Not a lot of security for a place that had just been robbed. Feeling like he was casing the place, Conor walked through the arches and checked out the front rooms. Tall ceilings, ornate molding, and thick wallpaper gave the space an old-as-the-Mayflower-money feel. Glass cases held an assortment of broken pots, bits of metal, and other stuff that looked like it had been buried in the dirt for a thousand years. Descriptions of each item were typed neatly on ivory-colored cards. Conor stopped to examine a four-foot-long tusk.

Mammoth tusk, Siberia, 2007. There was a list of people responsible for digging up the discovery and several paragraphs describing the find. Conor skimmed the details. Global warming. Shrinking permafrost. Bones popping up all over the tundra. Interesting. He moved to the next case.

Floorboards creaked overhead.

Conor walked to the bottom of the steps. “Hello?” The narrow staircase hampered his view of the top.

“Just a moment, please.” The voice was female, the footsteps on the wooden treads light. The first things Conor saw were old-fashioned pumps, then legs. Slim but shapely calves. The skirt fell just past her knees. Too bad. But it was snug, which was a bonus.

A tall, willowy figure in a conservative gray suit descended. She was sleek as a deer and blonde, with silky hair bound in a fancy, prudish knot, the kind of do a man couldn’t wait to undo, one pin at a time, while he tasted every inch of that slender neck.

He raised his eyes and nearly flinched. The look she scanned him with was cold as Siberian permafrost. It chilled him from his leather jacket to his motorcycle boots. Being a hopelessly perverse man, all Conor could think of were the various ways to melt her icy veneer.

She raised her chin and looked through dark-rimmed glasses perched on the end of her nose. “Can I help you?”

Oh, yeah. No. He was here for information, not to thaw the frigid curator. But God, it was tempting. Loosen the hair. Flick a few of those buttons open. Hike that skirt up. Toss the glasses. Yup. She had the hot librarian thing going on.

Was it getting warm in here?

Her stare narrowed. Unfortunately, Conor found disapproval to be a turn-on.

Conor unzipped his jacket. “Yes. My name is Conor Sullivan. I’m looking for Dr. Louisa M. Hancock.”

“I’m Dr. Hancock.”

No shit? Conor covered his shock with a cough. He held out a hand.

She glanced down as if it were infected with MRSA before resigning herself to touch it. Once she made the decision, though, he had to give her credit; she treated him to a firm, professional shake. “What can I do for you?”

Conor almost laughed at the images rolling through his head. “I’d like to ask you about the robbery.”