Glancing about, she spied a possible alternative. Taking a deep breath and smoothing her suit, she tucked the parcel beneath her arm and strode briskly across the elegant grand foyer to the security desk. Two beefy men in crisp black-and-white uniforms snapped to attention as she approached.
When she’d first arrived in New York last year, she’d known instantly that she would never be in the same league with city women. Polished and chic, they were Mercedes and BMWs and Jaguars, and Chloe Zanders was a … Jeep, or maybe a Toyota Highlander on a good day. Her purse never matched her shoes—she was lucky if her shoe matched her shoe. Still, she believed in working with what one had, so she did her best to put a little feminine charm into her walk, praying she wouldn’t break an ankle.
“I have a delivery for Mr. MacKeltar,” she announced, curving her lips in what she hoped was a flirtatious smile, trying to soften them up enough that they’d let her go drop the blasted thing off where it would be a bit more secure. No way she was giving it to the pimply teen behind the call-desk. Nor to these beefy brutes.
Two leering gazes swept her from head to toe. “I’m sure you do, honey,” the blond man drawled. He gave her another thorough look. “You’re not his usual type though.”
“Mr. MacKeltar gets lots of deliveries,” his dark-haired companion smirked.
Oh, great. Just great. The man’s a womanizer. Popcorn and God-only-knows what else on the pages. Grr.
But she supposed she should be thankful, she told herself a few minutes later, as she rode the elevator up to the forty-third floor. They’d let her go up to the penthouse level unescorted, which was astounding in a luxury East-Side property.
Leave it in his anteroom; it’s secure enough, the blond had said, though his smarmy gaze had clearly said that he believed the real package was her, and he didn’t expect to see her again for days, at least.
If Chloe had only known how true that was—that indeed he wouldn’t be seeing her again for days—she’d never have gotten on that elevator.
Later, she would also reflect that if only the door hadn’t been unlocked, she would have been fine. But when she arrived in Mr. MacKeltar’s anteroom, which was overflowing with exotic fresh flowers and furnished with elegant chairs and magnificent rugs, all she’d been able to think was that Security might let some bimbo up, just as they had her, and said bimbo might tear a page out of the priceless text to wad up her chewing gum in, or something equally sacrilegious.
So, sighing, she smoothed her hair and tried one of the double doors.
It slid silently open on—heavens, were those gold-plated hinges? She caught sight of her gaping reflection in one. Some people had more money than sense. Just one of those stupid hinges would pay the rent on her tiny efficiency for months.
Shaking her head, she stepped inside and cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called, as it occurred to her that it might be unlocked because he’d left one of his apparently myriad women there.
“Hello, hello!” she called again.
Silence.
Luxury. Like she’d never seen.
She glanced about, and still might have been okay if she hadn’t spotted the glorious Scottish claymore hanging above the fireplace in the living room. It drew her like a moth to the flame.
“Oh, you gorgeous, lovely, splendid little thing, you,” she gushed, hurrying over to it, promising herself she was just going to place the text on the marble coffee table, take a quick glance, and leave.
Twenty minutes later, she was in the midst of a thorough exploration of his home, her heart hammering with nervousness, yet too enthralled to stop.
“How dare he leave his door unlocked?” she grumbled, frowning at a magnificent medieval broadsword. Casually propped against the wall in a corner. Ripe for the plucking. Though Chloe prided herself on sound morals, she suffered a shocking urge to tuck it beneath her arm and make a run for it.
The place was full of artifacts—all Celtic at that! Scottish weapons dating back to the fifteenth century, if she didn’t miss her guess, and she rarely did, adorned a wall in his library. Priceless Scots regalia: sporran, badge, and brooches in mint condition lay beside a pile of ancient coins on a desk.
She touched, she examined, she shook her head disbelievingly.
Where previously she’d felt nothing but distaste for the man, she was growing fonder of him by the moment, shamelessly seduced by his excellent taste.
And growing more curious about him with each new discovery.
No photos, she noticed, glancing around the rooms. Not one. She’d love to know what the guy looked like.