really think she was going to be hanged for the sins of her father? Okay, so he’d come down hard on her. He took his job seriously, and when he’d first started investigating her, she and her father had looked guilty as hell. But there were some things he couldn’t deny. Up until his death, Michael Sloan had had an impeccable reputation. What if he hadn’t stolen those documents? What if his sin was that of being too trusting? It was that thought that nagged at Patrick and refused to be ignored.

“Whatever your father may or may not have done has nothing to do with you. Unless,” he added, “you continue to sell things you know were probably stolen. You’re taking a huge risk, Mackenzie. Are you sure you want to do that?”

When her gaze shifted to her unattended booth, where the items she’d brought to sell were clearly displayed, he knew the second she made up her mind to cooperate. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze dead on.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I have nothing to hide. If my lawyer says it’s okay, you’re welcome to check my father’s records whenever you like.”

Pleased, he said, “Good. Then I’ll follow you back to your shop after the show. I’d like to get started on this as soon as possible.”

A steady influx of history buffs streamed into the memorabilia show over the course of the day. It was one of the best shows Mackenzie had been to since she’d taken over the business. But as she packed up at the end of the day and headed home, her attention was on the man who followed her at a safe distance in his black SUV.

After she’d agreed to give him access to her father’s business records, Patrick’s attitude had completely changed. He’d gone back to his own table, then spent the rest of the afternoon greeting history buffs and handing out literature. She’d watched him laugh and joke with people and turn serious over the subject he was there to discuss—the theft and sale of archival documents and what to watch for.

To her dismay, he’d completely distracted her from her own sales.

“You’re losing it, Mac,” she warned herself aloud as she drove through the familiar streets of Washington. “The man is a federal agent who went after you like a pit bull. His interest in you is strictly business.”

Later, she knew, he would probably haunt the sleep she so desperately needed, but she couldn’t worry about him now. She had better things to do. Like finding a parking place.

At any other time, that could have been an exercise in frustration, but as she slowly made her way up and down the streets within walking distance of her shop, she had to smile. She loved D.C. during the holidays. Christmas might be nearly a month away—the Capitol and National Christmas trees hadn’t even been lit yet—but the shops and cafés in her neighborhood were already decked out for the season and glistening with twinkling lights. Not surprisingly, business was brisk.

Which was why, she thought with a rueful smile, she didn’t find a parking spot on the first swipe down her street. She circled the block four times before she spied a Mini Cooper pulling out of a tiny space in front of the Chinese grocery down the street from her shop. Thankfully, her PT Cruiser didn’t take up a lot of room, and she whipped into the space, lightning-quick, before anyone else could take it. It wasn’t until she stepped out of her car and turned to see where Patrick was that she realized she had lost him while she was hunting for a parking space.

He knew where the shop was, she reminded herself as twilight slipped into darkness and the streetlights popped on. He’d find her. In the meantime, she had to unload her car. Pulling two boxes from the backseat, she headed for her shop.

The building was over a hundred and fifty years old, and during its long history, it had been everything from a photography studio to an Indian restaurant to a funeral parlor. In its first incarnation, however, it had been a tavern, and it still retained its original bow window, fireplace and rich wainscoting. Her father had taken one look at it and known it was just what he was looking for. Laid out like a house, with a bedroom upstairs and the kitchen and common rooms downstairs, it was the perfect setup for a shop owner. He’d bought it on the spot six months after Mackenzie’s mother died, and he and Mackenzie had moved in immediately. Here she’d worked through her grief and grown up in the security of her father’s love. She couldn’t imagine living or working anywhere else.

Patrick came around the corner then and hurried forward to help her with her load as she reached the front door of her shop. “Here…let me help you with that. You should have waited for me.”

“Thanks.” She sighed in relief. “I didn’t know where you had gone. Where’d you park?”

“Around the corner,” he began, only to swear softly when she started to slip her key in the lock and the door silently glided open. Glancing at her sharply in the darkness, he growled, “Did you lock the door when you left?”

She frowned. “I always lock it when I leave the shop, even if it’s just to drop a letter in the mailbox on the corner.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I set the alarm, too.” Her gaze drifting back to the open door, she glanced back up at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t the alarm go off? The door’s open. It should have gone off.”

His face carved in grim lines, Patrick reached for his phone. “I don’t know,” he retorted. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Who are you calling?”

“The cops. Breaking and entering is out of my jurisdiction.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, a patrol car arrived and braked to a stop right in the middle of the narrow street. Standing at Mackenzie’s side, Patrick took one look at the officer who stepped out of the car and grinned. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you had the day off.”

“I switched shifts with Larry Lopez. What’s going on? Did you make the call?”

Patrick nodded and explained about the unlocked door of the bookstore. “This is Mackenzie Sloan—she owns the store. Mackenzie, this is my brother, Devin.”

“Oh, my God. There are two of you in law enforcement?”

Grinning, Devin shook the hand she held out to him. “Actually, there’s three of us,” he admitted. “Logan’s with the FBI.”

“It’s in the blood,” Patrick explained. “Our father was a cop, too.”

“So what are you doing here?” Devin asked him, frowning.

Quickly giving him a rundown about the stolen items that had somehow ended up in Mackenzie’s father’s possession, he added, “I followed Mackenzie home from a show in Arlington to look at her father’s records. That’s when we found the door open.”

“And it was locked when you left?” Devin asked Mackenzie as he jotted down notes.

“There’s not a doubt in my mind I locked it,” she said firmly. “The lock on the door sticks sometimes, so I always check it twice. It was definitely locked.”

“And the alarm? Is there a possibility you may have forgotten to activate it?”

“No. I was on the phone to my friend Stacy, and distinctly remember setting the alarm on my way out.”

“And no one else has a key or the alarm code?” Devin asked. “A neighbor? An old boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “No, no one. I’ve been meaning to change the code since my father died and give the new code and a key to Stacy, but I just haven’t had time.”

“Then your father must have given it to someone,” Patrick said.

Startled, Mackenzie paled. “You think one of his friends would have broke into the shop?”

“It’s possible,” he said. “Unless the alarm malfunctioned, whoever left the door open had to have the code. If you didn’t give it to anyone, then your father had to.”

“We won’t know the truth until we check it out,” Devin said. “C’mon. Let’s go.” Quietly ordering Mackenzie to stay outside until they scoured the building, he stepped around Mackenzie and carefully, soundlessly pushed open the door. Seconds later, he and Patrick slipped inside.