it remains in your family, to offer a reasonable price for it.”
“Why me? Why not contact my mother? You’re a generation closer that way.”
“You were closer geographically. But if you’ve no knowledge of the piece, that’s my next step.”
“Your client sounds pretty screwy, Slick.” Her lips curved as she bit into her toast. Her eyebrows winged up, making the beauty mark a velvet period on a sexy exclamation point. “What’s his definition of a reasonable price?”
“I’m authorized to offer five hundred.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
Jesus, Jesus, she thought as she continued to eat with every appearance of calm. That kind of money would fatten her get-out-of-Dodge fund. More, it would help her get back to the States without losing face.
But the man must have tagged her as an idiot if he thought she was buying his story from top to bottom.
“A silver statue?”
“Of a woman,” he said, “about six inches high, holding a kind of measuring spool. Do you know it or not?”
“Don’t rush me.” She signaled for more coffee and continued to plow her way through the eggs. “I might have seen it. My family has a lot of dust catchers, and my grandmother was the world title holder. I can check on it, if you add another fifty to that,” she said with a nod toward the note sticking out from under Yeats.
“Don’t wind me up, Cleo.”
“A girl’s got to make a living. And the extra fifty’s less than it would cost your client to send you to the States. Plus, my family’s more likely to cooperate with me than a stranger.”
Which is bullshit, of course, she thought.
Considering his options, Gideon slid the half bill across the table. “You’ll get the other fifty if and when you earn it.”
“Come by the club tomorrow night.” She plucked up the bill, stuffed it into her jeans pocket.
Not an easy feat, Gideon mused, as those jeans appeared to be painted on.
“Bring the money.” She slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the eggs, Slick.”
“Cleo.” He closed a hand over hers, squeezed just hard enough to be sure he had her attention. “You try to hose me, it’s going to make me irritable.”
“I’ll remember that.” She tossed him an easy grin, tugged her hand free, then strolled out with a deliberate swing of hips.
She made a statement, Gideon mused. Any man with a single red corpuscle would want to fuck her. But only a fool would trust her.
Eileen Sullivan hadn’t raised any fools.
CLEO WENT STRAIGHT to her apartment, though calling the single room an apartment was like calling a Twinkie a fine dessert. You had to be either really young or stupidly optimistic.
Her clothes were hung on the iron rod that was screwed into a water-stained wall, stuffed into the banana-crate-sized dresser with its missing drawer, or tossed where they landed. She’d decided the problem with growing up with a maid was you never learned to be tidy.
Even with its single dresser, cot-sized bed and lopsided table, the room was crowded. But it was cheap and boasted its own bath. Such as it was.
While the room wasn’t to her taste—and she was neither really young nor in any way optimistic—she could cover the weekly rent with one night’s tips.
She’d installed the dead bolt lock herself after one of her neighbors had tried to muscle his way into her room for a free show. It gave her a considerable sense of security.
She switched on the light, tossed her purse aside. She went to the dresser, pawing her way through the top drawer. She’d had a considerable wardrobe when she’d landed in Prague, and a great deal of it had been new lingerie.
Bought, she thought viciously as she shoved through silk and lace, to delight one Sidney Walter. The prick. Then again, when a woman let herself spend a couple grand on undies because she was hot for a man, she deserved getting screwed. In every possible sense.
Sidney had certainly obliged her, Cleo thought now. Heating up the sheets in the
“Why me? Why not contact my mother? You’re a generation closer that way.”
“You were closer geographically. But if you’ve no knowledge of the piece, that’s my next step.”
“Your client sounds pretty screwy, Slick.” Her lips curved as she bit into her toast. Her eyebrows winged up, making the beauty mark a velvet period on a sexy exclamation point. “What’s his definition of a reasonable price?”
“I’m authorized to offer five hundred.”
“Pounds?”
“Pounds.”
Jesus, Jesus, she thought as she continued to eat with every appearance of calm. That kind of money would fatten her get-out-of-Dodge fund. More, it would help her get back to the States without losing face.
But the man must have tagged her as an idiot if he thought she was buying his story from top to bottom.
“A silver statue?”
“Of a woman,” he said, “about six inches high, holding a kind of measuring spool. Do you know it or not?”
“Don’t rush me.” She signaled for more coffee and continued to plow her way through the eggs. “I might have seen it. My family has a lot of dust catchers, and my grandmother was the world title holder. I can check on it, if you add another fifty to that,” she said with a nod toward the note sticking out from under Yeats.
“Don’t wind me up, Cleo.”
“A girl’s got to make a living. And the extra fifty’s less than it would cost your client to send you to the States. Plus, my family’s more likely to cooperate with me than a stranger.”
Which is bullshit, of course, she thought.
Considering his options, Gideon slid the half bill across the table. “You’ll get the other fifty if and when you earn it.”
“Come by the club tomorrow night.” She plucked up the bill, stuffed it into her jeans pocket.
Not an easy feat, Gideon mused, as those jeans appeared to be painted on.
“Bring the money.” She slid out of the booth. “Thanks for the eggs, Slick.”
“Cleo.” He closed a hand over hers, squeezed just hard enough to be sure he had her attention. “You try to hose me, it’s going to make me irritable.”
“I’ll remember that.” She tossed him an easy grin, tugged her hand free, then strolled out with a deliberate swing of hips.
She made a statement, Gideon mused. Any man with a single red corpuscle would want to fuck her. But only a fool would trust her.
Eileen Sullivan hadn’t raised any fools.
CLEO WENT STRAIGHT to her apartment, though calling the single room an apartment was like calling a Twinkie a fine dessert. You had to be either really young or stupidly optimistic.
Her clothes were hung on the iron rod that was screwed into a water-stained wall, stuffed into the banana-crate-sized dresser with its missing drawer, or tossed where they landed. She’d decided the problem with growing up with a maid was you never learned to be tidy.
Even with its single dresser, cot-sized bed and lopsided table, the room was crowded. But it was cheap and boasted its own bath. Such as it was.
While the room wasn’t to her taste—and she was neither really young nor in any way optimistic—she could cover the weekly rent with one night’s tips.
She’d installed the dead bolt lock herself after one of her neighbors had tried to muscle his way into her room for a free show. It gave her a considerable sense of security.
She switched on the light, tossed her purse aside. She went to the dresser, pawing her way through the top drawer. She’d had a considerable wardrobe when she’d landed in Prague, and a great deal of it had been new lingerie.
Bought, she thought viciously as she shoved through silk and lace, to delight one Sidney Walter. The prick. Then again, when a woman let herself spend a couple grand on undies because she was hot for a man, she deserved getting screwed. In every possible sense.
Sidney had certainly obliged her, Cleo thought now. Heating up the sheets in the
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