again. But his finger closed over hers and he smiled as if he knew what he did to her. The jerk.
Grant unlocked the door and held it open for her. The back office was layered in dust, and the top drawer of the battered steel desk was open. The folding chair sat askew and Delia was positive her father hadn’t fixed the lock on the filing cabinet. In what remained of the floor space, he’d stacked boxes, stolen milk crates, bags of packing peanuts and rolls of bubble wrap in precarious columns from floor to ceiling. She was embarrassed. She’d been in Grant’s warehouses. She knew and respected that he ran a tight ship.
“I really think you should give me a chance to clean up in here.” She flapped her hands loosely. Turning to face him, she was drawn up short, her nose only an inch from his chest.
“I’ll stay.”
Jerk. Planting her palms on his chest, she pushed back against her desire to lean in. Her butt landed on the desk. She reached into the open drawer so he wouldn’t see her flushed face.
“Let me find the list.” Delia shuffled through the stack of paper within and pulled out a crumpled sheaf of papers covered with her father’s spidery scrawl. Grant pulled it from her hands and her finger gripped empty air. She huffed out a breath in irritation.
“You don’t understand. It’s a mess out there. You won’t find half of what’s on those sheets without my help. Some of those pieces are treasures. Some might even be from Steward House.”
“After all these years?”
“You know how it works. People buy things at local sales and bring them back when they fall on hard times. Who knows what you’ll find in a dusty corner?”
“If it’s worthwhile, I’ll find it.”
His calm confidence infuriated her. “Like the Claudel?” she challenged.
“Exactly like the Claudel.”
“Do you remember—” She bit down before the last word came out— me?
“Who could forget? That sculpture is one of my all-time best finds.”
Delia’s breath was shallow and her chest was tight. She closed her eyes and slid off the desk. “Let’s get to work,” she muttered, as she brushed past his chest to the door to the front of the shop. She resisted the urge to reach back for her purse, just so she could brush up against him again.
Chapter Five
Delia watched Grant’s face as they entered the front part of the shop, wondering if he sensed the laughter and the chatter of the statues on the shelves and up the aisle. People’s moods infused the stones around them, but Delia tried not to kid herself that the opposite was true, that others sensed what she heard, and that she was not alone in what her father and mother had insisted were delusions.
His face remained relaxed and confident, giving no indication that he noticed a thing.
When Grant stopped to examine a stack of paintings, she nodded at a pair of alabaster shepherdesses gossiping on a high shelf next to an eyeless Raggedy Ann doll. The room hummed with voices, all of them new since Christmas. Obviously Father had gotten his hands on a small property. In the past few years he had fewer and fewer occasions to cross paths with big dealers like Grant. Father bought out the estates of retired teachers. Grant bought out New York apartment buildings, Estonian castles and California ranches.
“Why are you here? I mean, it doesn’t fit. Steward House and…this—” Delia waved her hand at the room. “This is small potatoes for you. Surely you have someone you could have passed this job off on.”
“My business is my business, Miss Forrest. You’re here now on my sufferance. Don’t overstep.”
“Who-eee!” a high feminine voice called out. “We have a live one.”
Delia fumed, but she was quickly distracted. Beyond the shop counter tucked into the back corner of the room, a brown marble bust of a Roman matron sat on a waist-high plinth, her carefully carved curls rolling in waves back from the diadem of her forehead. She was a late
Grant unlocked the door and held it open for her. The back office was layered in dust, and the top drawer of the battered steel desk was open. The folding chair sat askew and Delia was positive her father hadn’t fixed the lock on the filing cabinet. In what remained of the floor space, he’d stacked boxes, stolen milk crates, bags of packing peanuts and rolls of bubble wrap in precarious columns from floor to ceiling. She was embarrassed. She’d been in Grant’s warehouses. She knew and respected that he ran a tight ship.
“I really think you should give me a chance to clean up in here.” She flapped her hands loosely. Turning to face him, she was drawn up short, her nose only an inch from his chest.
“I’ll stay.”
Jerk. Planting her palms on his chest, she pushed back against her desire to lean in. Her butt landed on the desk. She reached into the open drawer so he wouldn’t see her flushed face.
“Let me find the list.” Delia shuffled through the stack of paper within and pulled out a crumpled sheaf of papers covered with her father’s spidery scrawl. Grant pulled it from her hands and her finger gripped empty air. She huffed out a breath in irritation.
“You don’t understand. It’s a mess out there. You won’t find half of what’s on those sheets without my help. Some of those pieces are treasures. Some might even be from Steward House.”
“After all these years?”
“You know how it works. People buy things at local sales and bring them back when they fall on hard times. Who knows what you’ll find in a dusty corner?”
“If it’s worthwhile, I’ll find it.”
His calm confidence infuriated her. “Like the Claudel?” she challenged.
“Exactly like the Claudel.”
“Do you remember—” She bit down before the last word came out— me?
“Who could forget? That sculpture is one of my all-time best finds.”
Delia’s breath was shallow and her chest was tight. She closed her eyes and slid off the desk. “Let’s get to work,” she muttered, as she brushed past his chest to the door to the front of the shop. She resisted the urge to reach back for her purse, just so she could brush up against him again.
Chapter Five
Delia watched Grant’s face as they entered the front part of the shop, wondering if he sensed the laughter and the chatter of the statues on the shelves and up the aisle. People’s moods infused the stones around them, but Delia tried not to kid herself that the opposite was true, that others sensed what she heard, and that she was not alone in what her father and mother had insisted were delusions.
His face remained relaxed and confident, giving no indication that he noticed a thing.
When Grant stopped to examine a stack of paintings, she nodded at a pair of alabaster shepherdesses gossiping on a high shelf next to an eyeless Raggedy Ann doll. The room hummed with voices, all of them new since Christmas. Obviously Father had gotten his hands on a small property. In the past few years he had fewer and fewer occasions to cross paths with big dealers like Grant. Father bought out the estates of retired teachers. Grant bought out New York apartment buildings, Estonian castles and California ranches.
“Why are you here? I mean, it doesn’t fit. Steward House and…this—” Delia waved her hand at the room. “This is small potatoes for you. Surely you have someone you could have passed this job off on.”
“My business is my business, Miss Forrest. You’re here now on my sufferance. Don’t overstep.”
“Who-eee!” a high feminine voice called out. “We have a live one.”
Delia fumed, but she was quickly distracted. Beyond the shop counter tucked into the back corner of the room, a brown marble bust of a Roman matron sat on a waist-high plinth, her carefully carved curls rolling in waves back from the diadem of her forehead. She was a late
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