Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell

outfit, but the person waiting for her was very tall and masculine in outline. She got out of the van and stood, waiting for him to come to her. As she waited, her fingers strayed to the ancient cloth she wore beneath the neck of her blouse. Soothing, almost silky, yet somehow even softer than silk, the texture calmed her.
    The man walked down the stairs with an ease that suggested youth, fitness, or both. His hair looked dark, except where it was woven through with silver that glistened in the artificial light. Erect and clean-shaven, he didn’t appear particularly casual despite the slacks, golf shirt, loafers, and light wind jacket he wore.
    Without being obvious about it, he looked through the van’s windshield to see if she was alone. He scanned her with equal discretion. There was nothing to raise warning alarms in her black jeans, black cotton pullover, and black sandals. The black leather purse she carried was big enough to double as an overnight case, but many women had such purses and carried nothing more lethal inside than makeup, water, and comfortable shoes.
    “Welcome to the Warrick estate, Ms. Charters.”
    “At the moment, I feel more like Alice in Wonderland.”
    White teeth flashed. “I reacted the same way the first time I saw it. I’m Paul Carson. The Warricks are eagerly awaiting you inside. May I help you carry anything?”
    “Like the pages?” she asked.
    He had the grace to look chagrined. “Sorry. We’re all excited. The color copies were intriguing, but not particularly useful.” He shrugged. “You understand, I’m sure.”
    “You want to see if the pages have more to offer than the copies, is that it?”
    “Of course.”
    “That’s why I brought them. I’d like to know, too.”
    Intent, pale eyes that could have been blue or gray or green watched while she pulled a large leather portfolio from the rear of her van. She noticed his scrutiny and raised her left eyebrow in silent question.
    “I’m sorry if I seem rude,” he said quickly. “Some habits are impossible to break. I spent twenty years in the Secret Service and ten more as Mr. Warrick’s chief of security. We have so few strangers to the estate that, frankly, I’m nervous.”
    “I’m getting that way myself,” she said. Then she smiled. It was hard not to. The idea of someone who looked like Carson being nervous around an unarmed woman was amusing.
    “Again, I apologize,” he said. “It’s just that so many young women carry concealed weapons today.”
    “I’m not one of them.”
    “Good, because I would have to ask you to leave any weapon in your van. House rules.” He smiled again. This time he let his approval of her feminine form and elfin face show in his voice. “Have you eaten?”
    Serena blinked. The man was damned handsome, even if he was twenty years older than she was. The twinkle in his eyes hadn’t aged one bit. “Eaten? I think so.”
    “You don’t know?”
    “I was weaving. When I’m weaving . . .” She shrugged. “My stomach isn’t growling, so I must have eaten something somewhere along the way.”
    “As soon as I introduce you to the Warricks, I’ll see what we have in the kitchen.”
    “That’s not necessary, Mr. Carson.”
    “Paul.” He gestured for her to precede him up the wide marble stairs. “And it’s very necessary. I have a niece your age. I’d feel terrible if she fainted at my feet because I hadn’t thought to feed her.”
    “That must be how Picky feels.”
    “Picky?” He opened the massive front door and turned to her.
    “My cat. He’s always leaving, er, delicacies around for me to eat.”
    “Delicacies?” He closed the door behind them. “Such as?”
    “Obviously you don’t have cats.”
    “No.”
    “Picky catches all manner of small things, but he only eats the juicy bits. He leaves the crunchy stuff for me.”
    “Ugh. No wonder you don’t eat. This way, Ms. Charters.”
    “Serena.”
    “Serena. Unusual name. Quite lovely.”
    “I’m