Free Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

you know about Norman Warrick?”
    Erik was accustomed to Dana’s lightning shifts of conversation. “More than you have time to hear.”
    “Is he as good as his reputation?” she asked.
    “Are we talking about his ability as an appraiser?”
    “I’m not vetting his sexual skills or putting him up for sainthood,” she said impatiently. “Is he any good or is he coasting along on an old reputation?”
    “Last I heard his eyesight was good and his mind was intact. That puts him right up there with the world’s top appraisers of illuminated manuscripts in general, and fifteenth-century French manuscripts in particular.”
    “But not of twelfth-century Insular Celtic manuscripts?”
    “He’s as good as anyone else that comes to mind.”
    “What about you?”
    Erik looked hard at the petite brunette who appeared much too delicate to be as fierce as he knew she was. And as bright. “His reputation is international and long-standing. Mine is just getting to the point that my name is on the must-consult list for Insular Celtic manuscripts, if that’s what you want to know.”
    “What I want to know is will you be right or will he?” she asked bluntly.
    “Should be interesting to find out.”
    Niall laughed out loud. “You don’t belong with the Fuzzies, boyo.”
    “Stuff it,” Dana said quickly. “You’re not getting him.”
    “If I screw up,” Erik said to Niall, “I’m yours.”
    Dana shot Niall a lethal glance, pulled her maroon silk jacket into place over a pearl-gray sweater, smoothed her matching slacks into a clean line, and said, “Don’t screw up. You’re the only manuscript expert we have who speaks English.”
    With that, she walked out. The men followed her into a hallway lined with photos of some of their more spectacular finds. Erik’s personal favorite was a wall hanging that dated to twelfth-century Britain; the design was intricate to the point of dizziness, yet fascinating. Everyone saw something different in it. The priceless textile had been discovered in a flea market. Rarities had certified that the textile was genuine.
    Dana’s high heels clicked rhythmically on the tile floor. Though her stride was shorter than that of her companions, she didn’t hold them back. She moved the way she thought: quickly, confidently. Despite the fact that she was his boss, a decade older, and not interested in him sexually, Erik couldn’t help admiring the rhythmic, essentially female motion of her hips beneath the fitted silk jacket. She had a walk that would melt steel plate.
    “Watch where you’re going, boyo,” Niall said under his breath, “not where she’s been.”
    “Her view’s better.”
    “Shut it, children,” Dana said crisply. “It’s showtime.”

Chapter 10
    C leary, Garrison, and Paul were seated around a steel conference table that was big enough to comfortably seat eight. Steaming cups of coffee and plates of dainty pastries and biscotti told Dana that her assistant had been on the job.
    Dana introduced Erik to the clients. A glance told him that Cleary was expensively if unexceptionally dressed, her son likewise, and Paul less so. If Paul could afford a four-thousand-dollar suit and thousand-dollar loafers, he wasn’t wearing them today. His slightly graying hair was well cut. Garrison’s cut was better, just short of Hollywood flashy. Cleary’s hair was frosted, shoulder-length, and frothy, a style suited to someone her son’s age. But then, a lot of women in southern California’s body-conscious society dressed a generation or two younger than they were. Some of them even believed it.
    At a discreet signal from Dana, Niall sat where he usually did, in a chair with its back to the wall and its front facing the door.
    “Thank you for seeing us so promptly,” Paul said.
    Cleary gave Warrick’s head of security a look that said they were paying enough for the privilege of Dana’s company that they didn’t need to be polite about it. The yearly retainer the