Free Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell Page A

Paul had been chosen for the Secret Service because there had been a series of presidents who topped six feet two. As Charles de Gaulle had figured out generations ago, tall guards made excellent bullet catchers for tall presidents. Larry had wanted to be a presidential guard in the Secret Service, but wisely had opted for the marines instead.
    “You’ve never forgiven Carson for taking the job you wanted, have you?” Erik asked.
    “The taller they are, the shorter their business,” Larry retorted.
    “You just keep telling yourself that.”
    Erik ripped off his headset, grabbed the envelope with the copies from pages of the Book of the Learned, and jumped out before he could hear Larry’s undoubtedly raw reply. Marines swore like the sailors they were supposed to be, even when they were helicopter pilots.
    Larry got even by taking off with enough force to rock Erik on his big feet.
    Niall waited until the dust settled before he walked up. He was dressed the way Erik was, comfortable jeans, comfortable shoes, and a clean long-sleeved dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. If he had worn a jacket this morning, it was hanging over the back of a chair somewhere.
    “How many times do I have to tell you, boyo?” Niall asked, shaking Erik’s hand. “Never piss off a short pilot.”
    “Or a tall one, for that matter. What are you doing here? Have you joined the Fuzzy side?”
    “Somebody has to keep the dainty little darlings alive.”
    Erik cocked his head and looked in Niall’s blue-green eyes. “Something up?”
    “I wish. Things get any quieter here and I’ll fall into a coma.”
    “What about that Old Master you were guarding in one of the clean rooms?” Erik asked, referring to the special rooms where potential buyers, sellers, and other interested parties met to discuss business. It was one of Rarities Unlimited’s most popular services—a safe, neutral place to view priceless pieces of art.
    “The Van Dyck?” Niall shrugged. “It went back to its original owners.”
    “Too bad.”
    Niall grinned. “Not really. Patrick said the paint on the bastard was barely dry.”
    Patrick was Patrick Marquette, who vetted a lot of paintings for Rarities Unlimited.
    “There’s one born every minute,” Erik said ironically.
    “Optimist. I’m thinking it’s more like a sucker born every second.”
    “Lots of business for you.”
    “Idiots. They never figure out that if it sounds too good to be true, it damn well is a lie.”
    Niall opened a glass door. It was bulletproof, like every other piece of exterior glass—and most interior glass—on the premises of Rarities Unlimited. Dana had fought the whole idea until some crackpot with a grudge and a pistol went hunting a former girlfriend who was working part-time for Rarities. Niall had been cut up by flying glass before he disarmed the man. The bulletproof glass was installed a week later. Niall had never mentioned it. Neither had Dana.
    “What about those color copies the Charters woman sent you?” Niall asked. He glanced at the large envelope. “Do you have them with you?”
    Erik nodded.
    “Still fancy them?” Niall asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Interesting.”
    “Why?”
    “I’ll let Dana tell you.”
    Erik lifted his eyebrows but didn’t say anything more.
    Dana was waiting in her office, which had a garden view on one side and a city view on the other. When the two men walked in, she glanced at her elegant gold watch.
    “Don’t blame me,” Erik said. “Air traffic in L.A. is almost as fouled up as the freeways.”
    “You were the one off chasing goats.”
    “Sheep,” Erik corrected patiently.
    “Whatever,” Dana said, dismissing the subject. “They all have fur.”
    “Wool, actually,” Erik said, deadpan.
    Niall snickered.
    She glanced over at Niall with soft, dark eyes. “Kill him.”
    “Before or after he talks to our clients?” Niall asked.
    “Bloody hell,” she muttered.
    “I love you, too,” Erik said.
    She grimaced. “What do