Читать книгу Tall, Dark And Difficult - Patricia Coughlin - Страница 10

Two hundred and sixty-seven dollars. And fifty cents.

Griff couldn’t decide who was crazier, Rose Davenport for thinking anyone would pay that kind of money for a string of dead flowers, or him for paying it.

Him, he realized with disgust. No doubt about it. She, on the other hand, deserved the P. T. Barnum award for taking him.

He made his way down Main Street, oblivious to the tourists and the historic houses built shoulder to shoulder along brick sidewalks made uneven by time and weather and gnarled tree roots. He was preoccupied with trying to figure out how it had happened. He’d walked into the shop prepared to deal with a sweet and slightly sappy little old lady, and had emerged with his pocket picked. Not to mention his dented pride and the exasperating fact that he was not one damn step closer to doing what he had gone there to do.

Hell, if he’d felt compelled to buy something, why couldn’t he have grabbed that beat-up watering can, which now seemed a downright bargain at fifty bucks? Because he hadn’t been thinking, that’s why. At least, not about what he should have been thinking about. Instead, he’d been checking out the way that gold moon necklace looked against Rose Davenport’s skin—skin that was pink and gold and almost luminescent.

And right smack in the middle of that foolishness, it had suddenly occurred to him that he probably ought to buy something. Anything. Sort of as an act of good faith, and to avoid being under obligation to her. Give and get, that was his philosophy. He’d looked around at what was closest to him, and it had come down to the teapot with the violets or the dead flowers. He hated to think what the teapot would have set him back.

Pausing at the corner for traffic to pass, he opened the bag and peered inside. Maybe there was something special about these particular dead flowers that made them more valuable than they appeared. Something he’d missed at first glance. He poked at the tissue paper and shifted the contents around a little, but as far as he could tell there was nothing about the…what had she called the thing? Garland. Nothing about this particular garland that ought to make it worth more than two hundred and sixty bucks. Plus tax. Hell, he’d thought it was overpriced when he misread the tag as twenty-five dollars.

The only thing preventing him from tossing it in the nearest trash can was the scent that had wafted up and curled around him when he opened the bag. It was the same scent that filled Rose’s shop. The scent of roses. And cinnamon. And wind. All mixed together. At least, that’s what it smelled like to him. And to his surprise, he didn’t half mind it.

Maybe it wasn’t a total loss, after all. He could always hang the damn thing in the can.

He stopped at the library on his way home and wasted several hours at a table strewn with open encyclopedias and books on every aspect of antiques and collectibles. He learned more than anyone should be forced to know about Meissen, and Boris Aureolis’s groundbreaking innovations in porcelain, and birds native to Northern Europe. He finally gave up and went home, tired, grouchy, and still dragging the ball and chain Devora had attached to his life. Not one of the books he’d examined revealed where he could buy the cursed birds.

Worse, at some point it had dawned on him that he wasn’t even certain which three birds he was looking for. Devora had provided a list of those she owned, but until he could compare that with a complete list, he wasn’t even at square one. It was almost as if she’d developed a masochistic streak in her last days and wanted to make the task as difficult for him as possible. Probably because she knew that would only make him more determined to succeed. With or without the help of Rose Davenport, with her smoky green eyes and insider’s understanding of the secret world of antiques.

There was no way he could approach her again. Not, he thought wincing inside, after the way he’d stormed out of there like a total jackass.

Not unless he became utterly desperate.

He dragged his fingers through the dark wavy hair that fell across his forehead. His hair was longer than it had been in twenty years and he was still getting used to it. It didn’t feel like him, and when he looked in the mirror the man who stared back did not look like the man he used to be. Which made sense. That man was gone. He’d had his nose shoved in that nasty little bit of reality dozens of times every day for over a year.

That man, the old Griff, had had everything under control and had never made a mistake when it counted. Well, almost never, he thought bitterly. He certainly would never have overreacted to something as inconsequential as being called “sensitive” by a shopkeeper. Not even a fine-looking one. Especially not by one who was fine-looking.

No, that old Griff would have laughed at the very suggestion and let loose on Rose Davenport a grin that never, ever failed. When she touched the back of his hand, he would have flipped it and caught hers before she knew what hit her, and said something clever and flirtatious, and with just enough of an edge to make her blush a little. Make her think.

Then he would have leaned closer, close enough to find out if she, too, smelled like roses and cinnamon and wind, close enough to touch that mesmerizing spot on her throat where the gold moon nestled. His touch would be light, one fingertip only, and quick, no more than a second, so fleeting she might question later if he had actually made contact or if she had only imagined it.

That would have her wondering, and waiting for the next time, which would not come soon. Oh, no. He almost smiled just thinking about it. His timing, as always, would be perfect. And eventually, if she continued to intrigue him, Rose Davenport would end up in his bed.

And it would be great. For her as well as him. The chase and the sex. He’d always relished both. There would be no rushing, and no coercion. No lies, no strings, no promises. The old Griff had a code of honor that demanded it.

What the old Griff had not had was a bum leg, loss of peripheral vision in one eye, and no future to speak of.

He rubbed his temple, feeling the ache of a loss so big he couldn’t begin to define its dimensions. Some days, it was as if he had his face pressed against the side of a mountain and was struggling to figure out how tall it was, and how the hell he was going to get over it.

Just a few hours ago he’d thought he had the first step figured out, but in what was turning out to be the new story of his life, he had managed to screw that up, too.

Are you calling me sensitive?

He groaned silently. And he’d had the audacity to label the delivery guy a jerk.

No, he decided with grim resolve, there was no possible way he could ask Rose to help him now. That much was definite, as clear to him as the memory of Devora’s voice, ringing in his head.

“Really, Hollis, do you think it wise to cut off your nose to spite your face?”

“Two hundred and sixty-seven dollars?” Maryann Pontrelli McShane’s lively brown eyes reflected amazement and amusement in about equal parts.

“Plus tax,” Rose added.

“Must have been one hell of a garland.”

“It was,” Rose assured her. “Not that Mr. Hollis Who-are-you-calling-sensitive Griffin appreciated it.”

Her friend tossed back long hair the color of expensive mink, glanced at six-month-old Lisa sleeping peacefully in her stroller, and pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Hollis? What kind of name is Hollis?”

“Rare.”

“Besides rare. British maybe?”

Rose shrugged. “British, French, Cro-Magnon.”

“Easy to see why he prefers Griff.”

“I suppose.” She climbed onto the stool behind the counter and took a sip of the iced chai tea Maryann had brought. “Mmm.”

Iced chai was part of their Thursday ritual.

On Thursdays the shop was open until nine, and Maryann’s husband, Ted, worked late at his law office in Providence. Maryann and Lisa stopped by during the early evening lull, and while the baby napped, the two women caught up with whatever was going on in each other’s lives. During the busy summer months, the shop was Rose’s life, and it was Maryann who usually had the more interesting tales to tell. Not so today. Rose had been stewing over her run-in with Griffin for two days and was happy to be able to grouse about it to someone who would understand.

“I’d still like to know what he’s going to do with my beautiful hydrangeas.”

“His beautiful hydrangeas,” Maryann corrected with a characteristically realistic expression.

“I fished them out of the Dumpster. I wiped the gravy off them—one delicate petal at a time, I might add. And I was the one who spent hours searching for exactly the right shade of ribbon to embellish them.”

“But he’s the one who coughed up more than two hundred and sixty bucks. You do the math.”

“I have,” Rose informed her triumphantly. She produced a legal pad on which she’d scrawled column after column of figures. “If you look at all the time I spent—in the Dumpster, cleaning and drying the flowers, and assembling the garland—and then calculate an hourly wage based on average past receipts—” she glanced up “—in season, of course. And add it all up, I didn’t even come close to breaking even.”

Maryann spoke softly. “Rose, sweetie, get a grip. I know you’re riled, but try not to wake Lisa. Also, I’m not sure you can expect to be compensated for the weeks the flowers spent just hanging around drying.”

Rose’s eyes flashed. “I’d like to know why not. Firemen get paid for the time they spend sitting around waiting for a fire. The crew on a fishing boat—”

“All right, all right, I get the idea. So what’s your point?”

“That Griffin stole the garland, that’s my point. I figure he owes me two thousand, one hundred and seven dollars and thirty-six cents. Plus tax. I’m willing to round it to two thousand even.”

“And just how do you plan to collect?”

“I don’t.” She sighed and tossed the pad aside. “I admit that legally I probably don’t have a leg to stand on.”

“I’m no expert,” Maryann admitted, “but I do watch my share of Judge Judy, and I am married to a third-generation attorney, and that would be my take on the situation, too. Look at it this way—in spite of the fact that you lost two grand on the deal, it was still nearly one-hundred-percent profit. How many businesses can pull that off?”

“I suppose.” Rose leaned on the counter and propped her chin on her hand. “I’d still like to figure out some way to collect. I also wish I hadn’t offered to throw a party for him.”

Maryann’s eyes widened with fresh interest. “Do tell? What’s this guy like, anyway?”

Rose shrugged. “Tall.”

“Tall? That’s the best you can do? I seem to recall Edie Blanchard saying Devora’s nephew is a dead ringer for Pierce Brosnan.”

“When did Edie Blanchard see him?” she asked, more interested than she cared to be, a fact that would not be lost on Maryann.

“At Devora’s memorial service. That was the week we were in Baltimore for Ted’s old roommate’s wedding,” she reminded Rose. “Edie told me all about it when I got back, and I remember how she went on and on about him being the spitting image of Pierce Brosnan. I would have mentioned it to you at the time, but it seemed…trivial, considering the situation and how hard you took the loss.”

Rose nodded. “Well, trust me, Edie was wrong. He’s no Pierce Brosnan.” She paused and tilted her head to the side, thinking it over before grudgingly adding, “Pierce Brosnan’s bigger, tougher, less charming and not nearly as well-dressed brother…maybe.”

“Hey, that’s still not chopped liver.”

“Stop,” Rose ordered, as a familiar gleam appeared in her friend’s dark eyes.

“Stop what?” Maryann’s lashes fluttered with what might be taken for innocence by someone who didn’t know her so well and hadn’t spent countless evenings on the receiving end of her self-acclaimed gift for matchmaking.

“We had an agreement, remember?”

“Oh, that.” Maryann waved off the reminder. “I agreed not to arrange any blind dates for you during your busy season. I never agreed to pretend men don’t exist, or that I do not find them—individually and as a species—a source of great interest, potential and amusement.”

“Maryann, I don’t want to put a damper on your enthusiasm—”

“Much,” her friend interjected.

“But I feel I should point out that you are married.”

“Married, not dead. And, at the risk of putting some heat on that wet blanket you insist on hiding under, I would like to point out that you are neither…married or dead, that is.”

“And happily so.”

“Ha. You just think you’re happy.” Maryann hoisted herself onto the counter as gracefully as she did everything in life, and zeroed in on Rose with the zeal and determination of a used car salesman on the last day of the month. “You are as textbook a case as the person who insists he does not like calamari when he has never even tasted it.”

“Squid,” Rose corrected. “Call it what it is, Maryann—fried squid.”

“My point exactly,” Maryann crowed. “Why doesn’t this otherwise sensible man taste it before ruling out any possibility of liking it? Because even though the menu says, calamari, he’s thinking, squid. Even though everyone else at the table is chomping away and telling him how great it is, telling him, ‘Try it, you’ll like it,’ he’s got squid on the brain. Squid, squid, squid. And, I might add, these fellow diners are not strangers.

“Oh, no,” she continued, having warmed to the point where her Ivy League education and marriage into a family of hardcore WASPs inevitably gave way to the unbridled animation of her deep Italian roots. She waved her expensively manicured hands, shrugged her shoulders, tossed her head. A one-woman show. “These are the very people he chooses to break bread with, people he knows and trusts. His best friend in the whole, entire world is sitting right next to him, holding out his fork, saying, ‘Just a bite, one little bite. Trust me.’”

“All right, Maryann, you win,” Rose said. “You’ve convinced me.”

Maryann’s beautiful face glowed with amazement. “I have?”

“One hundred percent. The very next time we have dinner together, I swear I will eat the calamari right off your plate.”

“Very funny.” She slid from the counter, straightened her white shorts and replaced the pacifier in Lisa’s mouth, just as the baby began to stir.

“As you are well aware,” she said to Rose, “the calamari was merely an illustration, a device, a metaphor for happy marriage. And just as the man was afraid to try the calamari because he couldn’t stop thinking, squid, squid, squid, you are afraid to give the whole men-love-marriage thing a chance.”

“With one small, but critical difference.” Rose’s tone became emphatic. “I have tried marriage.”

“Right. To a squid,” Maryann retorted, throwing both hands in the air, palms up. “I rest my case.”

“Thank you.”

“With this one final thought.”

Rose groaned.

“If you want to go on living a giant yawning hole of a life, go right ahead.”

“Thanks, I will.” Rose raised her plastic cup as if to toast the prospect.

“But, as my gramma Viola, God rest her soul, always said, ‘God works in mysterious ways.’”

She gave that time to sink into Rose’s resistant skull before continuing. “One of these days, that door will open—” She aimed one glossy crimson fingertip at the front door. “And in will walk the one man who can fill all that emptiness inside you.”

“Let me guess…his name will be Right. Mr. Richard Right.”

“Go ahead and laugh. As my gramma was also fond of saying…” She shifted effortlessly into broken English. “Justa you wait and see, Miss Smarty-Pants.”

“I will. But if you don’t mind, I won’t hold my breath, because the entire concept of Mr. Right—that is, one specific person out of hundreds of millions who is destined to be the soul mate of another specific person—is a myth.”

Maryann planted her fists on hips that Raquel Welch in her prime would have envied, and rolled her eyes. “Like you would know?”

“I’ve read Cosmo, too, Maryann. Not to mention having a degree in sociology.”

“Phooey. What does sociology have to do with true love?”

“Plenty.” It was the best Rose could do on the spur of the moment, especially considering she was a little rusty in both areas. About all she remembered from what she had once thought would be her life’s work with the Department of Social Services was the people. She remembered families without homes, babies without mothers, men and women who’d grown old and given up. She remembered those she had struggled to help, and all the ones she couldn’t, no matter how hard she fought, how many hours she logged, how many rules she bent.

“Such as?”

Her friend’s challenge interrupted her musing. She decided to wing it. “Such as establishing the fact that a given individual’s number of potentially satisfying mates is not limited to one. Studies show there are any number of suitable candidates—a category, in other words—a societal subset of similar Homo sapiens—a particular sort of personality—a character type, if you will.” She paused to breathe. “And I assure you, no matter what delusions Edie Blanchard has about the man, Hollis Griffin is most definitely not my type.”

The bell over the door sounded.

Lisa whimpered and lost her pacifier.

Griff walked in.

Maryann looked at him, then turned to face Rose and mouthed, Pierce Brosnan.

Rose had two silent words of her own. Why me?

She was suddenly sorry she had ever mentioned Griff to Maryann, and seeing the gleam in her friend’s eye as he approached, she had a feeling she was about to be even sorrier.

Stopping beside Maryann, he looked directly at Rose. “I need to talk to you.”

She eyed him reproachfully. “Forgive my lapse into good manners, but Maryann, this is Hollis Griffin. Hollis,” she continued, imbuing the name with just the barest hint of mockery, “this is my friend, Maryann McShane, and her daughter, Lisa.”

He turned his head, nodding at Maryann and flicking his gaze over the baby, who was winding up for a good cry. “Pleased to meet you, Maryann. Beautiful baby.”

“Hello, Hollis,” Maryann replied with a little smile and a nod of her own. “And thank you. I think she’s beautiful, too.”

“The name’s Griff,” he told her.

“Griff,” she repeated.

Rose observed the brief exchange, as she had observed dozens of other men the first time they laid eyes on Maryann—all five feet, eight gorgeous inches of her. But for once, the instant she was watching for never came, the instant when the man’s eyes glazed over and he struggled to keep his jaw from dropping. Instead, Griff turned his attention back to Rose.

“Can we talk now?”

“I’m afraid—” Rose began.

Maryann cut her off. “I’m leaving.”

“That’s really not necessary,” Rose insisted, her look shorthand for Don’t you dare leave me here alone.

“Oh, but it is,” replied Maryann, declining to decipher the code as she wheeled the stroller around to face the door. “I want to get home before Lisa realizes she’s hungry for more than that pacifier.”

“But we haven’t finished our discussion,” Rose persisted.

“Oh, we will. Most definitely. For now,” she said, doggedly ignoring the silent distress signals Rose was sending, “hold this thought. From my mouth to God’s ear, and in record time.” She grinned and glanced upward. “Thank you, Gramma Viola.”

Then she was gone.

Griff glanced around, frowning. “Who’s Gramma Viola?’

Rose shook her head. “It’s…complicated.”

He nodded.

She stood there.

Alone. With Hollis Griffin. Just where she did not want to be. Devora’s nephew or no, the man was insufferable, unfriendly and tasteless. And she hadn’t been able to get him off her mind for the past two days, eight hours and sixteen minutes. Give or take a few hours of sleep here and there.

And not, it pained her to admit, simply because he had stolen her hydrangeas. Some inner sense warned that nothing would ever be simple with Griffin, and simple was how she liked things.

So why couldn’t she stop thinking about the man?

It was ridiculous. And aggravating.

“So,” she said, folding her arms across her chest for much the same reason medieval warriors raised drawbridges: to protect against invaders. He might be wearing khaki slacks and a white shirt, sleeves rolled and neck open, but Rose saw battle armor. “Talk.”

Yeah, Griff, talk, he ordered himself. That’s why you finally broke down and came here, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

Yes, he assured himself firmly. He was here because he needed the woman’s help. Period. Nothing more or less. He was, well, in a word, desperate.

“Look,” he began, shoving one hand in his pocket, then taking it out again. “About the other day…the way I left…I’m not usually that…”

“Sensitive?” she suggested, green eyes full of enjoyment.

“Exactly.” He presented her with a smile that was both grudging and self-derisive. “I realize I was way out of line, especially after you went out of your way to be friendly and make me feel welcome and all. And I just want to say I’m…”

“Sorry?” she helped out again.

He nodded, relieved. “Right. I’m sorry.”

“No problem.” Her mouth curved into a teasing smile. “Believe it or not, I wasn’t trying to offend you. I just call ’em like I see ’em.”

“Yeah. Right,” Griff muttered, preferring not to explore it any further.

“Of course, even I can be wrong.”

“What does that mean? That now you don’t think I’m sensitive?”

“What I think is that I should keep what I think about you to myself from now on.”

“Fine with me. So…truce?”

“Truce. Is that what you wanted to talk about?”

“More or less,” he hedged. He cleared his throat. “But not exactly. I also came to see you because I…” In spite of the fact that he’d practiced what he had to say all the way there, the word need lodged itself in his throat like a chunk of day-old doughnut, refusing to come up or go down. “I…want to hire you.”

She looked startled and bewildered by the announcement. Which made two of them, thought Griff.

“Hire me?”

“Your services, I mean.”

“I see. And exactly which of my services are you interested in hiring me to perform?” she enquired, her tone chilly and mocking.

“Not that,” he blurted, aghast. Could the woman possibly believe he had to pay women for their company? And that if he did, he’d go about it in such a clumsy fashion?

“That,” she repeated, her lips drawing into a soft rosy bow that did not help his concentration at all. “That being?”

Her brows arched and her lips twitched.

She was laughing, Griff realized. At him. The sheer humiliation of it bounced around like a pinball inside him, slamming his pride hard enough to trigger some abandoned, deeply buried response system. A sort of Freudian kick in the ass.

As their gazes locked, he felt his grip on the cane relax and his lips settle into a comfortable smile. “That being any service requiring negotiations of a personal nature,” he said in a soft, deep voice that was only the slightest bit rusty. “The specific service I have need for at the moment is of a less intriguing, more professional nature.”

There was no mistaking the look of heightened awareness in her pretty eyes. It was laced with wariness, and with excitement. It was a look Griff hadn’t seen on a woman in quite a while. A look he’d thought he didn’t care if he ever saw again. He’d thought wrong, he realized. Suddenly, to his surprise, he felt more at home in his skin than he had in a long time.

“To be specific, I want to hire you to help me complete Devora’s collection,” he told her. “The birds,” he prodded gently, when she continued to stare at him in silence.

“Of course.” She ran her fingers through her hair, dislodging an amber-jeweled butterfly clip so that it seemed to be dancing across the sun-kissed waves near her ear. He liked it.

“I’m sorry. I was…thinking of something else for a moment,” Rose explained, then wanted to kick herself when Griff’s indulgent smile assured her that he knew exactly what that something else had been.

She didn’t like this, not one bit, and there was no way in heaven that she was going to agree to work for the man. Hire her, indeed.

“I’d really like to help you,” she told him, “but as I explained the other day, this really is not my field of expertise.”

“Maybe not, but there’s no denying you know a hell of a lot more about antiques in general than I do.”

She conceded that with a small shrug. “You could learn.”

“You could teach me.”

“Out of the question. I’m in business to sell stuff, not train potential competitors.”

“Understood. You have my word of honor that I will never go into the antiques business for myself. What do you say?”

“I say I really have to get back to work now.”

“Does that mean you accept my offer?”

“No, it means I have a business of my own to run.”

She began rearranging a display of Limoges boxes, while he looked on.

“I get it,” he said, leaning against a mahogany armoire filled with linen. “You want me to beg.”

“No, really, I don’t—”

“I’m begging you, Rose. I’m a desperate man. A victim of my own ignorance. Take pity on me.”

“All right, I’ll do this much—I’ll make a suggestion.” She turned to him holding one of the prized miniature boxes in each hand, one a ripe strawberry, the other a tiny carousel. “If I were you, I would try the Internet.”

“I did. Unfortunately my computer skills are limited to flight simulation and engine design.”

“You didn’t turn up anything?”

He shrugged. “Only that one of the three birds I need is a Piping Plover, name derived from the Latin pluvius, or rain. The feminine form of rain, to be precise.”

“Rain has gender?”

“Evidently the Romans thought so. At any rate, this particular Plover is practically extinct. What does that tell you?”

“That you’re in trouble.”

“That’s what I’ve been saying.” He shifted so he could see her face. “Would it have any influence on your answer if I told you that you have the most amazing eyes?”

“No,” she retorted, wishing that were the truth. Just hearing him talk about her eyes in that voice—the sort of deep, dark caress of a voice that every woman hears in her most secret fantasies—had an eroding effect on her resolve. And her concentration.

“Because it’s true,” he continued. “Just when I’m convinced they couldn’t be any greener, you blink, or I do, and they’re suddenly full of silver lights.”

Rose placed the strawberry Limoges box on the shelf, picked it up and put it back down in the precisely same spot. Maryann was right. God did work in mysterious ways. Right now, he was punishing her for saying that Griff was not charming by making him disarmingly so.

“And you,” she said, putting aside both boxes and turning to face him, “are full of baloney.”

“You want me to say your eyes aren’t green? I will. It goes against my code as an officer and a gentleman, but I’ll do it. I’ll do whatever it takes to get you to say yes.”

“Does this really mean that much to you?”

“Yes. It does.”

“Why?”

Griff hesitated. Damn. He’d wanted to play this straight. He didn’t consider a little flirting, especially when it came so naturally and she did have incredible eyes, to be dishonest. But now she was digging into his actual motives and intentions, and he was going to have to make a choice. Lie, or tell the truth and make her so angry she’d never agree to help him.

“Bottom line,” he said, “it means a lot to me, for no other reason than that it meant so much to Devora. Hell, I’d never be standing here pressing you this way otherwise. She made it clear she wanted the collection completed, and I feel strangely compelled to oblige.”

All true, after a fashion, he assured himself. If he was lucky, he might be able to continue to pick his way along a fine line of omissions and insinuations.

“I guess I can understand that,” said Rose.

“Good. Because I really need your help. And I’m prepared to be generous,” he added, hoping to sway her with the more honest incentive of cold, hard cash.

At first she appeared uninterested in the offer. Then she glanced over her shoulder at the counter behind her and did that distracting, sort of pouty thing with her lips that he’d noticed she did when she was pondering something.

“How generous?” she asked.

Griff considered the price she’d charged for the string of dead flowers and named an hourly rate in keeping with it. He was desperate, he reminded himself as he saw her eyes flash with real interest, and something else—something he couldn’t quite name.

“I’ll do it,” she said. Then, before he could feel triumphant, she added, “But with a few stipulations.”

“Name them.”

“I’ll work for you, but not instead of you. I already have my hands full. I do a lot of business online,” she explained, pointing to the computer sitting on a small desk behind the counter, “so I’ll handle that part of the search. But you’ll have to be available to come along if I decide we should chase down a lead.”

“No problem. What else?”

“I’m the boss,” she declared. She waited for him to bristle the way he had the other day, and was caught off guard when instead, his eyes crinkled at the corners, and a slow, very appealing grin appeared.

“Well now, I’ve never had a lady boss. Maybe you ought to go into a little detail about how that works.”

“It’s not complicated, Griff. Think of me as your commanding officer. I’ll think of you as a raw recruit who doesn’t know his Waterford from his Wedgwood. Or, to put it more simply, I give the orders and you follow them.”

He had a little more difficulty with that one, she could tell, and she relished the moment. Truthfully, if he had asked her nicely, she would have been happy to help and would have refused to accept a penny. But he hadn’t asked; he’d waged a campaign. And she felt no qualms about recouping some of her loss on the garland.

“What sort of orders?” he asked finally.

“That’s hard to say at this point. Hunting for antiques is more art than science. You have to be constantly on the prowl and you have to have good instincts, good timing and good luck. Since we agree you don’t have any instinct for this sort of hunt, we’ll both have to rely on mine.”

“In other words, you’re the brains and I’m the muscle.”

“More or less.”

“I can live with that,” he agreed.

Rose waited. Neither his tone nor his lazy smile suggested resistance. Still, there was a prickle of apprehension at the back of her neck.

“With one little stipulation of my own,” he said.

She folded her arms. “Let’s hear it.”

“Your conditions apply to work time only. When we’re off duty, we’re on our own.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning you can forget that rule about officers not fraternizing with enlisted men.”

“I guess I can live with that,” agreed Rose, wondering what she was getting herself into.

“Good. When do we start?”

“I’ll let you know.”