His Wanted Woman. Linda Turner

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      “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.”

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