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passed his torch to you. . . .” Aaron hoped the combination of temptation, guilt, and competition would work on Rosamund.

    But she stood with her arms crossed.

    “But you can’t come; you’ve got a date.” He hoped he disarmed her with his sad resignation, because he didn’t have any intention of failing.

    “That’s right. I’ve got a date.” She sounded fiercely determined.

    He turned away, dragging his feet a little, then snapped his fingers and turned back. “I’ve got an idea. Why not go with me now?”

    “These are still working hours.” She looked so horrified, he might have suggested scribbling in crayon on the Magna Carta.

    “You said yourself you frequently stay all night. You’re obviously your own supervisor. Irving is ninety-three, he’s got no family, and I know the Arthur W. Nelson Fine Arts Library would be thrilled if he made it the heir to his collection. For that reason alone, you could be forgiven for leaving two hours early.” Aaron’s dashing charm hadn’t impressed her at all, but that didn’t stop him from trying. With an appealing smile, he said, “Irving’s house is a quick cab ride away.” It was actually in the Upper East Side, and in Manhattan, that translated to miles of start-and-stop traffic.

    No need to bring that up, either.

    He picked up the cover for her worktable and carefully placed it over the stone tablet and the pile of notes. “If you’ll grab your stuff, we’ll run up there, you can talk to him and decide if you’re interested in working with him on this prophecy he’s after, and I’ll personally deliver you to your home in time to get ready for that date. I mean, heck, if you wanted, you could go as you are!”

    He may have oversold that one, because she pushed her glasses up on her nose and stared at him coldly.

    He lifted his hands as if to stop her from charging him. “Or you can change your dress first.” Glancing at his watch, he said, “If we go now, we’ll be done in a jiffy.”

    “Well . . .” She visibly wavered.

    “It’ll be fun.” He offered his hand—and enjoyed incredible satisfaction when she placed her hand in his.

    “All right,” she said. “Let’s go.”

Chapter 4

    R osamund let Aaron tow her toward the door. She shouldn’t let him push her around.

    But he was that kind of man.

    He exuded presence and authority from the top of his well-cut black hair to the tips of his well-shined black shoes. His dark eyes watched her with a hint of patronizing impatience, and his outfit—black suit, starched white shirt, and red tie—made her think of Mr. Perez, the wealthy, honorary head of the library board, and how he was always pushing her around. Explain this expense on your report, Dr. Hall. Speak at the annual fund-raiser, Dr. Hall. Except Mr. Perez was middle-aged and rotund, and Aaron Eagle was too tall, too strong, and too stern.

    That was why she liked Lance Mathews better. He was like her—not concerned with worldly matters like designer watches and expensive shirts.

    Although she vaguely remembered reading something one time when she was stuck on a plane without a decent book . . . something about the golf shirt with the alligator being expensive . . .

    This man, this Aaron Eagle, was corporate America and high society . . . except he wasn’t. His tanned skin held a hint of red, and he had the proud, high cheekbones, narrow nose, and broad, stubborn chin of a North Plains Indian warrior. His body was whip-cord strong. His hands were broad-palmed and long-fingered, with the dexterity of a man who handled weapons and horses and women. . . .

    Scrub that thought.

    The point was, he wore the clothes well, but although they’d been tailored to a perfect fit, somehow, they didn’t . . . fit him.

    Aaron pushed her into the elevator and punched the button for the main floor, and still he held her hand as if she were a rebellious child.

    And as a matter of fact, he did make her feel rebellious. He just