Read Online Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell - Free Book Online
Authors: Elizabeth Lowell
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sheets?”
Serena was sure that hadn’t been what the old man said, but she answered anyway. “This is all I have.”
He snorted. “Likely story. Want to try again? Where are the rest of the sheets?”
“Yes, let’s try again,” Serena said tightly. “I don’t have any other pages.”
Warrick gave her a look out of eyes that had faded from their original brilliant blue but had lost none of their searching clarity. “When did she die?”
“A year ago.”
“Why did it take you so long to get these appraised?”
Irritation flared. Serena subdued it and tried to remember that Warrick had the reputation of being as brilliant an appraiser as he was rude. Even so, she had no intention of going over the whole sad, sordid tale of her grandmother’s death.
“I’m a busy woman,” Serena said through her teeth.
“And I’m an old man. I don’t have time to waste with a clever young baggage who thinks to take up where her purported relatives left off.”
She stared at him, wondering suddenly if he wasn’t more than a little bit senile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
He snorted.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said evenly. “I’ll take the pages somewhere else to be appraised.”
“Waste of time. We both know exactly what they are. How much do you want for the lot? A hundred thousand?”
“There has been a misunderstanding.” She spoke with great care, because she hated to add to the stereotype of redheads and quick tempers. “I’m not here to sell these pages.”
“That I believe,” Warrick retorted. “Two hundred thousand.”
Serena looked at the other people in the room. They met her glance with barely subdued curiosity.
“Three hundred thousand. Each,” Warrick said. “But for that I want the rest of the book. All of it, mind you. I won’t be fooled.”
With a feeling of unreality, Serena turned back to the old man sitting in the high-backed carved ebony chair. “No.”
A flush of anger tinted his pale, wrinkled cheeks. “If you think you can fuck with—”
“You’re tired,” Carson cut in. His cool words overrode his employer’s rusty voice. “It’s been a long day for you. We’ll discuss this again when you’re rested.”
For several moments the two men traded stares. Then Warrick hissed something under his breath, stood, and stalked from the room.
Garrison sighed in relief. “I’m sorry, Serena. Grandfather is a man of strong opinions.”
“His home. His privilege.” Serena went to the table and began buckling up the portfolio.
“You have every right to be angry,” Carson said, “but there’s no need for you to have made this long trip for nothing. We have a guest room for you and a safe for the portfolio, if you like. In the morning we can talk again. He’ll be more reasonable. I promise you.”
“Thank you, but no.” Serena gave Carson a tight smile. “I have work to do tomorrow.”
Actually, she planned on staying in Palm Springs, sleeping late, and then driving out to her grandmother’s house—her own house now—to see what was left after the triple disaster of fire, crime-scene investigation, and a year of neglect.
“Obviously Mr. Warrick thinks the sheets are valuable,” Carson said. “I’m uneasy about letting a young woman alone go driving off into the night with more than a million dollars’ worth of art. Let us keep it for you until you decide to sell.”
She tucked the portfolio under her arm and looked straight into Carson’s light-blue eyes. “Will the gate open automatically or do I have to call the house again?”
“I’ll show you out,” Garrison said.
“Nonsense,” Cleary cut in. “Let Paul do it.” She gave the portfolio a glance that was as cold as her voice. “When you change your mind about selling those sheets, call us. But don’t wait too long. The offer won’t be open indefinitely.”
In silence Cleary and Garrison watched Serena walk out of the room. The line of the younger woman’s
Serena was sure that hadn’t been what the old man said, but she answered anyway. “This is all I have.”
He snorted. “Likely story. Want to try again? Where are the rest of the sheets?”
“Yes, let’s try again,” Serena said tightly. “I don’t have any other pages.”
Warrick gave her a look out of eyes that had faded from their original brilliant blue but had lost none of their searching clarity. “When did she die?”
“A year ago.”
“Why did it take you so long to get these appraised?”
Irritation flared. Serena subdued it and tried to remember that Warrick had the reputation of being as brilliant an appraiser as he was rude. Even so, she had no intention of going over the whole sad, sordid tale of her grandmother’s death.
“I’m a busy woman,” Serena said through her teeth.
“And I’m an old man. I don’t have time to waste with a clever young baggage who thinks to take up where her purported relatives left off.”
She stared at him, wondering suddenly if he wasn’t more than a little bit senile. “I’m afraid I don’t understand.”
He snorted.
“I’m sorry to have bothered you,” she said evenly. “I’ll take the pages somewhere else to be appraised.”
“Waste of time. We both know exactly what they are. How much do you want for the lot? A hundred thousand?”
“There has been a misunderstanding.” She spoke with great care, because she hated to add to the stereotype of redheads and quick tempers. “I’m not here to sell these pages.”
“That I believe,” Warrick retorted. “Two hundred thousand.”
Serena looked at the other people in the room. They met her glance with barely subdued curiosity.
“Three hundred thousand. Each,” Warrick said. “But for that I want the rest of the book. All of it, mind you. I won’t be fooled.”
With a feeling of unreality, Serena turned back to the old man sitting in the high-backed carved ebony chair. “No.”
A flush of anger tinted his pale, wrinkled cheeks. “If you think you can fuck with—”
“You’re tired,” Carson cut in. His cool words overrode his employer’s rusty voice. “It’s been a long day for you. We’ll discuss this again when you’re rested.”
For several moments the two men traded stares. Then Warrick hissed something under his breath, stood, and stalked from the room.
Garrison sighed in relief. “I’m sorry, Serena. Grandfather is a man of strong opinions.”
“His home. His privilege.” Serena went to the table and began buckling up the portfolio.
“You have every right to be angry,” Carson said, “but there’s no need for you to have made this long trip for nothing. We have a guest room for you and a safe for the portfolio, if you like. In the morning we can talk again. He’ll be more reasonable. I promise you.”
“Thank you, but no.” Serena gave Carson a tight smile. “I have work to do tomorrow.”
Actually, she planned on staying in Palm Springs, sleeping late, and then driving out to her grandmother’s house—her own house now—to see what was left after the triple disaster of fire, crime-scene investigation, and a year of neglect.
“Obviously Mr. Warrick thinks the sheets are valuable,” Carson said. “I’m uneasy about letting a young woman alone go driving off into the night with more than a million dollars’ worth of art. Let us keep it for you until you decide to sell.”
She tucked the portfolio under her arm and looked straight into Carson’s light-blue eyes. “Will the gate open automatically or do I have to call the house again?”
“I’ll show you out,” Garrison said.
“Nonsense,” Cleary cut in. “Let Paul do it.” She gave the portfolio a glance that was as cold as her voice. “When you change your mind about selling those sheets, call us. But don’t wait too long. The offer won’t be open indefinitely.”
In silence Cleary and Garrison watched Serena walk out of the room. The line of the younger woman’s
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