But it felt right.

She was going and that was that. She wasn’t willing to let him walk out of her life this afternoon—forever. She was drawn to him as irresistibly as she was drawn to artifacts. Logic didn’t have a damn thing to do with it.

Her mind raced over last-minute details and she decided she had to get word to Tom. He was probably already sick with worry and if he didn’t hear from her for another month, he’d have the entire police department in an uproar. But she didn’t want to talk to him on the phone, he would ask her too many questions; and the answers weren’t completely convincing, even to her.

E-mail! That was it. She could shoot him a short note on the computer in the study.

She glanced at the clock. Dageus should be gone for at least an hour. She slipped into her jeans, tugged a T-shirt over her head, and hurried downstairs, wanting to get it out of the way immediately.

What would she say? What excuse could she possibly give him?

I met the Gaulish Ghost and he’s not exactly a criminal. Actually, he’s the sexiest, most intriguing, smartest man I’ve ever met and he’s taking me to Scotland and he’s paying me with ancient artifacts to help him translate texts because he thinks he’s somehow cursed.

Yeah. Right. That coming from the woman who’d endlessly berated Tom for his less than lily-white ethics. Even if she told him the truth, he wouldn’t believe it of her. She didn’t believe it of her.

She went into the study and was briefly sidetracked by the artifacts scattered about. She would never get used to such casual treatment of priceless relics. Scooping up a handful of coins, she sorted through them. Two had horses etched on them. Replacing the others on the desk, she studied the two coins wonderingly. The ancient Continental Celts had etched horses on their coins. Horses had been treasured creatures, symbolic of wealth and freedom, meriting their own goddess, Epona, who’d been commemorated in more surviving inscriptions and statues than any other early goddess.

“Nah,” she said, snorting. “There’s no way they’re that old.” They were in such mint condition that they looked as if they’d been fashioned only a few years ago.

But then, she mused, all of his property did. Looked new, that was. Impossibly new. New enough that she’d entertained the possibility that they might be brilliant forgeries. Very few artifacts survived the centuries in such impeccable condition. Without the proper means to authenticate them, she had to trust her judgment. And her judgment said—impossible though it was to believe—his artifacts were genuine.

A sudden image rose in her mind: Dageus, dressed in full Scots tartan and regalia, his hair wild, war braids plaited at his temples, swinging the claymore that hung above the fireplace. The man exuded Celtic warrior, as if he’d been transplanted in time.

“You are such a dreamer, Zanders,” she chided herself. Shaking her head to scatter her fanciful thoughts, she replaced the coins in their pile, and turned her attention back to the task at hand. She turned on the computer, and tapped her foot impatiently, waiting for it to boot up. While it whirred and hummed, she sidled out into the living room and eyed the answering machine, twirling a strand of curly wet hair around a finger. The phone had rung many times since he’d turned the volume down.