He paced back and forth in front of a desk, tipping a bright silver Slinky from one hand to the other. And appeared to be holding a conversation with himself.

She wondered how he could stand the lack of privacy while he worked, that constant sensation of being on display. And the noise, she thought. With all the clacking, ringing, talking, and beeping, she would go mad trying to formulate a single creative thought.

She wasn’t sure whom to speak with. No one looked particularly like an assistant or secretary. And despite the retro toy that Flynn was currently playing with, it suddenly dawned on Malory that he was a busy man. An important man. Not a man she should pop in on without notice.

As she stood, undecided, Flynn sat on the corner of his desk, pouring the Slinky from right hand to left and back again. His hair was mussed, as if he’d spent some time playing with it before he’d gotten hold of the toy.

He wore a dark green shirt tucked into casual khakis and very possibly the oldest athletic shoes she’d ever seen.

There was a quick tingle in her belly, followed by a helpless little thud just under her heart.

It was all right to be attracted to him, she told herself. That was acceptable. But she couldn’t let this move to the level it was headed for so quickly. That wasn’t smart, it wasn’t safe. It wasn’t even . . .

Then he looked out through the glass, his eyes meeting hers for one fast, hot beat before he smiled. And the tingle, the thud, became more intense.

He flicked his wrist and the Slinky fell back into itself, then he gave her a come-ahead gesture with his free hand.

She wound her way through the desks and the din. When she stepped through the open office door, she saw with some relief that he hadn’t been talking to himself, but on a speakerphone.

Out of habit, she closed the door behind her, then looked toward the sound of heroic snoring to see Moe sprawled belly-up between two filing cabinets.

What did you do about a man who brought his big, silly dog to work with him? she wondered. Maybe more to the point, how did you resist such a man?

Flynn held up a finger to signal one more minute, so she took the time to study his work area. There was a huge corkboard on one wall, jammed with notes, articles, photographs, and phone numbers. Her fingers itched to organize it, as well as the maze of papers on his desk.

Shelves were full of books, several of which seemed to be law and medical journals. There were phone books for a number of Pennsylvania counties, books of famous quotations, movie and music guides.

In addition to the Slinky, he had a yo-yo and a number of warlike action figures. There were several plaques and awards—to the paper and to Flynn personally, stacked together as if he hadn’t gotten around to hanging them. She didn’t know where she would have hung them either, as what little wall space he had was taken up by the corkboard and an equally large wall calendar for the month of September.

She turned around when he ended the call. Then stepped back as he moved toward her.

He stopped. “Problem?”

“No. Maybe. Yes.”

“Pick one,” he suggested.

“I got a tingle in my stomach when I saw you in here.”

His grin spread. “Thanks.”

“No. No. I don’t know if I’m ready for that. I have a lot on my mind. I didn’t come here to talk about that, but see—I’m already distracted.”

“Hold that thought,” he told her when his phone rang again. “Hennessy. Uh-huh. Uh-huh. When? No, that’s no problem,” he continued and scribbled on a pad that he unearthed from the rubble. “I’ll take care of it.”

He hung up, then unplugged the phone. “It’s the only way to kill the beast. Tell me more about this tingle.”

“No. I don’t know why I told you in the first place. I’m here about Jordan Hawke.”

“What about him?”

“He bought a painting from The Gallery about five years ago—”

“A painting? Are we talking about the same Jordan Hawke?”

“Yes. It’s of young Arthur about to draw the sword from the stone. I think—I’m nearly sure—it’s by the same artist as the painting at Warrior’s Peak and the one your other friend owns. I need to see it again. It was years ago, and I want to be sure I’m remembering the details of it correctly and not just adding them in because it’s convenient.”

“If you’re right, it’s an awfully big coincidence.”

“If I’m right, it’s not a coincidence at all. There’s a purpose to it. To all of it. Can you get in touch with him?”

Because his mind was racing through the details and possibilities, Flynn filled his hands with the Slinky again. “Yeah. If he’s traveling, it might take a while, but I’ll track him down. I didn’t know Jordan had ever been in The Gallery.”

“His name’s not on our client list, so I’m assuming this was a one-shot deal. To my mind, that only makes it more important.”

Excitement rose in her throat and bubbled out in her voice. “Flynn, I nearly bought that painting myself. It was beyond my budget at the time, but I was doing some creative math to justify the purchase. It was sold on my morning off, just before I was planning to go to James to ask him if I could buy it on a payment plan. I have to believe all this means something.”

“I’ll get in touch with Jordan. My take would be he bought it for somebody. He’s not much on stuff, unlike Brad. He tends to travel light and keep the acquisitions to a minimum.”

“I need to see the painting again.”

“Got that. I’m on it. I’ll find out what I can today and fill you in over dinner tonight.”

“No, that’s not a good idea. It’s a really, really bad idea.”

“Dinner’s a bad idea? People have embraced the concept of the evening meal throughout history. There’s documentation.”

“Us having dinner is the bad part. I need to slow things down.”

He set the toy down. He shifted his body, and when she would have countered to keep that distance between them, he grabbed her hand, tugged her forward. “Somebody rushing you?”

“More like something.” Her pulse began to skip—in her wrists, in her throat, even at the back of her suddenly shaky knees. There was something about that cool calculation that came into his eyes, the sort that reminded her he tended to think two or three steps ahead. “Look, this is my problem, not yours, and . . . Stop,” she ordered when his free hand cupped the back of her neck. “This is hardly the place for—”