as she paced the interior of Vance’s office. “Roark didn’t have time to explain how he came to lay claim to the statue on our behalf. At first, the media was just frenzied about the statue. Now, they’re looking for details and I’ve got nothing.”
“Just leave it alone, Ann,” Vance suggested. “The press is good for the house and when we auction off the statue, it’s going to solidify our reputation and quiet any more rumors.”
“I hope you’re right,” she said wryly.
“I’m always right,” he quipped, thinking that he had said just that to Charlie a few days ago, after their unsuccessful attempt to stop her blackmailer.
“You haven’t heard anything else?” Ann walked to his desk and leaned over, planting both hands on the edge. “No more rumors about a possible hostile takeover by Dalton?”
“Nothing. You?”
“No, everything’s gotten quiet and that worries me,” she admitted. Pushing up from the desk, she folded her arms over her chest and added, “I’ve got Kendra looking into it, trying to feel people out, see if anything pops, but so far, nothing.” She frowned slightly. “Plus, have you noticed, there’s been no response from Rothschild’s about our acquiring the Gold Heart. Doesn’t that seem odd to you?”
“Excuse me, Mr. Waverly.”
A voice spoke up from the open doorway and Vance winced. Hell, his mind had been so scattered lately, he hadn’t even shut the door when Ann showed up to talk. Anyone could have been listening to their conversation. But with Charlie out at lunch with her friend Katie, he’d left the door open purposely to be able to keep an eye on the outer office.
Vance looked at the mailroom kid. Teddy. That was his name. Couldn’t have been more than twenty-two, with bright red hair, green eyes and so many freckles he looked as if he’d been spattered with brown paint.
“Come on in, Teddy.”
“Sorry to interrupt, but your assistant’s not at her desk and I’ve got the mail here and—” He stopped nervously. “Ms. Richardson,” he said and just barely resisted bowing.
Ann was gracious, as always. She gave the kid a smile and said, “It’s okay, Teddy. We’ve all got our jobs to do, don’t we?”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answered, leaving his pushcart at the door and carrying a stack of mail to Vance. Once he’d handed it over, Teddy hurried out again.
When he was gone, Ann turned back to Vance and repeated, “Dalton being so quiet about our good fortune. Doesn’t it worry you?”
“It does,” he said, glancing briefly at the stack of mail and the one oversize manila envelope beneath all the others. Then he stood up to walk around to the front of his desk. Leaning back onto it, he continued, “It’s not like Dalton to be so circumspect. I fully expected him to at least question the authenticity of the statue. Do something to take the shine off the good press we’ve been getting lately.”
“Exactly,” Ann said. “He’s up to something. I just know it.”
“Then all we can do is wait for him to make a move,” he said, not liking that one bit. He hated waiting. Hated feeling as if his hands were tied. And he really hated not being able to ease Charlie’s mind about these threats that were still hanging over her head.
Just a day away from the blackmailer’s weekend deadline, Vance was no closer to discovering the man’s identity. Though the sense of familiarity had been bugging him for days.
Who the hell was that guy?
“I’m not very patient, I’m afraid,” Ann said, with a quick glance at her wristwatch.
“No, neither am I. But I don’t think we have a choice this time.”
“Which only makes it harder,” Ann said, giving him a rueful smile. “Thanks for listening to me, Vance. I’ve got to run to make my meeting with the heads of publicity. They want to show me what they’ve come up with so far on the Gold Heart auction.”
“Already?” Impressive, he thought, since the auction wouldn’t be held for months yet.
“This is the biggest auction we’ve—anyone’s—ever done,” Ann said simply. “We’re going to see to it that this is the most talked about event of the year.”
“Sounds like a plan,” he said, then turned back to his desk when she’d gone.
There was so much going on at Waverly’s these days, there was a damn near tangible thread of anxiety slipping through the whole house. And everyone was feeling it.
He sat down and picked through the mail, setting most of it aside for Charlie to deal with when she got back from lunch. But the thick manila envelope got his attention. There was his name in big block letters. No return address. Heavy. Vance balanced it on his palms and finally flipped it over, undid the clasp and slid the contents onto his desk.
There was no note.
Only pictures.
Dozens of them. Full color and black-and-white and they were all of the same man. Vance tensed as he flipped through them quickly. Every photo showed the same man wearing a different disguise. There was enough about the shape of his head, the way he stood, the way he squinted into the light, that all seemed familiar, again and again, despite the ways he was trying to hide his real identity. In some, he wore colored contacts, others, those magnifying glasses Vance had seen him in. In every photo, he wore wigs, sometimes a scar, sometimes an eye patch, always something to distract the viewer. But it was always the same man.
Charlie’s blackmailer.
“Who the hell took these?” Vance muttered as he found a shot of the mystery man talking to Charlie outside the Coffee Spot the day of their scheduled meet. Vance had been there. He hadn’t seen anyone pointing a camera, although, he’d been too busy focusing on Charlie to have noticed. He continued looking through the photos until he came to the last one.
Then he dropped the others and studied the photo of a good-looking man with wide, dark blue eyes. He tapped the photo with his finger as a flare of satisfaction shot through him.
“Dammit,” he whispered in satisfaction, “I knew you were familiar.” He knew this guy. Had known him for years.
Henry Boyle, one of two assistants to Dalton Rothschild, CEO of Rothschild’s auction house. “You son of a bitch. I’ve got you now. And whatever you and Dalton are planning—not going to work.”
He studied that photo for a long minute or two, reveling in the pleasure he felt at the knowledge that he could tell Charlie her problems were over. Now that he knew who was behind all this, he was going to the police. They’d have Henry arrested before end of business.
Then, as he continued to look at the photo, something else dawned on him. Something that he should have guessed. Who the hell else would have known all Charlie’s secrets? Who else would have known what to threaten her with?
“I know those eyes of yours, too, you bastard,” he said to the man in the picture. “I see them every day, in your son.”
Charlie’s
