But damn if she wasn’t twice as intriguing now that she’d tried to kill him.

He suspected she had some intense kind of passion bubbling inside her. Now, what drove that passion to rip a fixture off the ceiling with her mind? Well, God only knew how she’d done it, but he’d seen it happen with his own two eyes. It was as if invisible hands from the heavens had torn the chandelier from the ceiling.

Maybe he was crazy.

But as best as he could tell, the world was filled with two kinds of things: boring and interesting. And Hadley Bacall was not boring.

He fell in step with her as they strolled down the sidewalk. “I wouldn’t say your father is bending over for me. He’s offered to pay me for goods received, nothing more.”

“I thought you were taking the night off from lying.”

“That’s not a lie.”

“It’s not the whole truth, either.”

“Are you psychic? A mind reader?”

“If I were, I would’ve steered clear of you in Salt Lake City.”

“Touché.”

Their footsteps fell together, the clop of his shoe, the click of her heel. The darkness obscured her face and the shapeless fur of her coat hid the curves and planes of her body, but her presence beside him held his attention as sharply as a half-clothed burlesque dancer’s would.

“Apparently, your father thinks I’m Howard Carter,” Lowe said. “He’s impressed by the amulet find. He wants to hire me to hunt other artifacts.”

The scent of her Siberia lily wafted his way when she glanced up at him. “He wants to fund an excavation? In Egypt?”

“Not exactly.”

“Just speak plainly.”

“Look, he made me promise not to get you involved, all right? He’s offering me a lot of money to find something for him, and he specifically warned me not to breathe a word to anyone in general, you in particular.”

“Me? Why?”

“No idea. And you probably won’t understand this, but I need the money your father’s offering. Badly. I’ve got debts you can’t imagine, and don’t say it—I can see it on your lips already. I can’t mooch off my family. And I’d just as soon saw off my other pinky finger than work for Winter. It’s a matter of pride. I need to be my own man.”

She didn’t answer for several steps. “We aren’t that different, Lowe. That’s all I’ve ever wanted, to be judged fairly. That job is everything to me. I’ve worked so hard to be worthy of it.”

“I truly didn’t ask your father for it.”

After a few seconds she said, “I believe you.”

Small miracle. The ironic thing about being a professional liar was that it was far more difficult to convince people to believe you when you were actually telling the truth.

“What does Father want you to find?”

“Hadley,” he pleaded. He thought of Adam and Stella. Thought of his debt to Monk.

A cool wind ruffled her hair as she turned to face him, clutching her coat closed. “Tell me and you have my solemn oath that I won’t run to my father and tattle. I can keep a secret.”

“Give me your word, and I also want to know how you ripped out the chandelier.”

“I can’t do that.” He almost said “no deal,” but she added, “I barely know you.”

Not an “I will never tell you” or “go to hell.” No, not that. Perhaps his translation of her words was merely wishful thinking, but in his glass-half-full mind, she was saying, “I might tell you once I get to know you better.”

Only a chance, yes, but one he wanted. Not more than her father’s money, of course. But after the stunt the old man pulled at the dinner, Lowe felt more certain he’d get it. Because no way in hell did Dr. Bacall want Lowe to have that job. He only announced it after Lowe requested something “tangible” before dinner, and Bacall wasn’t thickheaded. He damn well knew Lowe wanted money. But the job offer was a better move—for Dr. Bacall, that is. Without spending a dime, the offer kept Lowe tied to Bacall in a very public way. The old man might as well have pissed on his leg.

Bacall wanted the amulet crossbars very, very badly, and he was giving everything he had to Lowe in order to get them. Which put Lowe in the excellent position of being needed.

So, yes, Lowe felt more confident about Bacall paying out. He wasn’t too worried that telling Hadley would mess that up for him. But something else was urging Lowe to tell her.

He remembered back to when Volstead passed, and his own father had thrown every chip on the table to trade fishing for bootlegging. From the beginning, Lowe had been disinterested in helping his father, while Winter enjoyed it—was good at it. And Pappa had groomed Winter to take over. If Pappa was still alive and retiring, and if he’d handed the reigns to someone else without telling Winter first . . . well, that wouldn’t ever happen. Because Lowe’s father would never have done that to one of his children.

Never.

Thinking of all this made Lowe a little angry on Hadley’s behalf. Bacall truly had screwed her over. So because Lowe was softhearted—and maybe because he wanted to improve his chances of making his way up Hadley’s skirt—he finally relented.

“All right,” he said. “I’ll tell you, but only on your word that you won’t tell your father.”

“I promise,” she said as they walked together into the wind. “Let’s hear it.”