“What can I do for you, Mr. Winters?” she heard herself say instead.
“I want to hire you to find an old family heirloom.” Jack did not turn around. Instead, he concentrated on the view outside the window, as if the sight of the late- nineteenth-century brick and stone buildings in the city’s oldest neighborhood was riveting. “I understand you’re good at that kind of thing.”
In the Northwest it was never smart to judge a man’s financial status by his clothes because a lot of wealthy people, especially the new-money folks who had made their fortunes in high-tech businesses, bought their jackets, running shoes and pants from the same outdoor gear stores as everyone else. Nevertheless, there were always subtle clues and signs. She was sure that whatever Jack Winters did, he was very, very good at it and therefore successful.
“Yes, as a matter of fact, I am very good at finding things,” she said. “What, exactly are you looking for, Mr. Winters?”
“A lamp.”
She folded her hands together on top of the desk and thought about that for a moment. For some reason the name Winters and the word lamp in the same sentence rang a very distant bell, an alarm bell. But she could not put it together. She made a note to call her grandfather later. Harry Harper was the family historian.
“Perhaps you could describe this lamp, Mr. Winters,” she said.
“It’s old,” he said. He finally turned around to look at her. “Late seventeenth century.”
“I see. You’re a collector, I assume?”
“No. But I do want this particular lamp. Like I said, it’s a family heirloom.”
“When did it go missing?”
“Thirty-six years ago.”
“Stolen?”
“Possibly.” He shrugged. “Or maybe just lost. All I know is that it disappeared during the course of a cross-country move the same year that I was born. Not the first time it’s gone missing.”
“I beg your pardon?”
His mouth kicked up at one corner, but there was no humor in the smile. “It has a habit of getting lost.”
She frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“It’s complicated.”
“Can you tell me a little more about the lamp?”
“I’ve never seen it, but my parents told me that it isn’t particularly attractive or even interesting. Not the kind of thing you put on display in the living room. It’s about eighteen inches high and made of some kind of gold colored metal.”
“Real gold?”
“No,” Jack said. “Not real gold. It’s not a real lamp, either. It was never meant to hold oil and a wick. I’m told that it looks more like a tall vase.” He used both hands to illustrate.
“It’s narrower at the bottom and flares out at the top. There’s a ring of stones or crystals set in the rim.”
“Why is it called a lamp?”
“Because, according to the legend, it can be made to give off powerful rays of light.”
She pulled a pad of paper toward her across the desk, picked up a pen and started to make notes.
“When was it last seen?” she asked.
“My parents stored it in the basement of their Chicago home. After they moved to California, they didn’t even notice that it was gone until I got curious about it and started asking questions. That would have been when I was in my teens.”
She tried to pay close attention to the description, but it was hard to ignore the shivery little thrills of awareness that were lifting the hair on the nape of her neck. She’d dated her share of men. Some would say more than her share. It wasn’t her looks or body that drew them. She strongly suspected that she qualified as merely okay in both departments. There was a certain type, however, who was attracted to her because of her profession. That kind found it intriguing to date a lady PI; always wanted to know if she carried a gun and seemed disappointed when she said no.
Others responded unconsciously to her aura. She possessed a very high level of talent, and psi power could be seductive, especially to a man who was endowed with some degree of sensitivity of his own, even if he wasn’t consciously aware of his own psychic nature.
And then there were always those like Fletcher Monroe who were initially ecstatic about the prospect of dating a woman who made no demands when it came to long-term commitment. To them she was a fantasy come true. At least for a while.
But although she liked men and she’d had some experience with the species, she could not recall the last time any man had aroused this fizzy sensation of sensual awareness and anticipation in her.
It was as if something inside her recognized Jack Winters in ways she could not explain. Maybe she was simply responding to his own very high level of talent, she thought. Or perhaps it was the darkly fascinating dreamlight she saw in his footprints. Whatever the case, she was fairly certain she’d caught a flash of sexual heat in his eyes when he’d come through the door. She could not be absolutely positive, however, because he’d concealed his reaction so quickly.
There is a certain kind of freedom in celibacy, she reminded herself.
“There is something else you should know about this case,” Jack said.
“What is that?”
“It’s critical that the lamp is found as soon as possible.”
More tiny alarm bells went off.
“You just told me that it was lost thirty-six years ago,” she said. “Why the rush to find it now?”
He raised his brows a little. “I’m the client, Miss Harper. That means I decide if the matter is urgent. If you’re too busy to take the case, please tell me now and save us both some time.”
She returned his smile, icicle for icicle. “You’re bluffing. You’re here because you need me, or, at least, you think you need me to get this job done.”
“What makes you say that?”
“Let’s review. You are a very successful man. You’ve got money. Enough to hire any of the best investigation firms in the city. I’m a one-person office and I am very, very low-profile. I work by referral only. Yet you found me. That means you had to come looking.”
He nodded once, silently approving. “Okay, you sound like a competent investigator.”
“Gosh, thanks. Now, let’s clear up a few things before we go any farther.”
“Such as?”
“Are you a cop of some kind, Mr. Winters? FBI? Interpol, maybe? If so, I want to see your identification now.”