The Winslow Faust was large, probably about fourteen inches tall and ten inches wide. I would need my metal gauge to get an accurate measurement, but that was my educated guess. Gathering the corners of the cloth around the book, I hefted it a few inches off the table. It was heavy, perhaps four, maybe five pounds. I stared at the thickness. Three inches? At least. I added the metal gauge to the list of supplies, along with my table-mounted hands-free magnifying glass.

The two clasps used to keep the book tightly closed were made of brass and shaped to form what looked like stylized eagle claws, each approximately one inch wide and two inches long. They slid through two brass bridges welded to the front cover, then clicked into place, essentially locking the book closed. The brass claws were affixed to one-inch-thick leather straps that were fitted seamlessly into the back cover leather.

My shoulders twitched. I could hear Ian breathing. I turned and found him and Derek inches from my back, watching my every move.

“Want to give me a little room here, guys?”

Ian stepped back immediately but Derek stood his ground.

I sighed and picked up the magnifying glass to examine the red rubies embedded in each leaf point of the fleur-de-lis border. There were thirty rubies total, all clouded and dusty. They would need to be removed for cleaning, then reset.

With the jewels and the elaborate gilding and the strange brass claws all vying for attention, the book should’ve appeared gaudy and crude. Instead, it was a masterpiece. Anyone would feel humbled and privileged to be gazing at such an incredible work of art. Or maybe it was just me, the book nerd.

“Where will you start?” Ian asked.

“Not sure yet,” I muttered, staring at the corded spine.

“When will you start?” Derek asked.

I gave him my best dirty look, then spent a few more minutes studying and admiring the tooling and cording along the spine before I carefully unclasped the brass eagle claws and opened the book.

The pungent smell of warm, musty, aged vellum blended with the scent of rich Morocco leather. I closed my eyes to let the glorious scent of age and elegance cloud my senses and engulf my brain.

I had to blink a few times to clear my vision. Okay, yes, I tended to get a bit emotional about my work, but as I gazed down at the inside cover, all I could think was, wow. Nothing I’d seen before could’ve prepared me for this.

Instead of the usual marbled end papers typical of books from the same period, some divine artist had painted a spectacular battle scene on the scale of Armageddon-and yet, it was all done in miniature. The detail was astounding. Clouds swirled in the heavens as battalions of charging angels descended in full battle regalia, wielding shiny swords in a valiant effort to restore righteousness to a world gone to the dark side.

Rising from the ground to meet them were an equal number of black-clad, malevolent horned creatures, brandishing evil-looking clubs and other instruments of destruction. These were the warriors sent by Mephistopheles to destroy their heavenly rivals.

In the midst of the clashing forces, yet somehow removed from the action, stood a handsome man of wealth, dressed in the elegant attire of nineteenth-century nobility. His face was a mask of revulsion and confusion as he watched the battle wage and the bodies fall around him.

This was Faust, Goethe’s tragically misguided hero.

“This is amazing,” I whispered.

“Beautiful,” Ian concurred. “I’ve never seen anything quite like it.”

Again, the wild colors and dramatic illumination should’ve come across as garish and melodramatic, but instead, this was a stunning work of art all on its own. It wasn’t signed, so I had no idea who the artist was or if it was the same person who’d created the book itself. I intended to find out.

Abruptly I wondered how in the world the Covington might display the book to show so many aspects of it.

“You should display this inside a glass cube at eye level,” I said, my excitement growing. “People need to be able to walk all the way around and see the different parts. You could clip it open to show some of the text, and have another clip here so that this painting is displayed, and you’ve got to be able to see the binding, too. I could fashion some brass clips that would blend with-”

“Sounds great,” Ian said. “Can you finish it in a week?”

I winced. “I hope so.”

He smiled. “So you like the book?”

“Magnificent,” I said with a sigh, then glanced up and met Derek’s dark stare. I shouldn’t have been surprised to see him staring at me, but the look on his face in that moment made me feel somewhat akin to a juicy steak and he was a starving carnivore.

My reaction must’ve been obvious because he instantly schooled his features and appeared only blandly interested in the book.

Okay, maybe I’d imagined that hungry look, but I hadn’t imagined my reaction. My heart was still stuttering and butterflies flitted around my stomach. How many times did I have to remind myself that Derek Stone was a big jerk and still considered me a suspect? Why else would he be here if not to keep an eye on me?

Well, I was over it. I cleared my throat. “Ian, would you mind raising the lights up a level?”

“No problem,” he said, and crossed the room to fiddle with the lighting panel.

I turned to Derek and whispered, “Stop staring at me.”

He leaned in close. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

“What would you call it, then?”

“I’m watching you.”

My hand fisted and I had to fight the urge to pop him one. “You can’t seriously think I would kill-”

“Better?” Ian said as he stared up at the ceiling, gauging the light level, blissfully unaware of the tension occurring under his nose.

“Perfect,” I said, beaming at him. “Thanks.” I flashed one more stern look at Derek, who smirked, causing my fists to twitch. I was itching to break something, preferably his nose. Too bad I was such a loving pacifist.

“I’m off to a meeting,” Ian announced. He took a minute to hash out a work schedule for me; then he handed me keys and a parking card. As he walked to the door, he reminded me to stop by his office to fill out an employment contract before I left for the day. Just like that, I was a Covington employee.

Derek stood and stretched his arms out. “Guess I’ll leave you to your work.”

“Oh, thanks so much.”

He shot me a look of warning. “For now.” Then he winked at me-winked at me!-and walked out.

Blissfully alone, without Derek Stone sucking the oxygen from the room, I ran both hands through my hair and shook my head and shoulders to get rid of all this built-up frustration. It was Derek Stone’s fault I was feeling all this tension. I laid the blame directly at his feet.

And what kind of a name was Derek Stone, anyway? It sounded like some James Bond wannabe. Of course, I was the last person to criticize someone’s given name, having been named after the New York borough where, legend has it, I was conceived in the balcony between acts of a Grateful Dead show at the now defunct Beacon Theatre. And if that weren’t lowering enough, my evil brothers used to call me the Bronx.

But I digress. No matter what his name was, Derek Stone exuded more animal magnetism than all those Bond men combined. The man paid attention, and he was strong. I thought of the way those lean muscles of his arms had bunched and tensed as they caught and held me. Impressive, to say the least.

Was it getting warm in here or what?

“And this is helping me concentrate how?” With a deep inhalation of breath, I grabbed a bag of peppermint patties from my purse and consumed three as fast as I could. Refreshed, I squared my shoulders, grabbed my handheld magnifying glass and continued checking out the Faust.