I wasn’t surprised to find myself attracted to Derek Stone since I clearly had no clue when it came to choosing appropriate men. Recently, my own family had forbidden me to act alone when it came to dating, simply because I’d been engaged three times without closing the deal. I don’t know what the big deal was. So I picked the wrong men. Who didn’t?

I avoided looking at him as I walked the perimeter of the room, testing the book press and opening cupboards and drawers to check out supplies. I fiddled with the light switches to find the best possible lighting.

The two men ignored me, talking quietly as they sat in the tall, comfortable chairs that lined one side of the high worktable. I moved to the opposite side, slipped off my jacket and pulled up a backless stool. That was when I noticed the Winslow Faust lying on a white cloth in the middle of the table.

First I pulled my camera out of my bag. Then I reached for the cloth, holding my breath as I tugged the whole thing closer to me.

Even with its slightly faded gilding, clouded gem-stones, tarnished clasps and cracked leather binding, the Winslow Faust was exquisite. Swirls of pale gold were embossed along the outer edges of the cover. In the center of the cover was an elaborately tooled, rather bold and angry eagle holding a shield, a globe and a sword, all deeply etched in gold. But there was something else. Dripping from the eagle’s left wing was blood, so thick and crimson, it almost looked real.

I touched it. It was real, all right. There was blood on the book. Abraham’s blood? Oh God.

I was going to be sick. I dropped the book and tried to push away from the table. The legs of the high stool stuck and tottered beneath me and I flew backward with nowhere to go but down.

Chapter 5

Derek was on his feet and around the table before my head could hit the floor. My stool clattered to the floor as he swooped me up and clutched me securely in his arms.

I stared at him, unable to catch my breath.

He stared back. His mouth was too close to mine and my heart raced in my chest. To say I was embarrassed didn’t begin to describe it. Mortified worked better.

I panted for more breath, thinking this might be a great time for me to find that portal into another dimension. Yes, I was grateful for Derek’s speed and strength, but really, this wasn’t exactly the most professional position I’d ever found myself in.

On the other hand, he seemed to have absolutely no problem hoisting a grown woman into his arms-not that I weighed a ton or anything. He appeared perfectly at ease, as if he were holding a cup of tea and carrying on a lovely conversation with the Queen.

“Must I always be saving you from near disaster?” he murmured.

“No,” I whispered. “That won’t be necessary.” But all things considered-and despite the fact that he continued to stare to the point where I was certain my face was as hot and red as a radish-I’d rather have ended up in his arms than in a coma or a back brace from colliding with the concrete floor.

“Thank you,” I said in as dignified a tone as I could muster, what with my throat gone dry and all. “You can put me down.”

“Are you sure?” He grinned, showing off his straight white teeth and some adorable little crinkles around his cobalt blue eyes, not that I really noticed or anything.

“I’m sure.”

“You fall with alarming regularity.”

“I don’t,” I insisted. “But I’ve had a bad week.”

He scanned the length of me. “You look quite fine now.”

I frowned. “You need to put me down.”

“Of course.” He got me back on my feet and stepped away. “Good as new.”

Ian stepped around my British knight in shining Armani and grasped my shoulders. “Are you okay?”

“Yes, thanks.” I eased away and self-consciously straightened my sweater.

“Are you sure?” Ian persisted. “What happened?”

Derek picked up the stool and placed it on the other side, then pulled one of the more comfortable high chairs into position for me. He met my gaze, patted the seat and said, “Sit.”

“Thank you.” I maneuvered my way back onto the chair and forced myself to focus on the book. The blood was still there.

Struggling to retrieve some authority, I glared from Ian to Derek and said, “There’s blood on this book cover.”

Ian cocked his head. “Beg your pardon?”

Derek’s mouth curved in a frown. “What blood?”

“On the eagle’s wing.” I held up the book and pointed. “Why didn’t the police take this into evidence?”

While Ian’s forehead creased in confusion, Derek went with inscrutability.

I sighed. “The police never saw it, did they? You never told them Abraham gave it to me, did you? Why?”

“Apparently, you didn’t find it necessary to reveal that fact, either,” he countered; then, without another word, he picked up my camera and snapped off several photos of the book cover. Putting the camera down, he pulled a white linen handkerchief from inside his jacket and dabbed at the blood, then scrubbed it. He put the book back on the table and folded the handkerchief. “There. I’ll take this to the police for analysis. In the meantime, you can get to work.”

I stared in disbelief. “Are you insane?”

Ian craned his neck to get a look at the cover. “Is it gone?”

“Pretty much,” Derek said, tucking the handkerchief back in his pocket.

“Good work, Stone,” Ian said, visibly relieved. “Guess that takes care of it, then.”

I whipped around and slugged his arm. “That was evidence!”

“Hey,” he protested, rubbing his arm. “It won’t bring Abraham back, so why should it matter?”

“It matters,” I repeated, slightly more shrill than required.

Derek shook his head firmly. “Not if it means turning the book over to the police.”

“They need to see it!”

“Why?” Ian asked.

I whirled to face him. “What if it’s not Abraham’s blood? What if he attacked his assailant and that’s the killer’s blood on the book? What if-”

“Jeez, Brooklyn,” Ian said. “Chill out.”

Derek held up his hand to stop the argument. “I’m tasked with keeping this book secure. I fully intend to turn over those photos and have them examine the blood on this handkerchief.”

“But what about the book itself? The police-”

“Will destroy it in their zeal to investigate combined with their typical cloddish incompetence,” Derek said with a dismissive wave.

“I thought you were working with them.”

“I am, but that doesn’t mean I’ll allow them to bollix a priceless work of art I’m determined to protect.” He picked up the book again and held it at an angle to check that he’d cleaned it thoroughly.

“Oh, give me the damn book,” I said.

He returned it to its place on the white cloth, then pulled the cloth until the book was directly in front of me.

“I knew you’d see reason,” he said.

“Oh, please.” I jabbed my finger at him. “I want to hear the results of that handkerchief analysis.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He raised an eyebrow, looked at Ian. “Prickly thing.”

Ian nodded. “Always has been.”

“Not funny.” But apparently they didn’t care. “Don’t you both have somewhere else to be?”

Derek thought for a few seconds. “Not really.”

“Me, neither,” Ian said, checking his watch.

I huffed out a breath. They were worse than my brothers now that they had a shared bond, namely, the joy of tormenting me.

Not that I’d ever let these guys know, but I didn’t want to see the Faust covered in slimy black fingerprint dust, either. At the same time, a twinge of guilt rippled through me. I wanted Abraham’s killer caught, but I wanted the book to be protected, too. I tried to convince myself that Abraham would’ve felt the same way.

I ignored my peanut gallery and pulled a pair of reading glasses, a notebook and a pen from my bag to take a closer look at the book and figure out what tools and supplies I would need to bring in from my own studio.