Two leering gazes swept her from head to toe. “I’m sure you do, honey,” the blond man drawled. He gave her another thorough look. “You’re not his usual type though.”

“Mr. MacKeltar gets lots of deliveries,” his dark-haired companion smirked.

Oh, great. Just great. The man’s a womanizer. Popcorn and God-only-knows what else on the pages. Grr.

But she supposed she should be thankful, she told herself a few minutes later, as she rode the elevator up to the forty-third floor. They’d let her go up to the penthouse level unescorted, which was astounding in a luxury East-Side property.

Leave it in his anteroom; it’s secure enough, the blond had said, though his smarmy gaze had clearly said that he believed the real package was her, and he didn’t expect to see her again for days, at least.

If Chloe had only known how true that was—that indeed he wouldn’t be seeing her again for days—she’d never have gotten on that elevator.

Later, she would also reflect that if only the door hadn’t been unlocked, she would have been fine. But when she arrived in Mr. MacKeltar’s anteroom, which was overflowing with exotic fresh flowers and furnished with elegant chairs and magnificent rugs, all she’d been able to think was that Security might let some bimbo up, just as they had her, and said bimbo might tear a page out of the priceless text to wad up her chewing gum in, or something equally sacrilegious.

So, sighing, she smoothed her hair and tried one of the double doors.

It slid silently open on—heavens, were those gold-plated hinges? She caught sight of her gaping reflection in one. Some people had more money than sense. Just one of those stupid hinges would pay the rent on her tiny efficiency for months.

Shaking her head, she stepped inside and cleared her throat. “Hello?” she called, as it occurred to her that it might be unlocked because he’d left one of his apparently myriad women there.

“Hello, hello!” she called again.

Silence.

Luxury. Like she’d never seen.

She glanced about, and still might have been okay if she hadn’t spotted the glorious Scottish claymore hanging above the fireplace in the living room. It drew her like a moth to the flame.

“Oh, you gorgeous, lovely, splendid little thing, you,” she gushed, hurrying over to it, promising herself she was just going to place the text on the marble coffee table, take a quick glance, and leave.

Twenty minutes later, she was in the midst of a thorough exploration of his home, her heart hammering with nervousness, yet too enthralled to stop.

“How dare he leave his door unlocked?” she grumbled, frowning at a magnificent medieval broadsword. Casually propped against the wall in a corner. Ripe for the plucking. Though Chloe prided herself on sound morals, she suffered a shocking urge to tuck it beneath her arm and make a run for it.

The place was full of artifacts—all Celtic at that! Scottish weapons dating back to the fifteenth century, if she didn’t miss her guess, and she rarely did, adorned a wall in his library. Priceless Scots regalia: sporran, badge, and brooches in mint condition lay beside a pile of ancient coins on a desk.