The Boss's Daughter. Leigh Michaels

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      “Of course I file, but only the things I pull out myself.”

      “Good. You’ll know right where to put all these back when I’m finished with them.”

      He didn’t comment, but Amy had the feeling he’d like to. Instead, he said, “Perhaps I should warn you that the Maxwells are sticklers for punctuality.”

      “I’m on my way right now.” She dug her handbag from the bottom drawer.

      “I’ll leave these here on the desk so they’ll be ready when you come in tomorrow.”

      “Don’t turn the lights out when you leave,” Amy ordered, “just in case those folders act like coat hangers and multiply in the dark.”

      Downstairs, the sales room was still quiet, with no auction scheduled until the weekend. But under the watchful eye of the sales staff, a half-dozen people were studying the furniture displayed in the showrooms, browsing through the catalog and even measuring the pieces.

      The waiting room was half-full of people waiting their turn to inspect the merchandise, and at the desk Robert was looking harried. He paused as Amy passed the desk, however, and called her name. When she turned, he stretched out a hand to her.

      “I didn’t know when you came in this morning that you were staying, Ms. Sherwood,” he said. “Things have been a little uncertain around here for the past few days, with your father so sick. But now—well, the whole staff is thanking heaven that you’re back where you belong.”

      Amy could have sworn his eyes were misty. “I’ll try not to destroy your faith in me,” she said, keeping her voice as light as she could.

      She rushed home to change her clothes and found the red light blinking madly on her answering machine. Remembering how the simple act of picking up her messages that morning had fractured her life, she almost ignored this batch. But habit made her push the button anyway, turning the volume up so she could listen from her bedroom while she changed.

      Her mother had called. Just to chat, she’d said, and to invite Amy to stop in over the weekend and see her new furniture. She sounded almost normal, Amy thought. Only someone who knew her very well would have detected strain in Carol’s voice.

      The second call was from the head curator of the museum. She swore under her breath. Dylan had kept her so buried in files that she’d completely forgotten to make the necessary calls to warn her prospective employers of the sudden hitch in her plans.

      Funny, she thought, how it had taken that speed bump to help her see what it was she really wanted to do. She didn’t mind calling the museum and the college to let them know that she wouldn’t be available after all. But the magazine…the magazine was a little different.

      Connoisseur’s Choice was far from being the stuffy old publication that Dylan had suggested it was. It was a glossy, sophisticated monthly magazine which covered an enormous range of both genuine antiques and interesting collectibles. A sort of reference book which happened to be published in segments, the magazine had actually become a collectible itself, for there was a brisk demand for secondhand issues—even ten-year-old ones. If in doubt, buyers and collectors consulted Connoisseur’s Choice, and they ignored its suggestions at their peril. Just to be associated with the magazine was to become an instant authority.

      As for the position of roving expert, it might have been fashioned especially for Amy. “We’re looking for someone who has experience with everything,” the editor had told her. “Not just priceless paintings or hand-hammered silver or Tang horses. Our readers are interested in those things, certainly, but not many of them will ever own one. We need someone who’s interested in, and knowledgeable about, things like political buttons and movie posters and patent medicine bottles.”

      “Someone exactly like me, Brad,” Amy had said. And though Brad Parker hadn’t committed himself at the time, he had seemed to agree.

      Earlier in the week, he had called to tell her that the publisher liked her credentials and he expected to be able to make her an offer within a few days. And now she was going to have to tell him that she wouldn’t be able to take the job for a month at least—and hope that he wanted her badly enough to wait.

      It was a rotten shame, she thought, that Dylan Copeland hadn’t jumped at the chance to prove himself by taking over the helm at Sherwood Auctions. Odd, too. The one thing she would never have suspected of him was a shortage of initiative.

      She hailed a cab to take her to the Maxwells’ apartment tower rather than risk finding a place to park, because she’d cut things a little finer than she’d planned. She was still trying to catch her breath as she rang the Maxwells’ doorbell on the top floor just a couple of minutes after the hour specified on the invitation.

      A bluff, hearty man greeted her, and Amy apologized for being late. “I’m afraid I didn’t allow time for a security check, but the guard downstairs was quite troubled over the fact that I don’t look like a Mr. Sherwood.”

      Rex Maxwell laughed heartily. “I’m glad to know Pete doesn’t need his eyes examined,” he said and guided her over to the bar. Immediately the doorbell chimed again and he moved off to answer it.

      Just as well, Amy thought. She could hardly ask him straight off whether he’d decided to auction the Picasso.

      With a glass in her hand, she began to wander through the apartment. The rooms were huge and bare-looking, with blocky steel furniture and the occasional modern painting on the walls. She saw nothing of the caliber of a Picasso, though. Did they keep it in a vault somewhere? If so, she understood why they were thinking of selling it, because there was little point in owning a painting like that if you couldn’t see and enjoy it.

      Or had the painting already gone to some other auction house?

      Until now, her feelings about Gavin’s fears of losing his clients had been almost academic, but suddenly the threat had become much more personal. She felt her chest tightening.

      Remember the size of that stack of files, she reminded herself. Her father must have been working on a hundred prospective clients. Some of them simply had to come through; the percentages were in her favor.

      Still, the sheer size of the number was not as reassuring as Amy would have liked it to be. If—despite all his experience and contacts—Gavin needed to work on a hundred prospects in order to end up with just a few auctions, then how could she hope to snare enough business to satisfy his needs?

      She saw a familiar face here and there in the crowd, mostly people that she’d happened to notice when they had attended auctions but a few that she’d worked with directly in the last couple of years.

      One of them, a blue-haired matron, came up to her. “How’s your mother doing these days, Amy?”

      Amy flinched. Why, she wondered, did people insist on asking her about Carol’s health and Gavin’s marital plans? Because they felt uncomfortable calling up Carol or Gavin, she supposed. But did they honestly expect Amy to spill the gory details?

      “I haven’t talked to her for a few days,” she said honestly.

      The woman sniffed. “I suppose that shouldn’t be a surprise, now that you’ve taken sides with your father.”

      Unbelieving, Amy stared at her. “What on earth makes you think that?”

      “My СКАЧАТЬ