I guess I was an unabashed fan. I did love my City.

Lunch with Ian had been enlightening, but I couldn’t help but wonder if there was something more personal in his disgust for Enrico.

Enrico had said he had something to show me and now I wondered whether he’d show me other books he’d taken from the Winslow collection. Would he be that bold? I hoped so.

I found his house and parked a few doors down. It was one of the smaller homes on the block but still lovely, with manicured hedges and freshly planted flowers lining the walkway. I climbed the brick steps to the front door and rang the bell. After a moment, I rang it again, then glanced around the neighborhood. It was completely deserted in the middle of the day. No gardeners, no kids, no signs of life.

After another minute, I knocked on the door.

“Enrico?” I called. “Are you here?”

Maybe he was in the back. I walked around to the side of the house, but the high gate was locked and I couldn’t see whether there was a back house or studio.

I returned to the front door and knocked again. I hated to think I’d driven out here for nothing. Without a clear thought, I tried the doorknob. It turned easily and I pushed it open a few inches.

“Enrico?” I called again. “Anybody home?”

I peeked inside. I couldn’t hear a sound. I pushed the door open a foot and stepped inside. “Enrico? It’s Brooklyn. Hello.”

Was I actually walking into his house without an invitation? But he had invited me. Maybe he’d left the door open for me. I glanced around the small, fussy foyer. An arched entry led to the living room and after closing the front door, I ventured in farther. If he came home, I’d be sitting on the couch, waiting for him.

Yeah, that would work.

A large desk in the corner of the room was stacked with bills and papers. I glanced through a few, wondering whether I’d see any notices of sale or e-mails about his eBay business. It wouldn’t hurt to look. Well, unless I got caught. But if I could find some evidence of his thefts, I could bring the Winslows some justice.

I heard a noise out on the street and glanced nervously over my shoulder. I could handle Enrico coming home to find me sitting on his couch but not rifling through his private papers.

A small vertical file held a stack of bills and checks, and I thumbed through them. They were all made out to Enrico Baldacchio, no fake name. I recognized a few of the check writers, some booksellers and an antiquities dealer.

One name jumped out at me.

Ian McCullough.

I stared in horror at Ian’s check, payable to Enrico in the sum of five thousand dollars. The memo line said “Services.”

My first thought was blackmail. Was this the real reason Ian was so angry with Enrico? But that was absurd. It was more likely that Ian had paid Enrico for something tangible, like a book.

Perhaps a stolen book?

And there went my mind, circling back around to blackmail.

I slipped the check into my jacket pocket. Now what? I was trying to figure out my next move when I heard the scuff of a heel against the concrete walkway out front.

Crap. I froze for one long second, then scanned the room for a place to hide. There was nothing. No closet, no room to hide behind the couch.

So much for my plan to relax on his couch. I didn’t want to be discovered going through Enrico’s house, especially by Enrico. Not since I’d found that check from Ian.

I raced through the alcove dining room and into the rustic gourmet kitchen. Along with a back entry, there was a laundry room and another door leading to a full pantry. In the middle of the kitchen was a butcher block island with a stainless steel pot rack hanging from the twelve-foot ceiling. What a great kitchen. Too bad I couldn’t stay.

I dashed through the laundry room to the back door, but it wouldn’t budge. It was dead-bolted with no key, no latch. Damn Enrico for taking normal security precautions. Desperate, I slipped into the full pantry and closed the door, just as someone entered the house.

I was shaking. I folded my arms tightly across my chest to control it. If this was Enrico coming home, I would have some explaining to do. Now would be a good time to think of a plausible reason why I was hiding in his pantry. I was being followed? I suspected foul play? I was hungry?

Heavy footsteps traipsed back and forth between the living and dining areas. I could hear papers being shuffled, drawers being opened and slammed shut. Someone was looking for something. The same thing I was looking for? Whatever that was.

Glass shattered in the living room area and I jolted, then tried to breathe again.

I didn’t think Enrico would be stomping around breaking things, rifling carelessly through his own stuff. So who was out there? I hoped they would hurry. It was dark as hell in the pantry and my imagination was going crazy. I could smell peanut butter and I’d swear there were mice in here. I shivered, uneasy about sharing space with rodents.

Footsteps moved into the kitchen and I started to panic. They were too close. I was going to be discovered. And the mice. I could hear them breathing. A scream built in my throat.

A wisp of breath on the skin beneath my ear was my only warning before someone slapped a hand over my mouth and grabbed me from behind.

I was trapped in the viselike grip of my assailant. He’d wrapped one strong arm around my torso to prevent me from hitting him, but if I was about to die in a pantry closet, I refused to go meekly. I didn’t dare make any noise, but I squirmed and tried to bite the palm of his hand. I only managed to gnaw some skin, which almost made me gag. I twisted to get free, but there was no room to maneuver in the confines of the pantry closet.

“Shhhhh,” he whispered, as though he were trying to calm a colicky baby. I could smell his spicy scent and wondered how I hadn’t realized he was hiding here from the moment I stepped inside this space. It wasn’t mice I’d sensed, just one big rat.

“Damn it, Derek,” I hissed, but with his hand clamping my mouth, it sounded like “Mrkmr, rruk.”

“Shut up,” he whispered roughly.

I was truly going to kill him. For now, though, I nodded slowly to let him know I was on board with the plan to keep quiet.

He eased the pressure of his hand on my mouth but kept his other arm tight around me. As the footsteps grew closer to the pantry, I stopped breathing altogether. I was jammed up against Derek’s hard chest and stomach, not to mention his thighs. Oh my. Now that I knew it was him, part of me, okay, all of me wanted to rub up even closer and purr like a satisfied kitty cat. This probably wasn’t the best time to be thinking along those lines, especially in light of my recent decision to kill him.

I sucked in a breath as Derek reached between me and the door to grasp the handle, seconds before the intruder tried to open the pantry door. I could feel Derek’s muscles vibrate with tension as he held the door handle so tightly, the intruder had to think it was either stuck or locked.

Either way, the guy on the other side of the door finally uttered an oath and gave up.

As his footsteps moved away from the pantry, I let out a slow breath. The intruder crossed the kitchen and retreated down the hall, his footsteps growing fainter as he moved toward the back of the house.

Just as I thought I might collapse in relief, a door slammed somewhere down the long hall. I tensed again as footsteps pounded down the hardwood floor of the hall and raced out the front door.

There was nothing but silence for a moment; then a car engine started up and tires squealed as the intruder took off.

After ten more seconds, Derek shoved the door open and we escaped the pantry.