“Don’t.”

She’d meant to sound firm and cool, yet her voice was anything but. Horrified, she ordered herself to put some space between them. Her feet, however, refused to move. And it was all Patrick’s fault. If he would just stop touching her…

Unable to take her eyes from him, she reached blindly for his hand. “I’m fine,” she said huskily.

But instead of pushing him away, she clung to him like a lifeline.

The feel of her fingers wrapped around his caught Patrick off guard. This was crazy. Just that morning, she’d been a suspect, and now all he could think about was the softness of her skin, her mouth…and kissing her.

Dear Reader,

Before I started writing, I worked for the FBI in Washington, D.C., and loved it. So going back to D.C. thirty years later to research this book was almost like going home. A lot has changed since the late ’70s: the street in front of the White House is closed to traffic and the FBI no longer gives tours. When I was working at the Bureau, all you had to do to take a tour of the White House—even a candlelit one at Christmas—was get in line.

Those days are gone, but Washington is still a wonderful city, and steeped in history. My kind of place! That’s why I love Mackenzie and Patrick’s story so much. If I ever had a bookstore, I would want it to look just like Sloan Antiquarian Books and Maps. Enjoy!

Linda Turner

His Wanted Woman
Linda Turner

www.millsandboon.co.uk

MILLS & BOON

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LINDA TURNER

began reading romances in high school and began writing them one night when she had nothing else to read. She’s been writing ever since. Single and living in Texas, she travels every chance she gets, scouting locales for her books.

I owe special thanks to Kelly Maltagliati and Matthew Elliott, who are both special agents with the Office of the Inspector General of the National Archives and Records Administration, and Mitchell Yockelson, an investigative archivist with the Office of the Inspector General. I would also like to thank Harry Husberg with the Ft. Worth Police Department for his advice on police procedures. Thank you all for your expertise and ideas.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Epilogue

Prologue

The old tavern was packed with St. Patrick’s Day revelers who were loud, boisterous and in the mood to party. Rushing inside, his black, wavy hair and sharp features glistening with the damp mist that had socked in Washington, D.C., Patrick O’Reilly wasn’t surprised to find his two brothers already seated at their favorite table, right next to the fireplace, where a roaring fire took the chill off the air. They both worked just around the corner from the bar and didn’t even have to move their cars. He, on the other hand, had been working a case across town and had been caught in traffic.

Devin spied him first as he made his way through the crowd and grinned, though there was little amusement in his steel-blue eyes. “It’s about damn time you got here. We started without you,” he said, and raised his Guinness in a salute.

“We ordered you one,” Logan added. “Devin didn’t think you were coming, so he drank it for you.”

“Hey, it was getting warm,” he said, defending himself. “Here. You can have mine.”

“No, thanks.” Patrick chuckled. “I’ll get my own.”

Signaling the waitress for another beer, he sank into the wooden chair between his brothers and lifted a dark brow. “Well? Did you bring them?”

Devin and Logan didn’t have to ask what he was talking about. They both pulled out a single piece of paper and tossed it onto the table, then waited for Patrick to do the same. Reaching into his inner coat pocket, he produced his own document and added it to the two on the table.

“That’s a pretty sorry sight,” Logan retorted as the waitress delivered another round to their table. “Three brothers. Three divorces, all within six months of each other. Who could have guessed?”

“You should have,” Patrick drawled, “at least when it came to yourself. You never believed in marriage anyway. How you let Jan talk you into walking down the aisle, I’ll never know.”

“Yeah,” Devin said. “You always said marriage was unnatural. Then the next thing we know, you’re planning a damn wedding.”

His green eyes twinkling ruefully, Logan shrugged. “What can I say? It was temporary insanity, and I learned my lesson the hard way.”

“You weren’t the only one,” Patrick said grimly. “At least you didn’t fall for a liar.

“I saw that look,” he added when his brothers exchanged speaking glances. “You two are as bad as Mom. Just because I’m never going to get married again doesn’t mean I’m bitter. I’m just not stupid.”

Grinning, Logan held up his hands in surrender. “Hey, you won’t get an argument out of me. Our mama didn’t raise any idiots.”

“Just a bunch of cops who have bad taste in women,” Devin added, chuckling. “I think she’d rather have idiots.”

Patrick laughed. “Too bad. She’s stuck with us.” Raising his beer, he clicked glasses with his brothers.

“To the three stooges,” Devin said with twinkling eyes.

“Speak for yourself,” Logan tossed back. “To the three musketeers.”

“To never getting married again,” Patrick said.

“Amen,” his brothers said.

And without further ceremony, they each picked up their marriage licenses and, on the two-year anniversary of their divorces, tossed them into the fire. Within seconds, the licenses…and the relationships of the past…went up in smoke.

Chapter 1

“Geez, Mac, how do you stand all this?” Stacy Green sniffed, wrinkling her nose at the dust she had stirred as she helped sort stacks of old documents and maps that looked like they hadn’t been touched in years. “I know you said your dad really let the place go over the last couple of years, but it’s going to take you decades to get this all cleaned up.”

In the process of changing the seasonal display in the shop’s bow window from Thanksgiving to Christmas, Mackenzie Sloan said, “Bite your tongue. It’s not that bad.”

“Yeah, right.” Stacy snorted. “And I’m the Queen Mother.”

“I’m making progress,” she insisted, but as she looked around at the antique bookstore her father had left her when he died unexpectedly three months ago, Mackenzie had to admit that Stacy was right. The place was a mess. In spite of the fact that she’d been cleaning and trying to organize the shop since the day after her father’s funeral, it was still little more than barely controlled chaos.

Guilt tugged at her, bringing the sting of tears to her eyes. “I should have come home more often—”

“Don’t you dare blame yourself!” Stacy, her oldest friend and fiercest protector, immediately jumped to her defense. “You were working a crazy schedule and spending every spare moment on your master’s. Not to mention trying to have a life with a man you loved! When would you have come home? Between two and three in the morning? You were in California, for God’s sake, not across the street!”

“I know,” she sighed. “That’s why Dad came to see me instead. And he acted like everything was fine. I didn’t have a clue he was sick.”

“He didn’t want you to know, Mac. You would have quit school and come home and he would have hated that. You were so close to finishing. He didn’t want you to give that up for him.”

“And the irony of it is, Hugh and I broke up and I came home anyway,” she said with a grimace of a smile.

“After you got your master’s,” Stacy pointed out.

“True,” she agreed. But by then, it had been too late for her father. “At least Dad died knowing I was able to finish school.” Shaking off her sadness, she forced a smile. “He was a great dad. And in spite of the condition of the shop, he left me a business I love.”

“I’m just worried you’re working yourself to death,” Stacy said, frowning. “I hardly see you anymore. You’re working night and day. I bet you don’t even remember the last time you had a date.”

“There are plenty of men in my life—”

“Oh, really? Name one.”

“Lincoln…Washington…Stonewall Jackson…”

Stacy gave her a reproving look. “Cute, smarty-pants. This is serious. I’m concerned.”

“I’m fine.”

“You need to let me introduce you to Baxter Townsend. If I wasn’t married and crazy about my lover boy—”

“Not to mention seven months pregnant,” Mackenzie said dryly, grinning as she patted her friend’s extended tummy. “Or are you forgetting about my goddaughter?”

A tender smile curved Stacy’s mouth as she placed a hand over her stomach. “How could I forget her? The little stinker kicks me all night long. I think she’s going to be a soccer player.”

“Then she’ll have to get that gene from John. You haven’t got an athletic bone in your body.”

Grimacing, Stacy grinned. “Too sweaty. But you like sports. You and Baxter would get along great. He played tennis in college.”

“Stace—”

“He’s never been married,” she added, “and makes a ton of money. He’s a—”

“No.”

“At least meet him. You two are perfect for each other.”

Mackenzie rolled her eyes. The last man Stacy had claimed was perfect for her and had actually introduced her to had turned about to be an alcoholic with a temper. “Do I need to remind you of Gus Dole?”

Stacy had the grace to wince. “Ouch! Okay, so I screwed up with Gus. And now that I think about it, you probably wouldn’t be crazy about Baxter—he can be kind of pompous. But you’re fading away in this shop, turning to dust just like your father’s books and old maps. You’ve got to get out of here!”

“I do,” she argued. “I go somewhere nearly every weekend.”

“To memorabilia shows.” Stacy sniffed. “Where you meet dusty old men who are pushing eighty and only interested in one thing—buying something that belonged to Washington or Jefferson or God knows who else. Dammit, Mac, you’re twenty-eight years old! When your father left you the business, he didn’t intend for you to bury yourself in it.”

“Maybe not,” she agreed. “But you said yourself this place is a mess. Can you think of any man you know who would want to take on this and me? He’d have to be crazy.”

“Not crazy,” Stacy retorted, grinning. “Just a confident, good-looking hunk who likes to read about Thomas Jefferson and John Adams instead of girly magazines. How hard can that be to find?”

“Yeah, right.” Mackenzie laughed. “When you find him, let me know.”

The door to the shop opened then, and, as always, a John Philip Sousa march began to softly play throughout the shop and apartment upstairs. As the music grew progressively louder, Mackenzie, as always, laughed. John Philip Sousa had been born in Washington, D.C., but that wasn’t the only reason her father had chosen a Sousa march for the musical alarm he’d installed years ago. He’d had a tendency to get caught up in his work and lose track of what was going on around him and he’d needed something to jar him back to attention when someone walked through the front door. Even now, in her mind’s eye, she could see him jump as the cymbals crashed loudly, reminding him he had a customer.

Beside her, Stacy glanced at the customer who strolled in, only to immediately smile with quick interest. “Oh, goodness, what do we have here? I think I’m in love.”

“Stop that!” Mackenzie hissed as her own eyes roamed over the customer who looked like something out of one of her fantasies. Tall, dark and handsome—there was no other way to describe him. With dimples that framed either side of his mouth and a boyish glint in his green eyes, he had trouble written all over him. Mackenzie took one look at that long, lean body and fantastic face and forgot to breathe.

Stacy, on the other hand, had no such trouble. “Well, hello,” she said with a grin. “Aren’t you the cutest thing? I’ll bet you’re a history major, aren’t you?”

Caught off guard, he laughed. “As a matter of fact, I am.”

“And you’re a Civil War buff.”

“Stacy,” Mackenzie warned.

“I’m just asking,” she said innocently.

“I’ve been known to spend days at Gettysburg studying strategy,” he admitted. “Is that a problem?”

“Not at all,” Stacy said before Mackenzie could say a word. “There’s just something about history majors—”

Shooting her friend a quelling glance, Mackenzie said, “Is there something in particular you were looking for or would you just like to look around?”

“I’ll look around,” he said with a wicked grin and a wink at Stacy. “Thanks.”

“Civil War books and maps are upstairs,” Mackenzie told him. “Just let me know if you need some help.”

“You’ll be the first person I call,” he promised and headed up the stairs.

The second he was out of sight, Mackenzie whirled on Stacy. “What are you doing?”

“Just having a little fun.” She chuckled. “And you should, too. An honest-to-goodness hunk just walked through the door and what do you do? Treat him just like one of your regular customers. You haven’t had anyone under sixty-five walk through that door since your dad died. What were you thinking?!”

“He’s a customer—”

“No! He’s a good-looking man who doesn’t happen to have a ring on his finger, in case you didn’t notice.”

She’d noticed, all right, but she would have cut out her tongue before she admitted it. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Bull!” Stacy laughed. “Tell that to someone who hasn’t known you since you were four. But I’m not going to harass you,” she added with a grin. “I’m meeting John for dinner, so I’ve got to go.” Giving her a quick hug, she headed for the door. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Stacy!”

Laughing, she disappeared out the door with a teasing wave.

Five seconds later, Mackenzie heard a step on the stairs and whirled to find the “hunk,” as Stacy described him, standing on the landing. Mortified, she could have sunk right through the floor. Had he heard what Stacy said?

Mackenzie only had to see the glint of humor in his eyes to know that he’d heard every word. She was, she decided, going to hang Stacy by her ears the next time she saw her.

Heat climbing in her cheeks, she lifted her chin and met his gaze head-on. “Did you see anything you like?”

His lips twitched. “That depends. For the right price, I could take just about everything in your shop home with me.”

Studying him through narrowed blue eyes, she told herself he surely wasn’t including her in “everything.” But there was something about the man’s confidence that told her there was little he wouldn’t dare.

“What, in particular, were you interested in?”

He shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Let’s start small. I noticed you had a framed letter from one of the soldiers at Valley Forge. What’s the price tag on that?”

“You won’t like it.”

She watched as he literally and figuratively rolled up his sleeves and braced himself. “Try me.”

“A thousand.”

“What?! That’s outrageous!”

“For an original piece of American history?” she scoffed. “I don’t think so. I can get twice that much on eBay.”

“eBay? Bite your tongue!”

His reaction didn’t surprise her. Many serious collectors didn’t believe in buying anything they couldn’t see and examine before money exchanged hands. “I have to make a sale where I can. If you’re not interested—”

Not fooled by her ploy, he grinned. “You’re damn good at this.”

“I come from a long line of horse traders,” she said, “and I have a feeling you do, too.”

“I’m Irish,” he said simply. “It’s in the blood. So how about a trade?”

Wary, she frowned. “What kind of trade?”

For an answer, he pulled out a yellowed, folded piece of paper in a sealed Ziploc bag. “Just a little something I picked up years ago that you might be interested in,” he told her casually.

Curiosity threatening to get the best of her, Mackenzie just barely resisted the urge to reach for it. “If you’re wanting to trade even-steven,” she warned, “you need to know that I don’t usually do that. You’d have to offer something pretty phenomenal for me to agree to an equal trade.”

Amused, he said, “You’re assuming your letter is more valuable than my map.”

Mackenzie’s ears perked up at that. She loved maps—and so did her customers—but she had no intention of letting him know that. “A map, huh? I don’t know about that. Most of my customers are more interested in first edition books.”

Not the least bit worried, he held the Ziploc bag out to her. “You might want to look at it before you make a decision,” he told her. “It’s a map of Gettysburg hand-drawn by General Lee. There are also notes in the margin containing his field strategy.”

Already reaching for it, Mackenzie looked up sharply.

“This is the General’s Map?”

A cool smile touched his lips. “So you’ve heard of it.”

Heard of it? Of course she’d heard of it! Who hadn’t? It had disappeared soon after the Battle of Gettysburg and hadn’t been seen since. There’d been rumors that it had been owned over the years by everyone from P. T. Barnum to the Rockefellers to a Saudi prince who was a Civil War collector. If the map was authentic, how had it ended up in the hands of the man before her?

“Go ahead,” he said when she gave him a wary look. “Take a look at it. Tell me what you think. I already know what it’s worth, of course. I’m wondering if you do.”

Another dealer might have been insulted by his words, but Mackenzie didn’t need to defend herself to anyone. Her master’s was in American history, and she’d worked in the business of buying antique documents and rare books for more than half her life. If the map was genuine, there was no doubt that it would be worth a small fortune.

Questions—and doubts—tugging at her, she took the map and moved to the reading table that was situated in front of the fireplace. Armed with the magnifying glass she carried on a cord around her neck, she carefully pulled the map out of the Ziploc and unfolded it under the light in the center of the table. The paper was yellowed with age, the bold, scrawled notes in the margin still legible despite the fact that the map was, reportedly, nearly a hundred and fifty years old.

Mackenzie loved old maps, but she knew better than most that they weren’t always what they appeared to be. Forgery was a serious problem in her business…and so was theft.

“Where did you say you got this?” she asked casually as she put her magnifying glass to the map.

“I didn’t,” he said just as casually. “It belonged to a friend of mine. He’s had a hell of a lot of bad luck lately—he got divorced, then lost his job when the company he worked for shipped out to India. Last week, he lost his house.”

“So he was desperate and sold a family heirloom,” she concluded. “Or was he a collector? Maybe I know him.”

“A collector?” he scoffed, laughing shortly. “Not hardly. He’s into motorcycles and NASCAR. His grandfather left him the map years ago—he was just hanging on to it for a rainy day. He doesn’t even have money for an apartment. It’s not just raining—it’s a damn hurricane.”

“I see.” Continuing to examine the map, she saw, all right, more than he wanted her to. His story had lie written all over it and didn’t make a bit of sense. If the real owner had been saving it for a rainy day, the last thing he would have done was sell it to a friend when he was in desperate straits. Instead, he would have taken it to Sotheby’s or another high-dollar auction house that would have advertised it and gotten him a fortune for the sale.

If, she silently amended, the map was authentic. Looking at it under the glass, she had to admit that she had her doubts. There were file notations from the U.S. War Department on the back of the document that didn’t quite look right. And while that might not be enough to indicate that the map was a forgery, the fact that the present owner and previous one were strangers to her made her very uneasy. The people who collected the more valuable Civil and Revolutionary War memorabilia were a relatively small group. Everybody knew everybody else, for the most part, especially in the Washington, D.C./Virginia/Maryland area. And she had never laid eyes on the man standing before her.

If she had, she certainly would have remembered him. With his sharp green eyes, wavy black hair and chiseled good looks, he wasn’t the kind of man a woman forgot.

Especially when he smiled. Those dimples of his were downright dangerous.

Suddenly realizing she was staring at the sensuous curve of his lips, she stiffened. What was she doing? She didn’t care how good-looking the man was, he may very well be trying to selling her a forged map!

Deliberately pulling her attention back to the document spread out before her, she was tempted to buy it just so he couldn’t walk out with it and sell it to someone who might mistakenly think it was authentic. Just the idea of giving money to a crook for what was nothing but a forgery, however, outraged her.

Think! she told herself fiercely. There had to be something she could do. If she told him she had a customer who might be interested, but she couldn’t get an answer from him for at least three days, that would give her time to research not only the legitimacy of the map, but any recent news about it.

But even as the words hovered on her tongue, she knew she couldn’t let him walk out with the map with the promise that he would return in three days. The odds were he wouldn’t, and the map—if it really was authentic—would be lost forever. She had to do something now!

The decision made, she set down her magnifying glass with a snap and looked up at him with narrowed eyes that missed little. “What’d you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” he replied easily. “But you can call me O’Reilly.”

Making no attempt to hide her suspicions, she said, “Where’d you really get the map?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And well you should,” she retorted. “You’re lying through your teeth and we both know it. The map, if it’s real—and I have my doubts about that—has file notes on the back. So tell me, O’Reilly, where did the map really come from? Did you steal it or create it?”

He didn’t even blink. “No.”

“It’s not stolen?”

“No.”

“So it’s a fake,” she concluded.

“I didn’t say that.”

No, it’s not stolen. No, it’s not a fake. That’s all he said…just no. Frustrated, Mackenzie couldn’t believe his audacity. No explanation, no nothing. Snatching up the map, she held it out to him. “I don’t believe you. Take it and get out. I don’t deal with thieves or forgers.”

Patrick had to give her credit. Talk about the pot calling the kettle black! He almost believed her. It was her eyes, he decided. They were big and blue and bright with indignation. How could a woman with eyes like that, with the face of an angel, possibly be a thief?

Watch it, a voice in his head growled. If you’re not careful, you’re going to become obsessed with the woman.

It was the case he was obsessed with, he told himself, not the woman. But he’d been watching every move she made for the last three weeks without her even being aware of it, and it was her face he saw when he investigated the sales on eBay. It was her smile he saw through the lens of his camera when he set up surveillance and watched everyone who walked through the front door of her shop for days on end. And at night, when he left the office and the case behind and went home, it was the woman herself he couldn’t get out of his head when he crawled into bed.

He shouldn’t have come here today, he silently acknowledged. And he certainly shouldn’t have approached her without another agent with him to witness what went down. It was totally against procedure.

But the more he investigated Mackenzie Sloan, the more she confused him. She looked like a modern-day Princess Diana, for God’s sake, and there wasn’t a hint of scandal attached to her name. So how was she up to her pretty little ears in the sale of stolen antiquities? Frustrated, he’d been on the way home from work when he’d decided on the spur of the moment to stop by her shop and confront the lady face-to-face.

In for a penny, in for a pound, he thought, and mocked, “You don’t deal with thieves, huh? That might be easier to believe if you weren’t one yourself.”

Surprised, she gasped, “What are you talking about? I’ve never stolen anything in my life!”

“Oh, really? Then what would you call this?” And reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a second yellowed piece of paper.

Watching her closely, Patrick saw her eyes flare at the sight of a playbill from Ford’s Theatre that was given to theatergoers the night of Lincoln’s assassination. It was her nearly soundless gasp, however, that told him everything he needed to know. He wasn’t surprised she recognized the stolen document. She should have.

She was the one who’d sold it to a private collector on eBay.

Chapter 2

Outraged, Mackenzie couldn’t believe he was serious. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me,” he said coolly. “If you’ve never stolen anything in your life, what would you call this? This was Lincoln’s playbill the night he was shot.”

“I know what it is,” she huffed, “but I don’t where you got the idea it was stolen. My father—”

“Stole it from the National Archives,” he cut in.

“He did not!”

“And you sold it on eBay to a private collector,” he continued. “So save the outrage and pretend innocence for someone who appreciates it. You recognized the playbill the second I showed it to you.”

Mackenzie didn’t deny it. “Of course I recognize it,” she retorted, stung. “I inherited the business from my dad three months ago and I’ve been selling a lot of the excess inventory. I sold the playbill last month.”

“So you admit it,” he said smugly.

“I admit that I sold it,” she said, irritated, “not that it was stolen. It couldn’t have possibly been. My father bought the playbill from a descendant of a congressman who was at Ford’s Theatre the night of the assassination.”

“How do you know that for sure? Did your father investigate this so-called descendant? What’s his name? Could he prove continuous ownership of the playbill? Where did your father meet him?”

He threw questions at her like bullets, grilling her like she was some kind of ax murderer when he was the one who had some explaining to do. Indignant, she snapped, “You’ve got a hell of nerve! My father was in this business for thirty years, and he had an impeccable reputation. Don’t you dare stand here in his shop and slam him!

“And you’re a fine one to talk,” she added, glaring at him. “Speaking of where things come from, where did you get your map, mister? From some sleazy forger? Oh, yeah, I know it’s a fake. My father taught me how to spot a phony when I was eight years old.”

And with no more warning than that, she reached over and snatched up the map he’d laid on the counter when he pulled the playbill from the inside pocket of his jacket. “I’ll take that, thank you very much. I’m not going to stand by and let you sell that to some poor unsuspecting schmuck who’s got sucker stamped on his forehead. Now get out of here before I call the police.”

He studied her with real admiration in his eyes. “You’re good,” he told her, his smile mocking. “The outrage in your voice, that spark of anger in your eyes—I’ve got to tell you, sweetheart, you’re just about the best I’ve ever seen. But you know what? I’m going to call your bluff.”

“It’s not a bluff! And don’t call me sweetheart!”

“Then go ahead and call the police,” he taunted. “And while you’re at it, make sure you tell the dispatcher that I’m a federal agent for the Archives.”

When he slapped his badge down on the counter in front of her, Mackenzie couldn’t take her horrified gaze off it. This couldn’t be happening, she thought, dazed. There had to be a mistake. She’d never taken anything that didn’t belong to her, and neither had her father. And every time she purchased an antique document or rare book, she checked the chain of ownership…just as her father had. There was no way either one of them could have bought stolen documents.

“I don’t know where you got your information,” she said flatly, “but you’re wrong. My father would never do such a thing, and neither would I. You’ve made a mistake.”

“You think so? Then maybe you can explain why two dozen documents were missing after your dad did research at the Archives. And don’t tell me he never did research there. I’ve got the records to prove it.”

Cold dread tightened Mackenzie’s stomach into a hard knot of nerves. He was so sure, so cocky, but if he thought he was going to make her doubt her own father so easily, he could think again.

“And that’s your proof?” she challenged. “My father did research at the Archives for decades. So have thousands of other people over the years. When exactly did one of the Archives’s employees discover documents were missing?”

“Two months ago.”

“A month after my father died?”

“We believe the papers went missing during your father’s visit to the Archives last year.”

“You believe?” she said sharply. “You aren’t sure?”

He shrugged. “The Archives has billions of documents. It’s impossible to inventory them all.”

“Then how do you know my father took anything if you don’t even know what really belongs to the Archives?”

“We have documents connected to the missing items,” he retorted. “Responses to letters, maps from the same military campaigns. Trust me, we know.”

“Trust you?” she scoffed. “I don’t think so. Not when you’re making accusations and you don’t even know for sure that the missing documents were in the files at the time my father did his research. They could have been stolen years before that.”

“True,” he agreed. “The only problem with that is you sold all of the missing items on eBay. So where did you get them if your father didn’t steal them?”

Caught in the trap of his mocking eyes, Mackenzie couldn’t believe he was serious. Her father was the best man she’d ever known. He’d taught her more about history than any college professor she’d ever had, and there was nothing he respected more than the rare books and documents he bought and sold to collectors all over the world. He would never have stolen the very things he loved, then sold them to an unsuspecting buyer. He wasn’t that kind of man.

And yes, she did sell the playbill Agent O’Reilly taunted her with, as well as the other documents he claimed her father had stolen. There were no file notes, however, nothing to indicate that the documents were anything but privately owned. So why would she suspect anything? None of this made any sense.

Except that your father was doing research at the Archives, an irritating voice whispered in her ear. If he’d wanted to steal something, the opportunity was there.

Cold chills raced down her arms at the thought. No! she silently cried, drowning out the doubt that suddenly pulled at her like a molester in the night. Her father knew he was dying…and that any theft at the Archives would turn up long after he died. He had to know that if he really stole something, she would be the one to take the fall for him. He loved her. He wouldn’t have done that to her. He would have sold his soul first.

Fighting the need to cry just at the thought, she lifted her chin and met the agent’s gaze head on. “My father wasn’t a thief. I don’t care what records you found or what misguided conclusions you’ve come to. You’re wrong. I handled every one of those documents. There was nothing on them to indicate they were the property of the U.S. government.”

“So where did they come from if they weren’t stolen?” he demanded. “Show me your records.”

She didn’t even blink. “Where’s your search warrant?”

Patrick had to give her credit. She was quick. And he’d made the rookie mistake of letting his curiosity get the best of him when he’d shown up here in the first place. He was still investigating her, still putting the case together, still trying to determine exactly what her father may have stolen and just how much she knew about it. He didn’t have a search warrant yet, and now he’d tipped his hand.

Cursing his own stupidity, he said, “You’ll get it soon enough. It’s in the works.”

“What the heck does that mean?” she demanded. Then her blue eyes flared as understanding hit her. “You don’t have enough evidence. You think my father stole those documents, but you can’t prove it. So you showed up here with your fake map just to see what kind of person I was. Or were you hoping you’d find a reason to arrest me?”

“I’m just doing my job,” he said with a shrug. “If you’ve done nothing wrong, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”

Fuming, she stepped around him to snatch open the front door to her shop. “I have nothing else to say to you. Get out. And next time you decide to check me out, you sure as hell better bring a search warrant.”

When he hesitated, she added coldly, “The shop closed ten minutes ago. Don’t make me call the police.”

She would, Patrick thought with reluctant admiration. She had a hell of a lot of explaining to do about her shady business practices and the evidence that was piling up against her, and she was threatening to call the cops on him? She was something else.

“Save your call to the cops, and call a lawyer instead,” he advised as he strode out. “You’re going to need one.”

When she slammed the door behind him, Patrick didn’t even flinch. He wasn’t impressed with her anger. She was in the business of selling privately owned records of the past, and she had every right to sell anything she wanted that she’d bought from private citizens. But when she sold stolen documents from the National Archives, she was stealing the history of the United States.

And she wasn’t going to get away with it, he promised himself. The problem was, even though he’d led her to believe differently, he didn’t have a clue how many documents her father had really taken from the Archives. He’d tracked down those ten that had been sold on eBay, and knew for a fact that there weren’t any more posted on the Internet, but that didn’t mean anything. The more valuable items could have been sold to private buyers and would never see the light of day again. Without Mackenzie Sloan’s cooperation—and records—his investigation was at a dead end.

He had to find a way to gain her trust, he decided, and the only way he could think of to do that was to appeal to her apparent love of history. If greed hadn’t completely darkened her soul, she just might care enough about the loss of some of the documentation of the country’s past to step up to the plate and help him. If that didn’t work, then he’d appeal to her own self-preservation. She wouldn’t like prison.

And he wouldn’t like putting her there. There was nothing he liked more in a woman than intelligence, and she had plenty of that. When you added flashing blue eyes, a pretty face and plenty of spunk to the package, she was a hard woman to ignore.

Suddenly realizing where his thoughts had wandered, he swore softly as he reached his car. He didn’t care how pretty she was; he wasn’t interested in her as anything but a suspect. He had no use for a lying woman—he’d been there, done that—and had good reason to never trust any female other than his mother and aunts ever again. A smile from Mackenzie Sloan didn’t change the fact that she was a suspect. And if his investigation proved that her father was guilty and her partner in crime, she was going to hate the day he ever walked in her shop. Because he would do everything he could to put her in jail.

Pacing restlessly, her stomach roiling with worry, Mackenzie snatched up the phone the second it rang. “Stacy! Thank God!”

“What’s wrong?” she demanded. “I just got your message. Are you all right?”

Not sure if she wanted to cry or throw something, she said, “No, I’m not all right! You know that good-looking hunk you thought was so wonderful when you were here earlier? He’s an agent with the National Archives, and he’s investigating me.”

“What? John and I will be there in ten minutes.”

Eight minutes later, Stacy and her husband, John, rushed into the shop. Sinking into a chair at the reading table, Stacy rested her hand on her stomach and braced herself. “Don’t sugarcoat it. Give me the worst. What are the Feds after and what did you say?”

“In a minute,” Mackenzie said, frowning as she and John both stepped to her side. “Are you all right? I shouldn’t have called you. I wasn’t thinking.”

“I’m your lawyer, silly,” she scolded. “Of course you should have called me. And just because I’m pregnant, doesn’t mean I can’t work.”

“You’re supposed to be taking it easy,” John reminded her. A tall, quiet man who absolutely adored his headstrong wife, he knew better than anyone that Stacy did what Stacy wanted to do. Still, he tried. “The doctor said—”

“He’s an old woman, sweetheart,” she said with a dismissive wave of her hand. “He worries too much. I’m fine.”

Mackenzie exchanged a look with John, who only grinned and shrugged. Mackenzie couldn’t be quite so blasé. Stacy was more than her best friend. She was the closest thing to family she had left. And from the moment she’d told her she was pregnant, Mackenzie had been worried to death about her.

And with good reason. She’d never been pregnant herself, but Mackenzie knew the risks. When she was twelve years old, her mother died in childbirth, and that tragedy still affected her sixteen years later. If something happened to Stacy…

“You still need to put your feet up,” she said quickly. “Here, let me get you some tea.”

Watching her flit around the shop, into the kitchen and back for hot tea and homemade cookies, then stoke the fire in the fireplace, Stacy finally said quietly, “It can’t be that bad, Mac. Tell me.”

Up until then, Mackenzie would have sworn that even though she was furious with Agent O’Reilly, she was in complete control of her emotions. Then tears came out of nowhere to sting her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she choked, furiously wiping at the tears that spilled over her lashes. “I just can’t believe this is happening. The Feds think Dad stole documents from the National Archives.”

“What? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh, it gets better,” she replied. “According to Agent O’Reilly, I knowingly sold the documents Dad stole on the Internet.”

Her friend looked at her as if she’d lost her mind. “That’s ridiculous! You’ve never done anything dishonest in your life, and neither did your dad. Agent O’Reilly’s obviously made a mistake.”

Mackenzie desperately wanted to believe her, but he’d seemed so sure. “He had a playbill I’d sold on eBay,” she said, pacing restlessly. “It was from Ford’s Theatre the night Lincoln was shot. He claims it was Lincoln’s and belongs to the Archives.”

“That seems like a difficult thing to prove unless it’s got Lincoln’s blood on it,” John said, frowning. “Where did you get it?”

“From Dad. He told me he bought it from the descendant of a congressman who was in the audience that night.”

“That’s certainly possible,” Stacy said. “Obviously, you believed him at the time. Why wouldn’t you? The question is…do you still?”

Mackenzie had been asking herself that ever since Agent O’Reilly walked out the door. “I don’t know,” she admitted. “I don’t want to believe Dad would do such a thing, but there’s no other explanation. If that playbill really was stolen from the Archives, how did it end up in Dad’s possession if he didn’t steal it?”

“Maybe he bought it from the thief,” Stacy suggested. “If that’s the case, the story he told you was probably the same one the thief told him. He wasn’t lying.”

“Or he bought it from a legitimate owner,” John pointed out. “Playbills would have been given to all the theatergoers at Ford’s Theatre the night Lincoln was killed. How many people saved theirs? There’s probably dozens of them in private collections.”

“But wouldn’t Agent O’Reilly know if it belonged to the Archives?” Stacy said, frowning.

“Not necessarily,” Mackenzie replied and repeated what the agent had told her about how documents were inventoried at the Archives. “Just because a document doesn’t have any stamps or file numbers doesn’t mean it doesn’t belong to the government.”

“So he can’t be sure that the playbill belongs to the Archives, either,” John said. “If that’s the case, why is he going after you?”

Mackenzie had been asking herself that ever since she’d kicked the irritating man out of her shop. “I don’t know. The only thing I can think of is that he suspected Dad because he spent so much time at the Archives. Then when he checked eBay and saw that I had sold documents, he assumed they were ones stolen from the Archives.”

“But he doesn’t even know what’s missing,” Stacy pointed out indignantly. “It sounds like a witch hunt to me.”

Mackenzie couldn’t argue with that. “He’s wasting his time,” she assured her. “I know I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m going to prove it.”

“It’s not for you to prove your innocence. He has to prove your guilt, and that’s going to be a tough thing to do since you’ve never done anything illegal in your life. Just don’t talk to him again without your attorney present. Or show him your records! Okay?”

Mackenzie grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Smart-ass.” She chuckled. Holding her hand out to her husband, she grinned. “Help me up, sweetheart.”

He took her hand, but only to gently tug her to her feet so he could sweep her up into his arms. “John!” she laughed. “Put me down!”

“When we get to the car. You need to go home and put your feet up.”

Laughing, she threw her arms around his neck and grinned at Mackenzie. “It looks like I have to go home now. If you hear from Agent O’Reilly again, call me immediately. Okay? This is serious, Mac. Don’t deal with him by yourself.”

“I won’t,” she promised, stepping over to give her and John a quick hug. “I’m sorry I had to drag you back here. You didn’t even get to eat dinner, did you?”

“Don’t worry about it.” John chuckled. “We’ll go through a drive-thru on the way home.”

“John!”

“Say good-night, sweetheart, and I’ll buy you an ice cream sundae, too.”

Fighting a grin, she eyed him calculatingly. “Make it hot fudge, and you’ve got a deal.”

“Hot fudge it is,” he said promptly.

“Good night, sweetheart,” she repeated obediently, winking at Mackenzie. “I’ll call you tomorrow.”

“Enjoy your sundae,” she called after her, laughing, as John carried her outside. “Have one for me.”

“I just might,” she replied. “Don’t worry. We’ll get this straightened out tomorrow.”

Mackenzie was still grinning as she locked the door behind them, but her smile quickly faded as her thoughts shifted back to Patrick O’Reilly. She wasn’t a thief, and even though Stacy insisted that it was O’Reilly’s responsibility to build a case against her, she didn’t intend to leave anything to chance. The next time she saw the man, she’d be ready. She’d hit him with records on every item she’d ever sold.

Her blue eyes gleaming in anticipation, she strode into her office to start searching her records for receipts. Oh, yes, she was going to enjoy proving him wrong!

Chapter 3

The sun peeked over the horizon the following morning, ending the longest night of Mackenzie’s life. Too worried to get more than three hours of sleep, she’d spent most of the night searching through her father’s records for the playbill’s receipt. It was like looking for fairy dust. There were loose papers literally everywhere—stuffed in the pages of books, on shelves, all over the shop’s private upstairs apartment, even in the kitchen, for heaven’s sake! And that was only the tip of the iceberg. The attic was overflowing.

Overwhelmed and so tired she could barely stand without swaying on her feet, she sank into a chair in front of the fireplace and fought the need to cry. She’d found plenty of receipts, but none that had anything to do with the playbill from Ford’s Theatre. And that horrified her. What if Patrick O’Reilly was right about her father? Over the course of the last three months, she’d sold hundreds of historical letters and maps and rare books she’d inherited along with the shop. How many of them had been stolen?

Her blood chilling at the thought, she tried to convince herself she was overreacting. She was tired and obviously wasn’t thinking straight. Just because she hadn’t found any records didn’t mean they didn’t exist. She just hadn’t come across them yet.

She would, she grimly promised herself. Even if she had to tear the shop apart. She just couldn’t do it today. She had reserved a booth at a Civil War collectors’ show that opened in Arlington in two hours, and she still had to pack her van and take a shower. Groaning at the thought, she pushed to her feet and hurriedly started filling a cardboard box with Civil War memorabilia for the show.

An hour and a half later, when she arrived at the collectors’ show and started setting up her booth, she sent up a silent prayer of thanks for the wonders of a hot shower and a steaming cup of coffee. She was still tired—nothing short of some serious sleep was going to change that—but things didn’t seem nearly as bleak as they had a few hours ago.

And there was nothing she loved more than historical collectors’ shows. The history buffs who attended the shows lived and breathed American history and made no apologies for it. They always had a story to tell, a new collectible to show off, a research question they were hungry to have answered.

And then there were the rare books and private historical letters that the exhibitors sold at their individual booths. Invariably, someone always had a newly discovered map, letter or document for sale that no one else had even suspected existed, and it became the talk of the show. She couldn’t wait to see what the buzz would be about today.

Setting up the last of her own exhibit, she checked to make sure everything was in its place, then turned, intending to take a quick tour of the room before the show opened to the public. She’d only taken two steps, however, when a pair of irritatingly familiar green eyes met hers across the room.

Agent Patrick O’Reilly.

Surprised, she frowned. What was he doing there?

Maybe he’s following you to make sure you don’t sell any more stolen documents.

The thought came out of nowhere, catching her off guard. Stunned, she told herself she was just being paranoid. He had better things to do than follow her around to shows and examine everything she sold. After all, he had no proof that she’d done anything unethical, let alone illegal. Was he here to harass her?

The very idea that he might do something to embarrass her in front of her customers and colleagues almost sent her storming across the small convention hall to confront him. But even as she considered telling him exactly what she thought of him, she knew that wouldn’t be a wise move on her part. If the other exhibitors discovered that an agent from the National Archives was suspicious of her, the business her father had spent a lifetime building would be completely destroyed.

Swearing softly, she turned back to her booth. If Agent O’Reilly thought he was going to rattle her so easily, he could think again. She was made of sterner stuff than that.

Patrick usually worked memorabilia shows with Bill Rhoades, an investigative archivist with a photographic memory who could spot a counterfeit document without even lifting a magnifying glass to it. Bill, however, was home in bed, suffering from a nasty bout of food poisoning, so Patrick was on his own. Normally, he would have cancelled, but he’d wanted to see Mackenzie Sloan in action. If the lady thought she could sell stolen documents right under his nose, she could think again.

Setting up a card table, he laid out brochures that not only explained what the National Archives did, but also educated the public on how to spot a stolen document or one that should belong to the U.S. government. His real purpose here, however, was to check for stolen documents…which was why he planned to watch Mackenzie like a hawk. He didn’t think she was brazen enough to sell a questionable item right in front of him, but the lady had already proven that she didn’t lack for nerve when she had refused to cooperate unless he produced a search warrant. If she thought she could slide something past him when he wasn’t looking, she just might try it.

The doors to the convention center opened then, and history lovers flooded inside. Patrick wasn’t surprised by the size of the crowd. Collecting historical memorabilia was a popular pastime and very much a history buff’s treasure hunt. Depending on their own particular interest, he’d seen people buy everything from Civil War ammunitions records to a stuffed buffalo head that supposedly had hung in Custer’s office, though no one could really verify that for sure.

Grinning at the memory of the little old lady who had bought the buffalo, Patrick glanced over at Mackenzie…just in time to see her accept a credit card from a short, roly-poly elderly man who was looking at what appeared to be an old map. Clearly thrilled with his impending purchase, he grinned broadly as he waited for his receipt.

Swearing, Patrick headed straight for Mackenzie’s booth. “Excuse me,” he told the older man, “but would you mind if I took a look at that?”

“Of course he minds,” Mackenzie retorted indignantly. “Go away.”

Confused, the older man frowned at Patrick. “Who are you? Why do you want to look at my map?”

“I’m an agent with the National Archives, sir. I’m just checking for authenticity.”

“Authenticity?” the man sputtered. “Are you saying it’s fake?”

“No, of course not!” Mackenzie said quickly, scowling at Patrick. “Agent O’Reilly just meant—”

“There’s been some items circulating in the D.C. area that should be in the National Archives,” Patrick said easily.

The older man scowled fiercely. “What do you mean should be? Are they stolen?”

“Not necessarily,” Mackenzie answered before Patrick could reply. “Documents fall into private hands all the time. That doesn’t mean they’re stolen.”

“That’s right,” Patrick agreed. “With time, some documents become less important and the government releases them into the public domain. And sometimes they don’t, and even dealers like Ms. Sloan don’t realize that they are stolen. We’ve had a lot of calls about it, so we’ve been checking out the shows, seeing if we can discover what’s going on. So if you don’t mind…”

He lifted a dark brow at the other man, silently asking permission to examine the map. Without a word, he handed it to Patrick.

Beside him, Patrick could practically feel Mackenzie seething. She didn’t, however, say a word as he unrolled the map.

It was a hand-drawn, colorful map that depicted the Colonies before the Revolutionary War broke out, complete with cities, rivers, forests and ports. It was an important map and beautifully drawn, the kind of thing that a history buff would love to have hanging over his mantel. There were, however, no forts on the map, no military encampments or anything that connected it to the upcoming war. And while it was historical, it wasn’t something that appeared to have ever belonged in the Archives.

Whether it was stolen from another museum or library, however, was another matter. There was nothing the least bit suspicious about it, though, so Patrick had no choice but to believe that Mackenzie had acquired it legitimately.

She would, no doubt, gloat over that, but he’d never been afraid to err on the side of caution. Especially, he thought, when all the evidence he’d been able to collect on Mackenzie so far pointed to the fact that when it came to her business, she was not a woman to be trusted.

Handing the map back to its new owner, he said, “Congratulations, sir. You bought a great map.”

“You’re sure it’s not stolen?”

“As sure as I can be,” Patrick replied. “Take it home and enjoy it.”

He didn’t have to tell him twice. Pleased, the older man hugged his new treasure and moved on to the next booth.

He was hardly out of earshot when Mackenzie hissed, “What do you think you’re doing? This is harassment!”

Far from concerned, he only grinned. “Are you kidding? You think I’m harassing you because I checked what you’re selling? That’s my job. It’s nothing personal.”

“So why aren’t you checking anyone else’s documents?” she demanded. “Why are you just watching me?”

“As far as I know, no one else here is selling stolen documents on the Internet. If you know someone else who is, point them out and I’ll be happy to check them out.”

Horrified that he was making no effort to keep his voice down, she caught the curious glances of nearby vendors and wanted to sink right through the floor. Heat spilling into her cheeks, she grabbed him by the arm and hauled him into the narrow hallway that led to the restrooms.

“You’ve got to stop this!” she snapped in a low voice that didn’t carry past the hallway. “Do you hear me? If you don’t back off, I’m calling the police!”

Far from impressed, he lifted a mocking brow at her. “Are you sure you want to do that? Right now, you just have to deal with me, and I’m easy. You bring in the local cops and you could have all kinds of headaches. But if you really want to talk to someone, use my phone. The reception is probably better on mine. Go ahead. I’ve got unlimited minutes.”

More frustrated than she’d ever been in her life, Mackenzie gave serious thought to telling him exactly what she thought of him, and she didn’t care who heard her. And that stunned her. She was usually easygoing and rarely lost her temper. But there was something about Patrick O’Reilly that drove her crazy.

“You know something, you’re a very irritating man,” she said, scowling at him as a mocking smile curled the corners of his mouth. “You think you have me right where you want me, don’t you?”

Amused, he said, “Don’t I?”

“No,” she retorted. “For your information, you’re in danger of making a complete fool of yourself.”

His mouth twitched into a smile. “Really? And that concerns you?”

“Not at all,” she said dryly. “If you want to waste your time trying to prove I’m a thief while the real thief gets away with stealing thousands of dollars’ worth of historical documents from the American people, have at it. It’s your career.”

“It’s yours, too,” he pointed out. “Of course, maybe you don’t care about your reputation. Maybe you just want to unload everything, get out from under the business and go back to California.”

Surprised, she blinked. “How do you know I lived in California?”

“I checked you out, of course,” he retorted, grinning. “I know everything about you, right down to that C you made in biology your second year of college at Duke and the name of your first boyfriend.”

“Oh, really?”

“He really was a nerd, Mackenzie. What were you thinking?”

Steaming, Mackenzie couldn’t miss the amusement dancing in his eyes. Oh, he was enjoying this. And as much as she didn’t want to admit it, he was incredibly charming. All too easily, she could imagine what he was like when he pursued a woman: fun, teasing, wickedly mischievous. The kind of man, she silently acknowledged, that she’d always had a weakness for.

The thought came out of nowhere to steal the breath right out of her lungs. Had she lost her mind? He was right. What was she thinking?

“So now that I know just about everything there is to know about you, are you going to trust me and let me look at your files or not?”

Thankful that he’d brought the subject back to the matter at hand, she looked at him sharply. Trust. It was such an easy word. And even though he’d checked her out, she seriously doubted that he had a clue just how difficult it was for her to trust anyone.

It was, she silently acknowledged, something she’d struggled with for a long, long time…ever since her mother died and she discovered that there were no guarantees in life. If you couldn’t count on the people you loved to always be there for you, how could you count on strangers?

And what, after all, did she know about Patrick O’Reilly? she reminded herself. She didn’t know if he was a man of his word or not, if he was the kind to trick a “suspect” into confiding in him so he could then use that confidence to haul the poor trusting idiot off to jail. Could she really take a chance and trust him when she didn’t know for sure if her father had stolen documents from the Archives? What kind of charges could she be setting herself up for if some of the documents she’d sold really had belonged to the Archives?

“Look,” he said when she hesitated, “we got off to a bad start. Okay? I’m not trying to destroy your business or your father’s reputation. I’m just trying to get to the truth. If your father didn’t steal those documents, then he bought them from whoever did and you sold them. I need to know who that person is, and you can help me. Somewhere in your father’s papers, there’s bound to be a record of who he bought these things from. I just need this jackass’s name, but you’re protecting him by refusing to let me look at your father’s records.”

Surprised, Mackenzie hadn’t thought of it that way. “I’m not protecting anyone,” she retorted, stung.

“Of course you are. And frankly, I don’t understand why. You’re so concerned about protecting your father’s reputation, but you’re protecting the one person who could have destroyed it. Is that what you really want?”

“No, of course not!”

“Then talk to me!”

“My lawyer told me not to.”

He frowned. “If you haven’t done anything wrong, what do you need a lawyer for?” Before she could even begin to answer, understanding dawned. “This is about your father.”

“He was an honorable man,” she said huskily. “He would have never knowingly bought anything stolen.”

“So what are you saying? You’re not responsible for what’s in his shop?”

“Yes.”

“Did I imply that you were?”

When she blinked in surprise, Patrick was stunned. Did she really think she was going to be hanged for the sins of her father? Okay, so he’d come down hard on her. He took his job seriously, and when he’d first started investigating her, she and her father had looked guilty as hell. But there were some things he couldn’t deny. Up until his death, Michael Sloan had had an impeccable reputation. What if he hadn’t stolen those documents? What if his sin was that of being too trusting? It was that thought that nagged at Patrick and refused to be ignored.

“Whatever your father may or may not have done has nothing to do with you. Unless,” he added, “you continue to sell things you know were probably stolen. You’re taking a huge risk, Mackenzie. Are you sure you want to do that?”

When her gaze shifted to her unattended booth, where the items she’d brought to sell were clearly displayed, he knew the second she made up her mind to cooperate. She lifted her chin, squared her shoulders, and met his gaze dead on.

“I’m not trying to be difficult. I have nothing to hide. If my lawyer says it’s okay, you’re welcome to check my father’s records whenever you like.”

Pleased, he said, “Good. Then I’ll follow you back to your shop after the show. I’d like to get started on this as soon as possible.”

A steady influx of history buffs streamed into the memorabilia show over the course of the day. It was one of the best shows Mackenzie had been to since she’d taken over the business. But as she packed up at the end of the day and headed home, her attention was on the man who followed her at a safe distance in his black SUV.

After she’d agreed to give him access to her father’s business records, Patrick’s attitude had completely changed. He’d gone back to his own table, then spent the rest of the afternoon greeting history buffs and handing out literature. She’d watched him laugh and joke with people and turn serious over the subject he was there to discuss—the theft and sale of archival documents and what to watch for.

To her dismay, he’d completely distracted her from her own sales.

“You’re losing it, Mac,” she warned herself aloud as she drove through the familiar streets of Washington. “The man is a federal agent who went after you like a pit bull. His interest in you is strictly business.”

Later, she knew, he would probably haunt the sleep she so desperately needed, but she couldn’t worry about him now. She had better things to do. Like finding a parking place.

At any other time, that could have been an exercise in frustration, but as she slowly made her way up and down the streets within walking distance of her shop, she had to smile. She loved D.C. during the holidays. Christmas might be nearly a month away—the Capitol and National Christmas trees hadn’t even been lit yet—but the shops and cafés in her neighborhood were already decked out for the season and glistening with twinkling lights. Not surprisingly, business was brisk.

Which was why, she thought with a rueful smile, she didn’t find a parking spot on the first swipe down her street. She circled the block four times before she spied a Mini Cooper pulling out of a tiny space in front of the Chinese grocery down the street from her shop. Thankfully, her PT Cruiser didn’t take up a lot of room, and she whipped into the space, lightning-quick, before anyone else could take it. It wasn’t until she stepped out of her car and turned to see where Patrick was that she realized she had lost him while she was hunting for a parking space.

He knew where the shop was, she reminded herself as twilight slipped into darkness and the streetlights popped on. He’d find her. In the meantime, she had to unload her car. Pulling two boxes from the backseat, she headed for her shop.

The building was over a hundred and fifty years old, and during its long history, it had been everything from a photography studio to an Indian restaurant to a funeral parlor. In its first incarnation, however, it had been a tavern, and it still retained its original bow window, fireplace and rich wainscoting. Her father had taken one look at it and known it was just what he was looking for. Laid out like a house, with a bedroom upstairs and the kitchen and common rooms downstairs, it was the perfect setup for a shop owner. He’d bought it on the spot six months after Mackenzie’s mother died, and he and Mackenzie had moved in immediately. Here she’d worked through her grief and grown up in the security of her father’s love. She couldn’t imagine living or working anywhere else.

Patrick came around the corner then and hurried forward to help her with her load as she reached the front door of her shop. “Here…let me help you with that. You should have waited for me.”

“Thanks.” She sighed in relief. “I didn’t know where you had gone. Where’d you park?”

“Around the corner,” he began, only to swear softly when she started to slip her key in the lock and the door silently glided open. Glancing at her sharply in the darkness, he growled, “Did you lock the door when you left?”

She frowned. “I always lock it when I leave the shop, even if it’s just to drop a letter in the mailbox on the corner.”

“You’re sure?”

“Of course. I set the alarm, too.” Her gaze drifting back to the open door, she glanced back up at him in confusion. “I don’t understand. Why didn’t the alarm go off? The door’s open. It should have gone off.”

His face carved in grim lines, Patrick reached for his phone. “I don’t know,” he retorted. “But I’m going to find out.”

“Who are you calling?”

“The cops. Breaking and entering is out of my jurisdiction.”

Less than fifteen minutes later, a patrol car arrived and braked to a stop right in the middle of the narrow street. Standing at Mackenzie’s side, Patrick took one look at the officer who stepped out of the car and grinned. “What the devil are you doing here? I thought you had the day off.”

“I switched shifts with Larry Lopez. What’s going on? Did you make the call?”

Patrick nodded and explained about the unlocked door of the bookstore. “This is Mackenzie Sloan—she owns the store. Mackenzie, this is my brother, Devin.”

“Oh, my God. There are two of you in law enforcement?”

Grinning, Devin shook the hand she held out to him. “Actually, there’s three of us,” he admitted. “Logan’s with the FBI.”

“It’s in the blood,” Patrick explained. “Our father was a cop, too.”

“So what are you doing here?” Devin asked him, frowning.

Quickly giving him a rundown about the stolen items that had somehow ended up in Mackenzie’s father’s possession, he added, “I followed Mackenzie home from a show in Arlington to look at her father’s records. That’s when we found the door open.”

“And it was locked when you left?” Devin asked Mackenzie as he jotted down notes.

“There’s not a doubt in my mind I locked it,” she said firmly. “The lock on the door sticks sometimes, so I always check it twice. It was definitely locked.”

“And the alarm? Is there a possibility you may have forgotten to activate it?”

“No. I was on the phone to my friend Stacy, and distinctly remember setting the alarm on my way out.”

“And no one else has a key or the alarm code?” Devin asked. “A neighbor? An old boyfriend?”

She shook her head. “No, no one. I’ve been meaning to change the code since my father died and give the new code and a key to Stacy, but I just haven’t had time.”

“Then your father must have given it to someone,” Patrick said.

Startled, Mackenzie paled. “You think one of his friends would have broke into the shop?”

“It’s possible,” he said. “Unless the alarm malfunctioned, whoever left the door open had to have the code. If you didn’t give it to anyone, then your father had to.”

“We won’t know the truth until we check it out,” Devin said. “C’mon. Let’s go.” Quietly ordering Mackenzie to stay outside until they scoured the building, he stepped around Mackenzie and carefully, soundlessly pushed open the door. Seconds later, he and Patrick slipped inside.

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