Never Trust A Lady

poised halfway between the pack and his lips. The woman was gazing at him, the parentheses of lines around her mouth and the fan at the corners of her eyes both deepening as she shifted her gaze meaningfully toward a prominently displayed No Smoking sign.

Ah, hell. With a nod that was just barely polite, Hawk turned his back on the lady and strolled down the foyer toward the front entrance. One look through the glass doors assured him that the icy drizzle that had snarled traffic on the beltway that morning and caused him to miss the auction preview was still falling. That fact made his desire for a cigarette that much more compelling, and did nothing to improve his temper.

He considered his options while he gazed out at glistening gray walkways bordered by bowing daffodils and beds of drenched pansies, tapping the cigarette restlessly against the pack. He could feel the woman’s presence there in the foyer behind him. Feel her watching him. Studying him, as a moment ago he’d studied her. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.

Deciding that no nicotine craving was worth letting the woman out of his sight, and getting wet and chilled to the bone in the bargain. Hawk dropped the unlit cigarette into a trash container near the doors. He was tucking the pack into his pocket, when the woman’s voice startled him once again, wafting from the far end of the foyer like a puff of a breeze on a still spring afternoon, unexpectedly warming, amused and sympathetic.

“It is a bother, isn’t it?”

“I beg your pardon?” His own voice was hard-edged, partly with suspicion, partly in self-defense.

She gestured with her left hand, with the checkbook she still held. “Smoking. They do make it as difficult as possible for you these days, don’t they?”

Hawk gave an all-purpose shrug and moved toward her, his mind spinning with possibilities. He paused when there was still some distance between them and said warily, “You’re not a smoker.”

The lines around her mouth appeared briefly, a rueful little smile that didn’t touch her eyes. “Not me. Married to one for twenty-one years, though.”

“Ah.” He nodded and turned a shoulder toward her-not impolitely, just a firm but gentle closing.

Which she ignored. Her voice came again, same friendliness, same sympathy tinged with amusement. “I take it you’re here with someone.” He turned his head, looked at her along one shoulder, eyebrows lifted. Her smile asked pardon for the liberty. “Somehow you just don’t look like the antiques type. Are you here with your wife?”

Hawk shook his head, again unprepared for the apparent openness, the casual friendliness of the woman. Then he muttered, improvising like mad, “I’m meeting someone. A…friend.” He made a quick movement with his head toward the outer doors, conveying, he hoped, a touch of annoyance. “Apparently she’s late.”

The woman nodded in a commiserating sort of way. “Probably stuck in traffic. It’s really nasty out.”

“Yeah,” said Hawk. “That’s probably it.”

And then, for a change, she was silent. It was a curious, almost expectant little silence. She seemed to be studying him again, but he didn’t want to risk making eye contact with her to find out for sure. There wasn’t much he could be certain of where this woman was concemed, but all his instincts were telling him he didn’t want her gazing into the windows of his soul.

She took a step toward him. He tensed. Then, “Hi-I’m Jane Carlysle,” she said, and held out her hand.

It would have been impossible not to take it. It was a strange sensation, Hawk discovered, shaking hands with someone who might be a cold-blooded and accomplished assassin. Wouldn’t be the first time he’d done it, of course; he wasn’t sure why this time was different. But he could feel those currents of excitement racing around under his skin. Feel his perceptions sharpen and his chest tingle, as if he’d just sucked in a lungful of crystalclear, bone-cold air.

“Tom-Tom Hawkins,” he said, and watched her smile lines deepen once again.

He doesn’t smile, thought Jane. A shame, too; she had a feeling he might be quite nice-looking if he did. Not that he was unattractive as he was-quite the contrary. It was just that there was something rather off-putting about his rugged, slightly asymmetrical features…a certain hardness to his mouth, a coldness in the eyes. She thought that if he would only smile it would make all the difference in the world. She thought she would very much like to make him smile.

Before she could wonder why that should be so, before she could even begin to wonder how to go about it, she saw the man’s eyes shift and darken, foreshadowing the touch she felt an instant later on her elbow.

“Excuse me, miss, uh, ma’am?”

Turning, Jane recognized the very same individual who, only a short time ago, had been bidding furiously against her for her precious painting. The man she’d last seen stretched out on the auditorium floor surrounded by curious auction-goers and concerned employees of Rathskeller’s. The “Arab terrorist”-though at the moment he didn’t look capable of terrorizing anyone. His hair was mussed, his tie askew and his olive-toned complexion had a decidedly greenish tinge, all of which played strongly to her compassionate nature and mother-hen instincts.

Reftexively, she put out a hand to touch his arm and, in a voice husky with concern, said, “My goodness, are you all right?”

The man waved that aside with an impatient grimace. He glanced around, then took Jane’s elbow and maneuvered her a couple of steps closer to the auditorium doors and away from the third party present. That accomplished, he lowered his head and said in a low voice, “Can I talk to you a minute? About that picture…”

Jane’s heartbeat quickened. Chilly little currents of unease stirred across the back of her neck and shivered her skin with goose bumps. For some reason, she found herself looking over her shoulder, searching for the unsmiling stranger named Tom Hawkins, as if he represented some sort of haven, or rescuer. She was relieved to find him over near the windows, only a polite distance away, scowling at his watch.

She turned back to the “terrorist,” mentally fortifying herself the way she did when she was forced to be firm with one of her daughters. “Sir, I’m sorry about what happened to you, but-”

“I’d like to buy it from you.” Keeping his hold on Jane’s elbow, the man reached inside his jacket and pulled out a wallet. The fingers on her arm were tense as wire. “I’ll pay you cash. What was the final bid? I’ll top it by a hundred.”

Jane’s breath caught; jolts of alarm shot through all her nerves and muscles. Instinctively, she took a step backward, jerking her arm free. “I don’t want to sell it. I just bought it.”

“Please.” The man held up both hands, palms out, almost, it seemed to her, in supplication. “I know you probably think I’m nuts. Maybe I am nuts.” He made an unconvincing attempt to smile. “The thing is, well, darn it, I really wanted that particular painting. See-it’s my fiancee-she just fell in love with it. I was going to get it for her as a surprise. That’s why money’s no object, okay? I was willing to go as high as it took.” Another of those stiff, almost painful-looking smiles. “If I hadn’t passed out like that don’t know what happened. I mean, I’ve never had anything like that happen to me before.”

“Maybe it was the excitement,” Jane suggested, her natural compassion now struggling with an inexplicable sense of guilt. It made her feel awkward, almost embarrassed. “You know, if you’re not used to auctions…”

The man’s smile was wry, and much more believable than his previous attempts. He snorted and said, “Maybe,” in such a tone of gloom and disappointment that Jane began to feel sorry for him.

But dammit, she loved that painting, too. It was hers-she’d won it fair and square. “I wish I could help you,” she said with a helpless shrug. “I really do. But I just-”

“Ah, come on,” the man pleaded, opening his wallet. “I told you, money’s no object Try me-name your price.”

Jane gave an incredulous laugh. This whole thing was just so bizarre. Again she glanced over her shoulder, searching for the tall, angular form of the man called Tom Hawkins. Yes, he was still there, over by the windows, standing with his back to her, looking out at the rain, restlessly jingling things in his pockets. And yet, she had the strangest feeling he was listening to every word, missing nothing.

“I’m sorry, Mr…”

“Campbell-Aaron Campbell,” he offered eagerly, as if he hoped the name might head off the inevitable.

Campbell? “I’m truly sorry,” she said, making her refusal as kind and as firm as she knew how, girding herself against her own generous instincts. “I wish I could be unselfish about it, but it happens that I’ve fallen in love with that particular painting myself. I know how much you must want it, but I also know that if I did give in and sell it to you, I’d very much regret it. I’m sorry…” She was backing away from him now, a hand upraised as if to physically ward him off. “I’m sorry.”

Still he persisted, following her beseechingly, holding something out to her-a business card. “If you should change your mind-”