Dragonfly Dreams ~ Excerpt



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Jake Coburn looked up at the sound of the muted ring tones that signaled a customer had entered the shop.  Thank God, a distraction.  His pulse kicked up a notch, and he slowly folded the financial statement he'd been reviewing to tuck it into the Antique Trader Furniture Price Guide laying on the counter. 
           Loral Evans.
           God, he loved seeing her.  Yet at the same time he dreaded her walking through his doors because it meant she needed money.  Again. 

His entire body came alive as he watched her stride toward him, her shiny brunette curls lifting lightly from her face with each step.  He'd give just about anything to run his fingers through them, feel their silkiness as he inhaled the refreshing lavender scent that teased his senses during each of her visits.  Only problem was, he had a strong suspicion once would never be enough.

 Aqua blue eyes remained serious while her luscious mouth smiled at him.  "Hey, Jake."

"Loral."  He glanced at his watch.  Ten minutes until closing time.  "Little late to be seeing you."
             A shadow darkened her eyes for a moment, then she shrugged a slim shoulder and dipped her hand into the pocket of her worn, brown corduroy coat.  His gaze dropped to watch her lay out five pieces of jewelry on the glass counter next to his book.  Colors gleamed in the strategically placed overhead lighting. 

            His brows rose as her cheeks turned an alluring pink.  So damn honest.  Both a blessing and curse, he suspected.  But it was one of the things he'd admired about her since that first visit almost a year ago. He took a closer look at the jewelry on the counter and noted now that though they were excellent pieces, they did indeed lack the clarity of real jewels.  Pity.

            "But I know for sure they're from the 1930's."

            He lifted his gaze to hers and wished he hadn't.  The hope in her voice reflected in her eyes.  She didn't hold his gaze, and instead of lingering on her delicate features, he returned his attention to her offerings. 

Costume jewelry had been his mother's area of expertise, her passion, and after he'd sold her collection, he'd purposely stayed away from it.  He didn't realize he'd tensed until a muscle ticked along his jaw.  Relax.  He reached for the dragonfly, tested it's surprisingly dense weight, then flipped it over.

Unsigned.

A flash of disappointment shot through him.  It would've been so much better if they'd been signed by the designer.  Beautiful as they all were, unfortunately, the clients he catered to would expect either the real deal, or rare signed pieces of costume jewelry like his mother used to sell.  He might get a fair price for the dragonfly simply because of its beauty, but the other pieces were questionable. 

Still he'd buy them.  He took everything Loral brought him, good acquisition or not.  And while he could pad his offers to her a little without her suspecting, it probably wouldn't be enough.  She'd be back. 

He felt a twinge of guilt for the anticipation of seeing her again before she'd even left--if he was still in business by then.

Picking up a pendant with aquamarine rhinestones that matched her eyes, he turned it over for inspection, too.  She would expect no less. 

Mac.

The signature etched in the gold plating sharpened his interest.  His mother had talked endlessly about McClelland Barclay any time she found a piece designed by him.  A McClelland Barclay signature was good, but a Mac signature was gold to serious collectors.  It meant Barclay had custom designed the piece for an individual--usually one of a kind.

One by one, he examined the other three items and found the same signature.  Loral remained silent, but shifted restlessly from one foot to the other.  She glanced at her watch, then out the door where the streetlights had flickered on in the deepening twilight, joining the multitude of Christmas lights in shop windows. 

Jake frowned slightly at her distracted--almost anxious--demeanor.  "You can relax, Loral, I'm not going to kick you out the moment the clock strikes seven."

Her brow crinkled with confusion, then cleared.  "Oh, no, I have to catch--my ride," she finished awkwardly.

Replacing the faux ruby bracelet set in silver plated channels on the glass showcase, he asked, "Where'd you get these?"

Perplexed by her strange behavior, the question came out like an accusation without him realizing it.  She stiffened, her gaze turning to indignant blue ice chips as it swung to him.  "I didn't steal them."

"I didn't say you did."  He smiled gently to put her at ease.  "It's just that they're very rare, and unlike anything else you've brought in so far."

She regarded him for a moment before the defensiveness left her expression. 

"You're right about them being from the 30's," he continued.  "The designer, McClelland Barclay, made jewelry from 1932 to 1938.  He was killed in 1943 during World War II."  Amazing that he remembered now the little details his mother used to throw out, when back when she was alive and well, he tried his damnedest to tune her out.

She picked up the bracelet, draped it across her palm, and lightly ran a finger down its length.  His pulse quickened.

"They were my great-grandmother's."  Regret colored her words and the sadness in her expression tugged at his heart.

Jake understood then, only he'd gotten rid of his reminders instead of trying to hang on to them.  He quelled the urge to take her hand in his.  She probably wouldn't welcome the gesture, and if he touched her, any thoughts of comfort would be incinerated by the attraction that always heated his blood in her presence.

He pictured the bracelet with real rubies, real gold.  It must've been beautiful.  He glanced at the dragonfly but couldn't imagine it any more breathtaking than it was now.  Something about that piece--he couldn't quite put his finger on it, so he picked it up again.

"Have you ever researched these?  Had them appraised?"

"What's the point, I know for a fact they're fakes."  She set the bracelet down and flattened her palms on the glass.  After a discreet, deep breath that he knew she didn't want him to notice, she asked, "What's the best you can do?"

Disappointment darkened her gaze, and her shoulders drooped, yet resignation settled in her expression.  "That's more than fair."

He kicked himself for not going higher.  Screw her suspicions and obvious pride, and to hell with his bank statement. 

"And the dragonfly?" she asked.

He angled it in the light, admiring the excellent craftsmanship that made the faux jewels sparkle brilliantly.  If she hadn't assured him otherwise, he'd swear these were real.  Obviously she needed the money, but something in his gut made him shake his head. 

She swallowed hard.  "I know it's not signed, but it must be worth something--fifty bucks at least?"  He could tell she meant to state the price, but her voice lilted at the end, making it a plea. 

"It's worth more than that," he assured her.  "I just don't feel you should sell it right now.  Let me look into it first."

She shook her head.  "Give me a price."  Desperation edged her voice. 

"Loral--"

She locked her gaze with his.  "Please, Jake."  The plea came out as barely a whisper.

"How much do you need?  I'll loan you the money."

Mortification flooded her face.  She jerked her hands away. 

Jake grimaced as her eyes brightened with moisture.  He hadn't meant to say that.  At least not like that--like she was a charity case.  He felt like a first-class jerk.  He'd recognized her pride early on, so why had he just torn it to shreds?

She blinked fast, swallowed hard again.  And then, as if drawing on a steel reserve deep inside, she gathered her tattered dignity around her and bit out, "I can't pay the rent on what you feel, Jake, so just give me a price."

"One thousand."  His brother was going to flip, but what did he care anymore?

Loral's jaw dropped in surprise, then snapped closed.  "That's even more insulting."

"I don't need your pity."

Suddenly angry, as much at himself as her defensiveness, he narrowed his gaze and leaned forward.  "Take it or leave it."

She wanted to leave it.  He read it in the rigid set of her small corduroy-clad shoulders, the tense line of her jaw, and the ice in her eyes.  And, until he saw a flicker of that earlier despair in their blue depths, he actually thought she might turn and walk out the door.