Paper Rose by Diana Palmer Page A

covert ops. She wished he wasn’t away. He’d be the very person to help ferret out the bad guys and discover the extent of their plans.
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    Senator Holden sent her tickets over the next day, following a staff meeting with the curator of the museum, Dr. Phillips.
    Jock Phillips was a tall, balding man with Cherokee blood, a gentle personality and a genuine reverence for Native American culture. Everything they added to the collection fascinated him. He had to touch the objects, as if by making physical contact he could almost absorb them through his fingertips. He was an old bachelor with plenty of friends, and Cecily adored him.
    â€œMatt says you’re going out to South Dakota on another acquisition trip, but this time he’s got something specific in mind,” Phillips told her with wide, bright eyes. “Care to tell the old man what it is?”
    â€œSomething unusual,” she said, hoping she could fill that order. “And you’re going to love it.”
    He grinned from ear to ear. “How much is this unusual thing going to cost me?” he asked.
    â€œCheap at the price, I promise,” she said with a smile. “I’ll make the trip worthwhile.”
    â€œI know that. You’re quite a bonus to us, you know. You have a knack for Paleo-Indian archaeology. You’d have been wasted in forensics, Cecily,” he added solemnly. “That sort of thing kills the soul.”
    â€œWhy, Dr. Phillips,” she said, surprised, searching for words.
    â€œI was a forensic scientist in my youth,” he said in a grim tone. “I thought it would be like detective work. It was. But one of the first victims I had to identify turned out to be a missing friend. I gave it up and went into archaeology.” He smiled sadly. “It’s much more rewarding.”
    â€œYes, it is to me, too,” she assured him. “I love working here.”
    â€œSo do I,” he confided with a smile. “Go to South Dakota and bring me back something that will make us famous. We’re very young, remember. We have to be able to compete with the big guys.”
    â€œI’ll do my best,” she promised.
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    She packed that evening after she finished dinner. She was sipping coffee when the doorbell rang. Perhaps Colby had come back early!
    She was thinking what a godsend that would be when she opened the door and found Tate on the other side.
    He was wearing jeans and a black turtleneck sweater with a silk jacket. He looked very sophisticated, and she was very aware that she was barefooted in tattered jeans with a blouse that had been washed until the red had faded to a tie-died sort of pink. She stared up at him without speaking.
    â€œDo I get to come in?” he asked.
    She shrugged and stood aside. “I’m just packing.”
    â€œMoving again?” he asked with faint sarcasm. “You used to be easier to keep track of.”
    â€œBecause I was living in a nest of spies!” she threw at him, having only recently gleaned that bit of information from Colby. “You got me an apartment surrounded by government agents!”
    â€œIt was the safest place for you,” he said simply. “Someone was always watching you when I couldn’t.”
    â€œI didn’t need watching!”
    â€œYou did,” he returned, perching on the arm of her big easy chair to stare at her intently. “You never realized it, but you were a constant target for anyone who had a grudge against me. In the end, it was why I gave up government work and got a job in the private sector.” He folded his arms over his broad chest, watching surprise claim her features. “There was a communist agent with a high-powered rifle one day, and a South American gentleman with an automatic pistol the following week. You were never told about them. But you had two close calls. If you hadn’t been living in a ‘nest of spies,’ I’d have buried