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she’d given birth to.
    At the moment, Pandora had just completed drafting the design for a three-tiered necklace commissioned to her by the husband of a popular singer. Emerald. That was her name and the only requirement given to Pandora. The man wanted lots of them. And he’d pay, Pandora mused, for the dozen she’d chosen just before leaving New York. They were square, three karats apiece and of the sharp, sharp green that emeralds are valued for.
    This was, she knew, her big chance, professionally and, most importantly, artistically. If the necklace was a success, there’d not only be reviews for her scrapbook, but acceptance. She’d be freer to do more of what she wanted without compromise.
    The trick would be to fashion the chain so that it held like steel and looked like a cobweb. The stones would hang from each tier as if they’d dripped there.
    For the next two hours, she worked in gold.
    Between the two heaters at each end of the shed and the flame from her tools, the air became sultry. Sweat rolled down under her sweater, but she didn’t mind. In fact, she barely noticed as the gold became pliable. Again and again, she drew the wire through the drawplate, smoothing out the kinks and subtly, slowly, changing the shape and size. When the wire looked like angel hair she began working it with her fingers, twisting and braiding until she matched the design in her head and on her drawing paper.
    It would be simple—elegantly, richly simple. The emeralds would bring their own flash when she attached them.
    Time passed. After careful, meticulous use of drawplate, flame and her own hands, the first thin, gold tier formed.
    She’d just begun to stretch out the muscles in her back when the door of the shed opened and cool air poured in. Her face glowing with sweat and concentration, she glared at Michael.
    “Just what the hell do you think you’re doing?”
    “Following orders.” He had his hands stuffed in his jacket pockets for warmth, but hadn’t buttoned the front. Nor, she noticed, had he bothered to shave. “This place smells like an oven.”
    “I’m working.” She lifted the hem of the big apron she wore and wiped at her brow. It was being interrupted that annoyed her, Pandora told herself. Not the fact that he’d walked in on her when she looked like a steelworker. “Remember rule number three?”
    “Tell that to Sweeney.” Leaving the door ajar, he wandered in. “She said it was bad enough that you skipped breakfast, but you’re not getting away with missing lunch.” Curious, he poked his finger into a tray that held brilliant colored stones. “I have orders to bring you back.”
    “I’m not ready.”
    He picked up a tiny sapphire and held it to the light. “I had to stop her from tramping out here herself. If I go back alone, she’s going to come for you. Her arthritis is acting up again.”
    Pandora swore under her breath. “Put that down,” she ordered, then yanked the apron off.
    “Some of this stuff looks real,” he commented. Though he put the sapphire back, he picked up a round, winking diamond.
    “Some of this stuff is real.” Pandora crouched to turn the first heater down.
    The diamond was in his hand as he scowled down at her head. “Why in hell do you have it sitting out like candy? It should be locked up.”
    Pandora adjusted the second heater. “Why?”
    “Don’t be any more foolish than necessary. Someone could steal it.”
    “Someone?” Straightening, Pandora smiled at him. “There aren’t many someones around. I don’t think Charles and Sweeney are a problem, but maybe I should worry about you.”
    He cursed her and dropped the diamond back. “They’re your little bag of tricks, cousin, but if I had several thousand dollars sitting around that could slip into a pocket, I’d be more careful.”
    Though under most circumstances she fully agreed, Pandoramerely picked up her jacket. After all, they weren’t in Manhattan but miles away from anyone or