Nothing to do but end it and let the fire of humiliation warm the arctic air between them. How could he have been so wrong?

He released her chin and pulled away. A look that was something close to horror harshened her features. Her hands were fisted at her sides.

“Guess that doesn’t always work after all,” he joked, trying to salvage his stinging pride.

A brisk knock sounded across the room. The office door creaked open to reveal a middle-aged man in a guard’s uniform. “Dr. Bacall?”

“Ah, good evening, Mr. Hill.”

“Miss Bacall. Sorry to bother you. I’d just punched out for the night and was headed home. Saw the light under the door and thought it was your father working late.”

“No, it’s just me. Oh, and Lo—umm, that is. I mean, this is—”

“Mr. Magnusson,” Lowe said.

“Yes,” she said, laughing nervously. “He’s just back from Egypt. And we’ve both just come from the museum’s party.”

The guard’s eyes narrowed. “I see . . .”

What had she said? Let her take care of the talking? She was terrible at lying. If she said much more, she’d end up turning herself in for a crime she hadn’t committed. Worse—she might tell the guard they’d been ripping up books to hunt down a map.

Oh, God.

The gouged books sat on the conference table with the paintings. Lowe quickly stepped in front of them, hoping to block the guard’s view, and spoke over Hadley.

“We were planning a surprise for Dr. Bacall’s retirement,” Lowe said smoothly. “Collecting some old photographs of him in his younger days—so we could have an artist sketch him for a program highlighting his achievements.”

The guard’s posture relaxed. “I’m sure he’ll be so pleased.”

It was really too easy.

“You won’t breathe a word, I trust,” Lowe said. “We hoped to surprise the whole staff. That’s why we rushed straight over here from the party. Don’t want anyone spilling the secret until we could get the program to the printer.”

“My lips are sealed,” the guard assured him. “Well, then, I’ll be on my way. You need a ride home or anything, Miss Bacall?”

“Yes, please,” Hadley said. “That would be so kind, Mr. Hill. Will save me from catching a taxi.”

A frustrated anger stole over Lowe. Had he not just invented an excuse to appease the guard? Was she so appalled by the kiss that she’d take any opening to remove herself from his presence?

She smiled at Mr. Hill. “If you could just wait for me at the entrance, I won’t be a minute.”

“Yes, ma’am. I’ll wait.” The guard tipped his hat to Lowe. As soon as he’d headed far enough down the hallway, Hadley surveyed the room with nervous eyes.

“I could’ve taken you home,” he said.

She ignored that. “Put the books back exactly where you found them. Make sure your butchery job isn’t noticeable. And I’ll just—”

Oh, no. Lowe lunged for the table and managed to get his hand on two of the paintings. She’d already grabbed the others.

“A fair compromise,” she said. “I’ll keep these safe, you keep those safe. And I’ll meet you at the Columbarium tomorrow morning at, shall we say ten?”

So she wanted to pretend the kiss had never happened? Fine. He didn’t know why he was chasing after her in the first place.

During the ride back home, he reminded himself of all her irritating qualities. Bossy. Strange. Hot one minute, cold the next. Reserved. Bitter. Overeducated. Stubborn. Too old. Terrible sense of style—someone else must’ve picked out the evening gown, he decided.

And oh, that’s right. She’d tried to kill him.

When he undressed for bed later, he found her wilted lily in his tuxedo jacket pocket. Nothing lasts forever, she’d said. How true. He dumped it in a wastebasket and turned off his bedside lamp, then lay there in the dark, still angry.

Gods above, he could still smell the damn thing.

He turned his lamp back on and dug the lily out of the trash. After a moment of thought, he flattened it between the pages of an old issue of Weird Tales and wedged it under the feather bed’s mattress.

TWELVE

GRAY FOG SALTED WITH drizzle met Hadley when she exited her taxi the next morning near the entrance to Odd Fellows Cemetery. The Columbarium’s stately Greco-Roman columns and patina-green copper dome stood sentry above rolling grave-lined hills. She surveyed the grounds. Deserted. No cars. No visiting families.

No red motorcycle in sight.

Her rapid heartbeat relaxed its anxious pace.

As she approached the building’s entrance, she straightened her cloche hat and brushed a few of Number Four’s black hairs from her charcoal coat sleeve. The damned cat was going through another shedding season, and he’d offered little sympathy when she’d arrived home last night, fretting over Lowe.

And the worst kiss of her life.

What was the matter with her? Besides the obvious. But really. A devastatingly handsome, virile man had kissed her and she’d frozen up like a lake in winter. True, he’d caught her off guard, and she wasn’t used to people touching her, much less kissing her. But she still should’ve been able to allow herself to enjoy the moment. Especially after he’d continued to try.

And try, and try . . .

Thinking about it made her teeth clench.

Loosen up. That’s what George had told her in college. She wanted to—God, did she ever. Lowe’s lips were warm, softer than she’d expected. She could only imagine what it would be like to surrender. She remembered how she felt with him at the gazing pool. If he’d kissed her then, in that moment? Well, things may have gone differently. But in the museum, her brain kept shouting at her, warning her not to let her guard down. Not to trust a man like Lowe, because he’d only kissed her to get his hands on the canopic jar paintings they’d found inside the books.