Free U.S. Male by Kristin Hardy

CATERED to the wealthy and it showed in every aspect of the auction house, from the tony address to the rich decor. The furnishings whispered of discreet luxury—thick carpets, softly lustrous silk wall coverings, fresh flowers everywhere. A sweeping marble staircase led to the second floor showroom, with a richly patterned Aubusson runner held in place at each step with brass rails. The carpet was worn slightly in the center from the footsteps of decades worth of Scandinavia’s affluent collectors.
    In the showroom on this particular evening, the sleekly designed mounting pedestals displayed a selection of rare stamps and coins from around the world. The Strindberg management had probably planned the event to coincide with the stamp expo, but it was the type of auction that dealers would fly in to attend—at least the kind of dealers who, like Gwen and her grandfather, bought issues for millionaire clients.
    Joss wandered around the room, holding a martini and inspecting the lots to be auctioned off the following evening. A glance at the auction catalog showed her that there were no stamps of the caliber of the Post Office Mauritius set going on the block, but a number of them were valued in the mid-to high-hundreds of thousands of dollars. The auction would make a tidy profit for Strindberg’s, no doubt, not to mention the owners of the objects.
    She did another circuit of the room, glancing around casually for Bax. He stood near an alcove by some plants, holding himself in a way that rendered him innocuous and unmemorable, though he was neither. It made her feel better to see him there, to know that he was around if she needed him.
    In the center of the room, a small knot of people chattered animatedly around a Lucite display case. In an art museum, it might contain a sculpture; here, it held the two most valuable lots in the auction.
    And in front of it stood Karl Silverhielm.
    Up close, his eyes were a pale gray, the same shade as his hair. He wore another elegant suit, this one the color of steel. His tie was a pattern of small, interlocking black and cobalt diamonds, tied in a Windsor knot. A matching blue display handkerchief showed in his breast pocket.
    The force of his personality came across even more strongly at this distance than it had from across the street. This time, though, the sense of menace was banked back. He looked refined, courteous, even affable.
    She mistrusted him immediately.
    Unobtrusively, Joss made her way to the central display case as the couple talking with Silverhielm wandered away. She stared at the stamps, throwing all of her concentration into what she could see with her peripheral vision. He glanced over at her, looked away and then turned her way.
    Score one for the dress.
    “Can I answer any questions for you about these issues? I’m the current owner.” His voice was deep and expansive, filled with confidence.
    Joss favored him with a smile. “Josie Astin.” She gave him the alias she’d agreed to with Bax.
    “Karl Silverhielm.” He spoke English with a faint hintof an accent. When she held out her hand to shake, he raised it smoothly to his lips. “You don’t look like the typical philatelist. To what do we owe the pleasure, Ms. Astin?”
    “Oh, I’ve heard people invest millions of dollars in these stamps. I figured I’d come see some of them myself.”
    “And what do you think, now that you’re here?”
    She shrugged and took a drink of her martini. “They look just like anything you can buy in the post office, only older.”
    “Well, that’s where the value comes in. When you own a stamp that’s over a hundred years old, you buy a slice of history. That’s power, in its own way.”
    “And you want to buy power?”
    “I don’t need to.”
    She opened up her catalog and looked up the stamps in it. “But these are yours. If stamps are power, then why are you selling them?” Across the room, Bax moved to another spot by the wall, seemingly staring at the