Her confidence lasted exactly as long as it took the bidding to soar beyond her “absolutely top” bid. How high could a toy cap pistol go? What, after all, was another ten dollars? Twenty? Her heart was pounding like thunder, she could hardly hear the auctioneer. Lips pressed tightly together in determination, she kept her card in the air, even though it was now shaking like a reed in a windstorm.

“Well done!” said Connie when at last the auctioneer had intoned, “Sold…number 133!” She added gently, “You can put your card down now, dear.” Her voice seemed to come from the bottom of a well.

“I did it! I can’t believe it-I just bought a Roy Rogers cap pistol!” Jane’s whisper was a high, ecstatic squeak. “I think I’m gonna faint.” Actually, what she thought she might do was fly, right up out of her chair and on through the roof and into the clouds. “Whew, I think I need to get something to drink. How about you? Can I get you a cup of coffee or something?”

“Later, perhaps…” Connie was frowning, turning the pages of her catalog, following down the list with her little jeweled pen. Jane had gathered up her purse and was halfway to her feet, when the other woman suddenly clutched her arm and pulled her back. “Quick, Jane-have a look. Isn’t that your painting coming up there?”

Jane shook her head. “It’s a long way off yet. I should have plenty of time-”

“No, no, I’m certain that’s the one you were so fond of. There, you see? It’s the next one up, I think.”

Jane fumbled through her catalog. Yes, there it was, the lot number she’d circled, still at least twenty items off. But there was no doubt about it, the painting of the ballroom dancers-her painting-was at that very moment up on the stage, sitting on an easel at the auctioneer’s elbow. “What number is it?” she hissed at Connie. “What does it say?”

“Number 187, I believe. It just says, ‘Oil Painting, Framed.’ A bit of a mix-up, apparently. Oh, well, never mind, these things happen. There you are-it’s started. Good luck.”

And just that quickly, the bidding was under way. Jane sat perched on the edge of her chair, lips pressed and heart pounding, and presented her card to the gleeful spotter like a swordsman leaping into battle. At first, to her dismay, the bidding was brisk, but when two or three bargain hunters dropped out early, she felt a surge of triumph. Yes! It’s mine.

But no-oh no! Now she could see that every time the spotter pointed to her, with his other hand he immediately jabbed the air above her head. Someone was bidding against her! And seemed every bit as determined as she was.

Outraged, she turned around to see if she could identify the villain who was trying to take her painting away from her. Yes-there he was. He was easy enough to spot, standing behind the last row of chairs. A man, and one who was not the slightest bit gray or wimpy, and certainly not old. In fact, he looked almost indecently young and handsome and fit, in spite of the banker’s gray suit, white shirt and conservative tie he was wearing. He was very dark, swarthy, almost, with an arrogant nose and eyes that should have been beautiful. Jane thought he looked like some sort of Arab prince, or…no-a terrorist, that was it. The kind of person who hijacked airplanes and bombed school buses.

“Connie,” she whispered in dismay. “What am I going to do? I already spent too much on the cap pistol. I can’t afford to go much higher on this piece.”

But Connie’s seat was empty. Jane hadn’t even noticed that her friend had left. Where in the world could she have gone? And at the worst possible time! What should she do? She couldn’t keep bidding like this, she couldn’t!

What if she won? Her stomach clenched at the thought of what this was going to do to her bank balance. She knew she had to be responsible and give up the painting. She had to stop now.

And then suddenly it was over. Whack! went the gavel, the auctioneer bellowed, “That’s gone…number 133!”

Stunned by the unexpected victory, almost unable to believe it, Jane turned to look at the man she’d bested. Incredibly, he seemed to have vanished.

She was frowning perplexedly at the place where he’d been standing only a moment ago, where now a small knot of people were engaged in a peculiar flurry of activity, when Connie settled into her chair. She gave her gray curls a pat and her tweed skirt a tug, then turned to Jane, eyes bright and birdlike with expectancy. “So sorry, dear-nature’s call, you know. Do tell me, how did it go? Did you get your little painting?”

“I got it,” said Jane absently. She still felt dazed.

“Oh, bravo, dear!” Connie was beaming at her like a proud mama at a ballet recital. “Well done.”

Jane shook her head, frowning still. “Yeah, well, I don’t know how I got it. This man was bidding against me, and he was really determined, too. Then all of a sudden, he just…quit. Connie, what’s going on back there, do you know? Seems to be some kind of fuss.”

“I suppose it is a bit of a fuss,” murmured Connie, planting her half glasses firmly on the tip of her nose and turning to her catalog once more. “Nothing to be concerned about, dear. These things do happen.”

“Happen? What happened?”

Just for an instant, Connie’s eyes met hers over the tops of her glasses, bright with what was unmistakably amusement. And something else that couldn’t possibly have been triumph. “I’m afraid it appears some poor chap has fainted.”

Chapter 2

Hawk couldn’t figure out how she’d managed it He could see th he guy on the floor was already stirring, so whatever she’d used, it hadn’t been lethal, which in his estimation made the operation that much more admirable. He could think of several ways it could have been done, both electrical and chemical; it was the timing that had him stumped.

She was good, no doubt about that. She’d fooled him, and there weren’t many, living or dead, who could say that.

The Middle Eastern guy, now, the fainter-Hawk had spotted him for a player right off the bat. It hadn’t been hard; the guy looked about as much like an antiques lover as a fox looks like a chicken.

Those two women, though-he’d never have figured them for a game like this. Two nice suburban ladies looking for bargains, that’s how he’d had them pegged. Although the tall brunette was a fox, all right, and the older one-come to think of it, that one did sort of resemble a chicken, a plump little gray hen. But what in the hell was she to the other one? Mother, friend or aunt, maybe-surely not an accomplice. In any event, Hawk figured she was probably just along for window dressing, part of the camouflage. Effective, too; he hadn’t given them a second glance.

Though, to be honest, there’d been a time when the younger woman might have turned his head and quickened his pulse, those first few years, the bad years when the glimpse of any tall, slender woman with short dark curls and a certain way of walking, a way of holding her head, her chin just so, could spin him around, trembling, like an electric shock straight to the heart. He’d gotten over that, thank God. Just as he’d gotten over waking up in the night thinking he’d heard a child crying.

He straightened, suddenly alert. The dark-haired woman was on the move, squeezing past people’s knees with polite, apologetic “Excuse me’s,” making her way to the center aisle. He watched as she came toward him, his whole body tense with concentration, little electrical currents of excitement coursing through him. He could feel his skin ripple with it, feel his hair rise. If he’d been a cat, his tail would have twitched. He was the hunter, watching the unsuspecting prey-dangerous prey, to be sure, but at the moment the advantage was all his.

But she was edgy; he could tell by the way she licked her lips as her eyes darted toward the crowd of Good Samaritans gathered around the man on the floor, by the way her hands clutched the straps of her shoulder bag, as if she expected someone to try to snatch it from her. Sensing his presence, perhaps, like a leopard sensing the lion.

From his hiding place behind a rack of Oriental rugs he studied her, paying attention to things that couldn’t be easily altered by a disguise. For instance, it was the particular shape of her eyes and the way they were set-not too deeply, but not prominent, either-that interested him, rather than the fact that they were the greenish-gray of deep sea waters, dark-lashed, with a little fan of smile lines at the corners.

Those lines and another set, like parentheses, around her mouth told him she was probably somewhat older than he’d thought-late thirties, maybe even forty. Which made it unlikely her hair color was entirely natural. That rich dark mahogany had been a good choice, though, maybe it even had been her natural color once upon a time. And the style suited her-short, but softly curling on the back of her neck and feathering around her face in a way that set off her cheekbones. He’d remember those cheekbones.

Nice body, for forty or any age. She wore her clothes well, with a certain style and natural elegance that was as much a product of health, vitality and good posture as it was proportions. Her clothes seemed of good quality but not designer, expensive but not ridiculously so-brown wool slacks and rust-colored turtleneck, tan tweed blazer with leather trim on the lapels and pockets. Nice shoes-some kind of short boot with a bit of a heel, comfortable-looking but elegant, too-and matching leather bag. No rings on the fingers that were still wrapped in a death grip around the strap of the shoulder bag, which didn’t surprise him; she had the self-indulged look of the well-off recently divorced.

Overall, the effect was simple, tasteful, and… What she had, Hawk realized suddenly, was that indefinable something called class.

He still couldn’t quite make the woman as Loizeau’s killer, though of course he couldn’t rule out that possibility, either. Whoever she was, she wouldn’t catch him off guard again.

He waited until the double doors that led to the foyer had closed behind her before he left his cover among the Oriental rugs and followed. The crowd of compassionate busybodies around the fainter was dispersing as he passed. The gentleman himself had moved to a chair, where he sat slumped and sullen, engaged in a conversation with one of the Rathskeller people that appeared to consist, on the unfortunate man’s part, mostly of monosyllables and head shakes. He appeared both dazed and furious; his skin still had the waxy, old-ivory look of someone in imminent danger of losing his lunch.

Hawk almost ran his quarry down in the foyer-literally. He’d assumed it was the ladies’ room she was heading for so purposefully, so he wasn’t expecting it when he pushed full tilt through the double doors and found her standing only a few feet on the other side. She had her purse open and was frowning at something in her hand-her checkbook, it appeared.

He pulled up just shy of plowing into her. As startled as he was, she looked up, straight at him, and murmured a breathy apology. He managed a curt nod, maintaining just enough poise to reach for his cigarettes as something of a distraction while he moved a safe distance away from her.

His thoughts were in turmoil. Dammit, she’d done it again. Caught him by surprise.

That didn’t make him happy, but it wasn’t nearly as unsettling as the impression he’d gotten from that one brief look into the woman’s eyes. A sudden widening…brightening…an impression of breath caught and held, like a child tearing paper off a birthday present. Young eyes. Innocent eyes.

A soft, throat-clearing sound penetrated the tumult of his thoughts. He turned toward its source, a cigarette poised halfway between the pack and his lips. The woman was gazing at him, the parentheses of lines around her mouth and the fan at the corners of her eyes both deepening as she shifted her gaze meaningfully toward a prominently displayed No Smoking sign.

Ah, hell. With a nod that was just barely polite, Hawk turned his back on the lady and strolled down the foyer toward the front entrance. One look through the glass doors assured him that the icy drizzle that had snarled traffic on the beltway that morning and caused him to miss the auction preview was still falling. That fact made his desire for a cigarette that much more compelling, and did nothing to improve his temper.

He considered his options while he gazed out at glistening gray walkways bordered by bowing daffodils and beds of drenched pansies, tapping the cigarette restlessly against the pack. He could feel the woman’s presence there in the foyer behind him. Feel her watching him. Studying him, as a moment ago he’d studied her. It wasn’t a feeling he liked.