A Matter of Choice by Nora Roberts Read Free Book Online Page B

while Layton chose what Jessica referred to as a fauteuil and a console from the Louis XV period. Slade saw them as a chair and a table, too ornate for the average taste. But elegant names, he imagined, equaled elegant prices.
    "With customers like that," he commented when the shop was empty, "you could open a place twice this size."
    "I could," she agreed as she filed the slips. "But it's not what I want.
    And, of course, not everyone buys as freely. Those are men who know what they like and can afford to have it. It's my good fortune that they've taken to buying it here for the past year or so."
    She watched him poke around, opening a drawer here and there until he settled in front of a corner cabinet. Inside was a collection of porcelain figures.
    "Lovely, aren't they?" she commented as she joined him.
    He kept his back to her, though that didn't prevent her scent from creeping into his senses. "Yeah, they're nice." She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. It wasn't often Dresden was described as nice. "My mother likes things like this."
    "I've always thought this was the best in the collection." Jessica opened the door and drew out a small, delicate shepherdess. "I nearly whisked her away for myself."
    Slade frowned at it. "She does have a birthday."
    "And a thoughtful son." Her eyes were dancing when he lifted his to them.
    "How much?" he said flatly.
    Jessica ran her tongue over her teeth. It was bargaining time. There was nothing she liked better. "Twenty dollars," she said impulsively.
    He laughed shortly. "I'm not stupid, Jessica. How much?"
    When she tilted her head, the stubborn line appeared between her brows.
    "Twenty-two fifty. That's my last offer."
    Reluctantly, he smiled. "You're crazy."
    "Take it or leave it," she said with a shrug. "It's your mother's birthday after all."
    "It's worth a hell of a lot more than that."
    "It certainly would be to her," Jessica agreed.
    Frustrated, Slade stuck his hands in his pockets and frowned at the figurine again. "Twenty-five," he said.
    "Sold." Before he could change his mind, Jessica hustled over to the counter and began to box it. With a deft move, she peeled the price tag from the bottom and dropped it in the trash. "I can gift-wrap if you like," she said. "No charge."
    Slowly he walked over to the counter, watching as she laid the porcelain in a bed of tissue paper. "Why?"
    "Because it's her birthday. Birthday presents should be wrapped."
    "That's not what I mean." He put a hand on the box to stop her movements. "Why?" he repeated.
    Jessica gave him a long, considering look. He didn't like favors, she concluded, and only took this one because it was for someone he cared for. "Because I want to."
    His brow lifted and his eyes were suddenly very intense. "Do you always do what you want?"
    "I give it my best shot. Doesn't everyone?"
    Before he could answer, the door opened again. "Delivery for you, Miss Winslow."
    Slade felt a stir of excitement as the delivery was offloaded. Maybe, just maybe, there'd be something. He wanted to tie this case up quickly, neatly, and be gone... while he still had some objectivity. Jessica Winslow had a way of smearing the issue. They weren't a man and woman, and he couldn't forget it. He was a cop, she was a suspect. His job was to find out what he could, even if it meant turning evidence on her.
    Listening to her steady stream of excitement as he uncarted boxes, Slade thought he'd never known anyone who appeared less capable of dishonesty.
    But that was a feeling, a hunch. He needed facts.
    In his temporary position as mover and hauler, he was able to examine each piece carefully. He caught no uneasiness from Jessica, but rather her appreciation for helping her check for damage during shipping. The twinge of conscience infuriated him. He was doing his job, he reminded himself. And it was her damn Uncle Charlie that had put him there.
    Another year, Slade told himself again. Another year and there'd be no commissioner to hand him