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looked so . . . so superior.

    “Where did you say this Irving’s house was?” She twisted her hand.

    At once he freed it. “Have you heard of Irving Shea?”

    “I’ve done more than hear of him. I’ve met him!” At one of the incredibly boring, stuffy, scholarly get togethers her father had attended in the name of raising funds. Irving Shea was tall, dark-skinned, white-haired, very old and bent with the constantly increasing burden of years, yet he had given off an air of vitality that charmed her. “Irving Shea is your Irving?”

    “He’s the one.”

    Her father had told her Irving was the head of some successful corporation, one of the first African-American men to take such a position, and obviously Daddy had respected him for both his achievements and his knowledge of antiquities. “He is the ex-CEO of that company that blew up.”

    “That’s right. The Gypsy Travel Agency.”

    “Wow. I’ll bet Mr. Shea is upset.”

    “Upset, yes. He’s also determined to get to the bottom of the matter.”

    She could add two and two and get four. “So you want the prophecy for more than just yourself? You want it for Mr. Shea.”

    “He’ll want to personally fill you in on any details.” The elevator doors opened and Aaron walked ahead, totally unconcerned whether she followed him. “I am surprised Irving hadn’t heard of your father ’s death.”

    “I haven’t placed the obituary or planned the memorial service or anything because . . . because I still don’t know if I believe it.” Now why had she confessed that to, of all people, this man?

    He stopped so fast she ran into the back of him. “Why not?”

    She rubbed her bruised nose. “Because Father texted me and said . . . It was this weird message.”

    “Then perhaps we should talk about it when we’re out of here.” Aaron gestured around the short corridor and down toward the desk where Jessica’s head bobbed out to observe them.

    “Why? Because of Jessica ? Jessica’s harmless.”

    “Perhaps. But this is a secure area. Someone might be listening, someone more than just me.”

    “Right.” There. Such a thought had never occurred to her. And that comment—it was exactly the type of thing that made her think her hunch was right. Beneath his debonair sophistication, this gentleman hid a predator ’s instincts.

    They exited through the electronic gate, and while Aaron signed out, Jessica said, “You’re leaving early today, Rosamund. I didn’t know you could ever tear yourself away from your research long enough to play hooky. So I guess you’ve got some antiquities emergency, huh?” And she smiled at Aaron as if they would obviously consider funny little Rosamund a diversion.

    Normally Rosamund didn’t care; Jessica and Rosamund were about the same age, but there the similarities stopped. Jessica was pretty and popular. Rosamund was . . . not. Jessica was always kind in her own way, inviting Rosamund to the after-work outings, bringing her lunch and scolding her for neglecting herself, and most recently, making Rosamund sew the sagging hem on her skirt. Rosamund barely noticed Jessica because Jessica’s main area of expertise seemed to be what she learned from beauty magazines.

    But with Aaron by her side, Jessica’s amused assumption that Rosamund must be leaving, not because of him, but because of work . . . Well, that irked her, especially since it was true.

    An almost unrecognizable impulse made Rosamund lean across the desk. “Guess what I’m doing tonight?”

    Jessica’s amusement deepened. “I don’t know. What?”

    “I’m going on a date.” Vaguely, Rosamund realized she sounded like a high school sophomore who’d been invited to the senior prom.

    “With who?” Jessica’s smile faltered, and she looked between Rosamund and Aaron disbelievingly. “Not . . . ?”

    Aaron scowled.

    “No, silly. Not him.”

    Jessica relaxed and smiled. “No, I didn’t think so.”

    “Do you remember my