Immovable Objects

It had been a long time since he’d looked at a price tag. “Only in so much as I like having the best.” He looked at her significantly. She was still evading him. “So, what do I call you?”

She lifted a thin shoulder. “Whatever you like, as long as it’s not insulting.”

He laughed out loud at that. He was enjoying himself. “I meant your name. What name do I use when I talk to you?”

For some reason, terms of endearment flocked into her head like so many sparrows looking for a place to land. She deliberately blocked them. This wasn’t a man to give affection to. This was a man to be wary of. Even if he did possess a face and body that could generate endless dreams.

“Whatever you like.”

He leaned his face in close to hers. For a moment, their breaths mingled. “What I’d like is to use your real name.”

That rush was beginning again, the same rush she felt at the start of a job. The same kind she’d felt standing in the alley just before she’d made the lock open. It took effort to keep it from taking over.

“So that you can check me out?” she guessed, congratulating herself on how cool she’d kept her voice, especially when everything inside her felt as if it was red hot and jumping around. She noted the way Williams was looking at the brandy in her hand. “I know you’re very thorough, but it really won’t do you any good to have the glass checked for fingerprints.” Her smile widened ever so slightly as she looked up into his eyes. She could see that the thought had crossed his mind. “I have no priors, no arrests.” Her eyes teased his. “I am as pure as the driven snow.”

He thought of the impression she’d made when she’d first walked into the gallery. Every man in the vicinity had stopped and looked. Every move she made whispered the promise of sex and sensuality. That was a long way from purity.

“Humor me,” he urged quietly.

Right now, she would have been willing to do a great deal more than that. Very subtly, she let go of the breath she was holding. “My name is Elizabeth.”

They were too close. For his good, not hers. Straightening, Cole placed a little distance between them. “Elizabeth what?”

She paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to tell him, then finally said, “Caldwell.”

Was she lying? He couldn’t tell. She didn’t flinch under scrutiny. Something else to admire about her, he thought.

Elizabeth Caldwell. He didn’t know if it fit her or not. “Is that the name Lorenzo will tell me if I ask?”

Her look was complacent, confident. “If you ask, Lorenzo won’t tell you anything.”

“Why?” Intrigued far more than he was comfortable about, Cole pressed her for an answer. “Because there’s honor among thieves and they stick together?”

She thought of the artist, his browned fingers nimbly creating, his thick gray hair, worn long and caught back against his neck. He looked like a hidalgo of old and had the honor to match. But it wasn’t honor she was referring to at the moment.

“Lorenzo isn’t a thief and neither am I. He won’t tell you anything because he doesn’t know my last name. He didn’t want to know it.” The less information a confidant possessed, the less risk he ran of getting into trouble for someone else’s sins. “He calls me Gypsy.”

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