note in Joseph’s voice was unmistakable, as was the warning glance he shot Antonio.
“Ruby is a gifted appraiser of artwork. Part of her job involves helping out on auction day. Today she’ll be one of your bid spotters.”
Antonio had heard of Ruby O’Toole, and her beauty, from his fellow employees. He’d also read about her in the dossier on Joseph Merrill that he’d studied before going undercover. He felt a flicker of disappointment that his planned interlude with her would not come to pass. Getting involved with Joseph Merrill’s lover on anything but a platonic basis would be most unwise. It could also prove fatal. Antonio hadn’t stayed alive this long by being stupid. He wasn’t about to start now.
Philosophically he shrugged his disappointment away. There would be someone else. There always was.
While an intimate relationship with Ruby O’Toole was definitely out, it didn’t mean he couldn’t befriend her, however. There was more than one way for Antonio to get the information he needed. He could get it from Joseph Merrill himself by earning the older man’s trust. Or, if that didn’t work, perhaps he could coax what he needed to learn from the woman with whom his boss shared nightly pillow talk. And if, at the end of the job, he found himself slapping handcuffs on her slender wrists, he would do so without a qualm.
“It’s almost time to start,” Joseph said, surveying the room with a proprietary air. “Nervous?”
Not for the reason you think. “A little.”
“What’s to worry about?” Joseph gave him a broad smile and clapped him on the back. “So it’s your first day on the job. Big deal. It’s not like you haven’t done this a thousand times before. And it’s not like this is the big time. I’m awfully proud of this place, and I do quite well financially. But face it. Sotheby’s it ain’t.”
The rapidly filling room was a hive of activity. Folding chairs, arranged in neat rows, covered the center of the polished hardwood floor. About three-quarters of the chairs had already been claimed, the occupants chatting quietly to one another and fanning themselves with their assigned bid numbers.
No, it wasn’t Sotheby’s. But a good deal of money would exchange hands that day, and it was up to Antonio—correction, Michael—to see that it moved smoothly.
Antonio glanced at his watch. “Would you like me to start?”
“It’s your ball game,” Joseph said. “I have complete faith in you. Throw out the first pitch whenever you’re ready.”
Antonio made a rapid inventory of the items in front of him. Gavel? Check. Sale catalogue? Check. Glass of water? Check. He was prepared. He knew exactly what to do.
Filing away every thought, every impression, every sight and sound, to be carefully detailed in his notes later, he picked up the gavel and banged it solidly against the table. The time for worry, speculation and nervousness was over. It was show time.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he announced in a strong voice. “Welcome to the Merrill Auction Gallery. Today we have some very special items for your consideration. If everyone is ready, let us begin.”
He turned to the large screen at his right, on which was projected a sterling silver tray. To his left, an assistant held up the actual item.
“Our first item up for bid is this beautiful tray. It was designed in the Chippendale style by Henry James Ashworth of Massachusetts. The U.S. Ambassador to Tunis received it as a gift from a visiting dignitary in 1957.”
Antonio swept his gaze over the crowd. “Who will give me five hundred dollars for this coveted collectible?”
The hands started going up, and he was on his way.
“Laura! Laura, where are you?”
Laura Langley continued walking through the crowd, her gaze focusing on each bidder as a bid was offered. It took all of her self-control not to react to the woman who was calling her name. She was Ruby O’Toole, she reminded herself. The odds of anyone who knew Laura Langley being in this room were not high.
“There you are.” The urgency in the woman’s voice changed to fond exasperation. “I can’t turn my back on you for a minute, you little minx.”
Out of her peripheral vision, Laura saw a woman scoop up a toddler. The tension left her body, and she relaxed.
She was Ruby O’Toole, she reminded herself again. She couldn’t afford to forget that.
The image brought to her mind by the name she had been saddled with was of a zaftig, peroxide blonde, something she most definitely was not. At five-six, with stubbornly straight brown hair, and weighing at most 125 pounds soaking wet, not to mention almost as flat-chested and hipless as her brother, she could hardly be called zaftig.
Though the thought amused her, she didn’t smile. In her role as Ruby O’Toole she did a lot of smiling. But, left to her own devices, Laura Langley rarely smiled.
There were other differences between Laura and Ruby. Considerable differences. Laura had an IQ of 145 and was a member of Mensa. Ruby had an IQ of 110, which was strictly average. The nickname braniac had haunted Laura throughout her school years. Ruby had never been accused of deep thought. Laura cared nothing about fashion. Ruby was obsessed with clothing and accessories. Laura hadn’t looked at a man in a romantic way for four long years. Ruby lived and breathed for male attention. Laura was real. Ruby was purely make-believe.
They did have one thing in common: their knack for appraising art. That knack was the reason why Laura had spent the last part of April and all of May in Pittsburgh, instead of on the streets of New York City, which was her home. It was now the first weekend in June. The way things were going, it looked as if she’d be spending this month here, too.
She had never intended to be a cop. In fact, she’d been teaching art history in a Queens high school when, at the age of twenty-four, fate had stepped in and turned her life upside down.
Four years ago her husband pulled into a gas station with their infant son strapped snugly in his car seat. A drug deal gone sour on the opposite corner led to the exchange of gunfire. When the bullets stopped flying, Laura no longer had a husband or a child. They had become just another statistic, a line item on a police report indicating the NYPD was losing its war on drugs.
After she’d climbed out of her depression, which had taken the better part of a year, she had gotten mad. Raging mad. The way Laura saw it at the time, she had two choices. She could either go insane with anger and grief, or she could do something to make the loss of her husband and son mean more than a senseless waste. For a while it had been iffy which alternative she would select. In the end, though, she had chosen to act.
Thus, an unprepossessing art history teacher had been transformed into first a patrolwoman and later an undercover cop for the New York City Police Department. A highly decorated undercover cop who seemed fearless in the face of danger because she had nothing left to lose.
Unfortunately, the Laura who had arrived in Pittsburgh six weeks earlier was not the same woman who had excelled at the Police Academy. For one thing, she was no longer quite so fearless. The rage that had consumed her for so long now was abating, as was the single-mindedness with which she had allowed her job to swallow up every aspect of her life for three long years. While she still keenly mourned the loss of her husband and son, the memory of that loss no longer filled her every waking
