The Highest Bidder. Maureen Child

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wouldn’t put the auction house at risk.” A long pause. “Would she?”

      The problem was, Charlie didn’t know. And neither did Vance apparently or he wouldn’t have asked her to listen for gossip at the house. She worried. It wasn’t a coincidence that the article had appeared in the paper the very same day she’d received that first threatening email. Whoever was behind her current trouble was no doubt also the source of that article.

      What did that tell her? A lot of nothing, really.

      “Hey,” Katie said, nudging Charlie with her shoulder. “Don’t take it so personally. These big companies are always having some kind of trouble. They’ll work it out.”

      “You’re not worried?”

      “The only thing I’m worried about is finishing the audit of last quarter’s books before my boss decides to have a stroke on my desk.”

      Charlie smiled, but it was halfhearted. Thankfully, Katie didn’t seem to notice. She’d give anything to be as uninterested in what was happening as her friend apparently was.

      “I’ve got to get back to work,” Katie said abruptly after a check of her phone for the time. “I’ll meet you for the subway ride home … unless you get a better offer.”

      “Not much chance of that,” Charlie said. “I’ll see you later.”

      She still had twenty minutes before she had to return to work and she was in no hurry to face her computer and the email program that had her so spooked. So she’d just finish her tea, and then stop by the day-care center to see Jake on her way back upstairs.

      “Waiting for someone?” Vance’s voice came from behind her.

      “Were you watching me?” she asked, turning to look up at him.

      “Watching sounds so stalkerlike,” he said as he sat down on the stone bench beside her. He laid one arm along the back of the bench and stretched out his legs, crossing his feet at the ankles. “I prefer … admiring.”

      Charlie shook her head. She’d seen so many different sides of Vance in the last week or so, she could hardly keep them all straight. He was ruthless in business, didn’t tolerate stupidity in the workplace and was gentle with her son. He laughed when she teased him and gave her looks that set fire to her insides. Now he was sprawled on a stone bench in the hot sun as if he had all the time in the world when she knew he was a workaholic.

      “I saw your friend go back to work, so thought I’d join you,” he said, tipping his face up to the brilliant blue sky and the blistering sun. “Nice day.”

      “It’s hot.”

      He tilted his head to look at her. “Yeah, but nice anyway. What’s wrong, Charlie?”

      “Nothing’s wrong.”

      “You seem a little on edge.”

      “No, just thinking.”

      “About?”

      “Lots of things.”

      “Want to narrow that down any?” he asked.

      “Not really.” She wouldn’t have known where to begin. Besides, it wasn’t as if she could tell him she was being blackmailed. And she couldn’t very well tell him that whatever thoughts weren’t being taken up by the mystery threats were devoted to him. God, could this get any more complicated?

      He straightened up, but kept that one arm along the bench, almost close enough to touch Charlie. She had the strangest impulse to lean back into him. But she didn’t do it. “Your friend. She works at Waverly’s?”

      “Yeah,” Charlie told him, taking a sip of her tea. “She’s in Accounting.”

      He nodded. “Has she said anything about the situation with Rothschild’s?”

      “She doesn’t know anything,” Charlie said on a sigh. “And she’s not really worried about it, either. She thinks it’ll all work itself out.”

      He laughed shortly but there was no humor in the sound. “I wish she was right. Truth is, we have no idea what Dalton is up to.”

      “Ms. Richardson hasn’t said anything more?”

      “No.” He frowned and looked out at the bustle of Fifth Avenue. Charlie followed his gaze and thought how odd it was that the world could go on so blithely while she was tied up in so many knots. Brilliant splashes of color sprouted from the flowers spilling from cement planters. Car horns blared, a siren wailed in the distance and a dog walker herded six dogs of varying sizes along the sidewalk.

      “I had a good time last night,” he said quietly.

      She laughed, keeping her gaze on the street because it was so much safer than staring into his gold-flecked brown eyes. “No, you didn’t.”

      He reached out, cupped her chin and turned her face to his. Then he grinned at her and the flash in his eyes took her breath away. The man was absolutely devastating when he smiled and put his heart into it.

      “Crazy,” he said as he released her. “But I really did. Not that I’m in any hurry to go back to the Zoo Diner. Appropriate name for it, by the way. But I had a good time with you.”

      God, it would be so easy to let herself fall for him when he was like this. Just the touch of his hand on her skin made her yearn for more. The soft smile on his face had her wanting to kiss that delectably curved mouth. He was the most dangerous man she had ever known.

      “Vance, what’re you doing?”

      “What do you mean?”

      She shifted on the stone bench and felt the sun-warmed heat of it soak into her. Looking into his eyes, she asked, “This. With me. Why are you being … nice?”

      One eyebrow went up. She had already noticed that he did that when something caught him off guard.

      “I have to have a reason for being nice?”

      “It’s just—” She took a breath and blew it out. “You’re acting like you’re interested in me and I’m not sure why. Or what you expect.”

      He reached over, took her hand and held it for a second or two. Long enough to get her pulse pounding and her heart rate jumping into high gear. Then he gave her hand a squeeze before letting go and said, “I like you. Is that so strange?”

      “I guess not.” Though silently she was saying, Yes, it is strange. I’m your assistant. I’m not rich. I have a baby. I’m not the kind of woman you usually spend time with, so what’s going on? She had seen enough photos of him in the society pages of the newspapers to know that most of the women in his life had trust funds, rich ex-husbands or both. So why, she asked herself again, was he coming on to her?

      “Good.” He stood up, checked his watch and said, “Lunch is over and I hear your boss is a real bastard about work hours.”

      “Yeah.” She stood up, too. “You wouldn’t believe the stories about him.”

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