Moving Target by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

bleached hair, of medium height, and educated yet still casual, with a strong flavor of New York. “I’m Cleary Warrick Montclair. The young man with the good manners is my son, Garrison Montclair.”
    Serena nodded at Garrison, who looked perhaps eighteen at first glance. When he moved to greet her, she noticed the Safavid rug beneath his feet for the first time. Only the French tapestry could have kept her from noticing such a glorious example of textile art. The rug’s colors were still vibrant after five centuries, the designs both crisp and flowing.
    “Delighted to meet you,” Garrison said.
    Serena realized that she was staring at the rug rather than paying attention to her hosts. Talk about rude. Guiltily she forced herself to look away from the gorgeous rug to the hand Garrison was holding out to her. As she shook it firmly, she realized that up close he looked at least ten years older than she had thought. He had the assurance that came from wealth and exclusive education. If he also had the arrogance, he hid it well.
    Probably one arrogant man in the house was enough, she decided with faint humor.
    Having been raised essentially without men, Serena found them amusing and impossible by turns. Fascinating, too. Rather like large cats. Really large. But, as G’mom had assured her granddaughter many times, Men aren’t worth the trouble of housebreaking.
    Serena had always taken her grandmother’s words at face value. Only when she grew older did she wonder why—if men were that much trouble—women went to such unlikely extremes of dress and cosmetics to get one of their own.
    Garrison’s friendly hazel eyes smiled at her. Two warm hands surrounded her own. Softly curling chestnut hair caught and held light as he gave her a slight bow.
    “My pleasure, Ms. Charters. Or may I call you Serena?” Garrison asked.
    She wondered if a woman had ever refused him. “Serena is fine, Mr. Warrick.”
    “Oh, please,” he said, laughing. “There’s only one Mr. Warrick here, and that’s Granddad. I’m Garrison, chief flunky for the House of Warrick.”
    Cleary gave her son a sidelong glance that he ignored.
    Serena hid a smile. Perhaps a possessive mother was the reason that the charming young scion didn’t have a wife at his side.
    “Enough nonsense,” Warrick said curtly. “Bring me the bloody sheets now.”
    Garrison rolled his eyes but made no other objection. “If I may . . . ?” he asked, holding out his hand for the portfolio.
    For an instant Serena’s fingers tightened on the leather. A peculiar sense of possessiveness gripped her. She had to force her hands to loosen. It was ridiculous to be so wary. The man who owned the baronial splendor surrounding her certainly wouldn’t simply grab four leaves from a manuscript nobody had ever heard of.
    “Of course,” she said.
    She handed over the leather portfolio and told herself she was an idiot for the silent cry of objection that rose within her when the pages left her hand. She was acting like a mother cat with only one kitten.
    It was an effort, but she forced herself not to follow Garrison as he crossed the costly rug and laid the portfolio on an antique table in front of his grandfather. The surface of the table gleamed with a mosaic of semiprecious gems—lapis and malachite, ivory and ebony, carnelian and mother-of-pearl. For all the attention Warrick paid to the table, it could have been made of clay.
    With surprisingly nimble fingers, he undid the buckle on the portfolio and opened the leather wide with the impatience of a conquering knight spreading a woman’s thighs. Silence filled the huge room while he turned the first sheet, then the second, the third, the fourth.
    He looked up, pinning her with dark eyes. “Where did you get these?”
    “I inherited them from my grandmother.”
    He said something that she couldn’t hear, something that sounded very much like bullshit.
    “Excuse me?” Serena said.
    “Where are the rest of the