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  “I’m not sure I could do it,” Gwen said, resting her chin against her hands. “It’s too hard, knowing what he did and seeing him again. He was practically family.”

  Fresh anger coursed through Joss. Stewart had worked at the store when Gwen had been a gawky fourteen-year-old, looking up to him. She’d trusted him. They’d all trusted him and gotten only betrayal for their troubles.

  Gwen shook her head. “Anyway, even if he confirmed that it was Silverhielm, what am I going to do, fly to Stockholm and camp out on the guy’s front porch?”

  “Stockholm?” Joss blinked and sat up. “Wait a minute, isn’t the International Stamp Expo in Stockholm next week?”

  “Yes, but I’ve got too much going on here. I can’t go.”

  “No, but I could,” Joss said, her eyes flashing. “Remember? Travel is likely.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “Why is that ridiculous? You did it.” A chance, she thought, a chance to make things right.

  “I went to Las Vegas. This is Stockholm. You don’t even speak the language,” Gwen said in exasperation.

  “I’ll find someone who does. Hell, I’ll hire a translator. Look, Gwen, all of this was my fault.”

  “It was both of our faults.”

  Joss shook her head. “If I hadn’t left Jerry in the store with access to the safe, he’d never have had the chance to steal everything.”

  “He would have gotten to them sooner or later,” Gwen countered. “I should never have hired him.”

  “Which you did because of me. I’m going.” In an instant, it had gone from a passing thought to something Joss wanted passionately. Needed passionately.

  “There are other ways.”

  “How?” Joss jumped to her feet and began pacing. “You’ve done all the work here. I’ve just sat around doing nothing.” And it had rankled her, every minute. “I want my chance to make it right. You already had yours.”

  “And I almost got a bullet in my brain, remember?” Gwen said hotly. “It’s too risky. Silverhielm isn’t just some rich guy. He had Stewart hurt, Joss. He scared him to death. It’s not a job for us. It’s a job for the police.”

  “The police aren’t doing anything,” Joss flared. “Do you want to just write off a million dollars of Grampa’s retirement? I don’t. I can’t, Gwen. I couldn’t live with it.”

  “You may not live if you try to get it back.”

  “So I’ll get some help.”

  “Like who?”

  “I don’t know,” she snapped. “I’ll call my friend Tom, the promoter at Avalon.”

  “A music promoter’s going to be able to go with you to Stockholm and get stolen property back from a criminal?”

  “Why not? A sportswriter helped you. Look, Tom knows this town inside and out. He might be able to point me to someone who could help.” Joss sank back down in her chair and looked at Gwen pleadingly. “I want to do this, Gwen. I need to.”

  Gwen sighed. “Well, we’ve still got most of my poker winnings as a war chest. We’ve got the money to do it, but only if you find someone who can really help you,” she warned. “Not the music promoter. Someone who’ll know what to do when you hit Stockholm.”

  “Okay.” Joss reached out for her coffee and took a sip. “Can he be cute?”

  “Wait a minute. You didn’t cook all this up just so you could have sex on an airplane, did you?” Gwen asked skeptically.

  Joss laughed. “Who, me?”

  2

  JOHN BAXTER leaned back in his chair and stared at the check in his hands. Smack in the upper end of the five figure range. Not bad for three months’ work, he thought in satisfaction. For the first time since he’d started his executive security business two years before, he’d banished the wolf from his door. Not just banished it, kicked its ass from here till Sunday.

  It was about time for a vacation.

  The corner of his mouth curved a bit at the thought. It was an uncompromising mouth, some might have said hard, as they might have called the planes of his face hard with the high cheekbones, straight nose and taut jaw. Lines of care had been etched into his forehead and bracketed his mouth, but those who looked closely enough would see lines of humor as well.

  Always, it was a face that was impossible to read. He’d cultivated the look in the seven years he’d spent working for the FBI and then Interpol. Even now, two years later, his eyes could still flatten into cop eyes that gave away nothing.

  He hadn’t left because he couldn’t handle the work, he’d left because he’d been sick to death of politics and the endless levels of supervision and interference. Then again, he’d always done his best work alone.

  He tore the check along the perforation and endorsed it, laying it on top of the deposit slip he’d filled out so he could hit the bank on the way home. His office was spare, the mahogany desk clear of nearly everything but a blotter, the check and the phone that now burbled at him.

  He picked up the receiver. “Baxter.”

  “Bax, Simon Fleming.”

  “Hey, Si.” Simon Fleming, his contact at Mayfield, Cross and Associates. The young attorney was quick, a little cocky and hellaciously good at one-on-one basketball, as Bax regularly found out the hard way. Bax was under retainer to do occasional investigations for the law firm and they, in turn, sometimes steered clients his way. Like the client who’d written the hefty check Bax was currently admiring. “I didn’t think you lawyers worked this late.”

  “Are you kidding? I’m trying to make partner. This is lunchtime.”

  Bax grinned and leaned back in his chair. “So what’s up?”

  “I’m sending someone over to see you. She’s a friend of one of our clients, needs some work done.”

  “She?”

  “Damsel in distress. Isn’t that what you P.I. types live for?”

  “I’m not a P.I., I’m an executive security specialist.”

  “So that’s why your rates are so high.”

  “My rates are high because I’m good.” Bax scrubbed at his wavy brown hair, kept cropped short for convenience. “So what’s her problem?”

  “Like I would know? I’m just trying to help out a client. It’s your job to make me look good.”

  Bax grinned. “Is that covered by the retainer?”

  “Making me look good? You know it, buddy.”

  “Then I want a bigger retainer.” A light flashed on the phone. Bax frowned. “Wait a minute, she’s not coming over here now, is she?”

  “Dunno. Depends on how desperate she is. I talked with her a little while ago.”

  “Hell, Si, it’s the end of the day. I’m surprised the receptionist is even still out there to page me.”

  “Maybe you’d better go check it out.”

  “Whatever she wants, it’s going to have to wait,” he warned Simon. “I just finished the last job you threw my way. I’m taking a couple of weeks off.” His first vacation in over three years, a trip to Copenhagen to see his cousins, maybe, or a jaunt to Prague.

  “It’s no big deal. A slick guy like you can probably figure it out while you’re still booking your flight.” He cleared his throat. “You make my client happy, you’ll make me happy.”

  Bax snorted. “Next time we go back to contract, I’m upping my rate.”

  “Whatever you say, buddy, whatever you say.”

  Bax hung up the phone and stepped out into the hallway that led to the reception area of the communal office suites. So maybe having space here cost a couple hundred more in rent than a one-room office somewhere, but it gave him access to a receptionist, mail room and a slick conference room. More important, it gave his business an established air that reassured the kinds of clients he sought. Just because he worked without a staff didn’t mean he had to look like a one-man show.

  As long as he was a one-man show.

  “MR. BAXTER will be with you in just a moment,” the blond receptionist told Joss, punching the button on her console with one red-lacquered nail before s
he pulled off the telephone headset and prepared to go home.

  Joss turned to the deep, pewter-colored couches that lined the walls. A receptionist? Who’d ever heard of a private eye with a receptionist? Then again, who’d ever heard of a private eye having a lobby with ice-blue carpet so thick you could snag a heel in it? And five-foot-tall ficus plants? Weren’t P.I.s supposed to work out of tiny offices with venetian blinds and half-glassed doors, in tired old buildings on the wrong side of town?

  Tom’s lawyer was going to have a lot of explaining to do. She should have known better than to trust his referral. Simon Fleming had told her his investigator might be able to help her out. He’d neglected to tell her the guy was going to be some corporate clown.

  An expensive corporate clown.

  Scowling, Joss stalked over to the wall of windows that overlooked Montgomery Street, now pooled with shadow in the late afternoon. She didn’t like the idea of telling her problems to some pretentious twit who’d look down on her. She knew the type—if you didn’t have a brokerage account and an MBA, they wouldn’t take you seriously. She could just imagine the kind of private eye who’d have an office here. He’d probably be short, for starters, pasty and soft. And balding, with a comb-over that didn’t hide anything.

  “Are you here for Executive Security Consulting?”

  Joss jumped and whirled.

  He didn’t look soft at all, was her first thought. He’d come up behind her so quietly on the plush carpet that she hadn’t heard a thing. Then again, he looked like he always moved silently. There was something about him that reminded her of a panther, dark, sleek and dangerous.

  Then he smiled and the impression evaporated. He looked, if not entirely friendly, at least approachable.

  “I’m John Baxter.”

  Tall, she thought, tall enough that she had to raise her chin to meet his eyes as he came closer. Not lanky, though. Self-possessed and lean, solid without being bulky. He looked like the kind of guy who could snatch flies out of midair or explode into violence if the need arose. Confident, capable and eat-him-with-a-spoon sexy.

  She squared her shoulders and held out her hand. “Joss Chastain.”

  BAX WASN’T sure what he’d expected, but it wasn’t her. She looked like nothing so much as a gypsy in her long flowered skirt and cropped T-shirt, her dark hair sweeping loose and wild down her back. It had red highlights, he noticed, then frowned at himself.

  “Simon Fleming sent me over.” Her hand was softer than he’d expected, and stronger. When she tugged it away from him, he realized he’d been holding it for far too long.

  “I know. He called me. Come on back to my office.”

  He led the way down the winding hallway with its crown molding and subdued lighting.

  “Pretty fancy digs for a private eye,” she commented.

  “I’m not a private eye. I’m a security consultant.”

  “Which means?”

  “I check out security setups and do some investigative work—legal, industrial espionage, that sort of thing. My kind of clients expect to see this kind of office.”

  “Are you saying that I’m not your kind of client?”

  Prickly, he thought. Nerves, maybe. Sometimes people got that way before they had to spill their story. Or maybe she was just feisty. She had that look. “I usually deal with corporate personnel. They’re more comfortable with this sort of look.”

  “But you’re not a cop?”

  He opened his office door. “No. Strictly private sector.”

  “Exactly. Private eye.” She walked past him, leaving a whisper of scent in her wake that had every one of his hormones sitting up and panting.

  Now he was the one feeling prickly. Bax crossed to his desk. Taking his time, he studied her. She had the kind of bone structure that you saw in old Italian paintings, the mysterious arch above the eyes, the haunting hollows in the cheeks. Something in the set of her shoulders told him that she was very used to having her way. Her mouth was wide, the upper lip just a bit more full than the lower. When he’d first seen her, it had given her the look of a mistreated child, but now it made him think of stolen kisses in the darkness. He wondered suddenly what she looked like when she laughed.

  “Let me know when you’re finished,” she told him, shifting to get more comfortable in his client chair, draping an elbow over the back. The trouble was, she didn’t look like any client he’d ever had before and she was playing hell with his concentration.

  Bax leaned his elbows on the desk and tried to ignore the taut belly exposed by her T-shirt. “So why are you so dead set on getting a private detective?”

  “I need someone who’s good at finding things. Are you?”

  “When I decide to be. What do you need to find?”

  She studied him in her turn. Finally, she nodded to herself, apparently deciding he passed muster. “A stamp.”

  “I’ve got a whole roll of them here in my drawer.”

  “Cute. This particular stamp is worth a bundle. It was stolen from my grandfather and I want to get it back.”

  “Why isn’t he the one here?”

  “He’s on an extended vacation with my grandmother. My sister and I have been taking care of his business and the theft happened on our watch.” She pushed the tumble of dark hair back over her shoulder. “I want to get the stamp back before he comes home.”

  Just for a second, that anxious kid expression came back. The urge to wipe it away flickered through him. “Do you know who stole it or where it is?”

  “I have an idea. A colleague of my grandfather’s, Stewart Oakes, was approached by a Swedish collector who wanted my grandfather’s prize pair, the Blue Mauritius and the one-penny red-orange Mauritius.”

  “I’ve heard of the Blue Mauritius,” Bax said slowly. One of the most valuable stamps in the world, as he recalled. “It’s extremely rare, isn’t it?”

  “And worth a bundle. About three million for the two of them together.”

  Bax whistled. “I can see why you want them back.”

  “It. We got back the Blue Mauritius. It’s only the one-penny Mauritius that’s still missing.”

  “What happened?”

  “The Swede made an offer, my grandfather said no. So Stewart hired a thief to get a job in the store and steal the stamps.”

  “Some colleague.”

  “Ex-colleague.” Anger tightened her voice. “My sister was able to get most of the stamps back, and Stewart and Jerry—the thief,” Joss elaborated, “are in jail.”

  “Sounds like something for the cops.” The twinge of regret he felt surprised him. “It should be pretty easy to track since you know who the collector is.”

  “Well, that’s just it. Stewart claims he doesn’t know, just that maybe the guy is Swedish. He only met a go-between. As far as the police are concerned, the trail has dried up.” Again, that look of desperation flickered across her face.

  Bax shook himself irritably. No matter how vulnerable—and touchable—she looked, she was not for him. “You still have to leave it to someone like Interpol.”

  “They’ve given up on it. My sister is pretty sure she knows the identity of the collector, but Interpol said they’d investigated him and can’t find any evidence to substantiate a theft or to allow them to search. They’re on to more important things, I guess,” she finished bitterly.

  “Or maybe you don’t have the right collector,” Bax commented. Joss fixed him with a look that would freeze water. Definitely feisty. Amused, he leaned back in his chair. “All right, so, what do you want me to do?”

  “Investigate, if you think you’re up to it.” She gave him an appraising look. “Simon said you’d worked in Europe and spoke a bunch of languages. I want to go over to Stockholm and check out the collector, see what we can find out. There’s a stamp expo over there next week and we can—”

  “Whoa.” He held both hands up. “Hold on there just a minute. One, I haven’t agreed to take on your case yet. Two, if you hire me, you ha
ve to let me do the job. There is no ‘we.’ I work alone.”

  “Well, maybe you’re going to have to change the way you work. I can be a good partner.” The corner of her mouth curved and for a fraction of a second he found himself putting a whole different translation on that phrase. “Besides, Simon said you’d help me.”

  “Simon’s wrong.” And he was way out of line sitting here getting hot for a possible client.

  “He says you have a contract with him.”

  Simon had been saying entirely too much, Bax thought with annoyance, shaking himself loose. “But it doesn’t guarantee referrals. All it says is that I’ll talk to you.” He pushed his chair back a little, preparatory to getting up. “It’s an interesting case but I just finished a big job and I’ve got some time off coming. And even if I did decide to take you on as a favor to Simon, I don’t let clients work as assistants. It’s not a game.” The hurt kid look was back on her face, he noticed with discomfort.

  His comments didn’t dent her determination, though. “You want time off, come to Stockholm. Once we get the stamp back, you can jet off to anywhere you like. Who knows, we might have fun.”

  Then she smiled and the punch of sexuality blasted through him. Her smile was generous, radiant and filled with naughty promises. He found himself almost ready to say yes without thinking, just for the chance to see what came next. Still… “This isn’t audience participation. If there’s a crime, there’s danger. I can’t babysit and investigate at the same time. I can’t have you involved.”

  “You have to,” she blurted, then took a breath. “Look, you need me for your cover.”

  “What cover?”

  “I’ve got it all figured out. We go over there together, as lovers. I’m Jerry’s girlfriend—or ex-girlfriend, actually, only I’ve still got the Blue Mauritius that he’s stolen and I’m trying to fence it.” She rose and began to pace around the office intently, creating a picture with her hands as she walked. “I dangle it in front of the collector and tell him that for a small fee, he can have his property.” Like her face when she smiled, her body in motion was a fascination that made it impossible for him to look away.