Moving Target Read Online Free

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    A wise woman wouldn’t pursue this. But since when have the firstborn women of my clan been wise? Certainly not for a thousand years. If you follow where these pages lead, don’t make the mistake I did—be a moving target, not a sitting duck.
    Trust no man with your heritage.
    Your life depends on it.
    Serena read the letter again. Not for the first time, she wished her grandmother hadn’t been so suspicious of everyone. She had trusted Hingham enough to leave the letter with him, but obviously she hadn’t trusted him not to read it. She had given no more information than she thought absolutely necessary for her granddaughter to have.
    That wasn’t very much to work with. Just enough to tell her that there was a more or less whole manuscript somewhere out there, and it was her heritage, and to be careful. The warning was clear enough—moving target—but the way to reclaiming her heritage wasn’t.
    Frowning, she refolded the letter and put it back in the envelope. Though Hingham was obviously curious, he didn’t appear to notice when she put the letter in her purse. Nor did he ask any questions about what the letter contained.
    “I need to know more about these,” she said, gesturing toward the vivid pages. Maybe they were too vivid. Maybe they were forged. “Do you know anyone who could give me a discreet appraisal?”
    Hingham had expected some such request. He pushed a piece of paper toward her. Beneath the lawyer’s logo were two addresses with telephone numbers and E-mail addresses. One was in New York. The other was local.
    “The Palm Springs number belongs to Erik North,” he said. “For a young man, he has an excellent reputation for knowing the nuances of old English manuscripts. I understand he travels a lot, though, so he might not be in town right now.”
    “The second number?” was all Serena said.
    “The House of Warrick.”
    Serena recognized the name. Anyone would. The auction world had three giants: Sotheby’s, Christie’s, and the House of Warrick.
    “Warrick has long specialized in old manuscripts,” Hingham continued, “so I would recommend them. Due to the nature of this community, they have a small branch here, but New York handles major appraisals. I would be happy to ship the pages for you.”
    Trust no man with your heritage. Your life depends on it.
    Silently Serena wondered just how stable her grandmother had been when she wrote the letter. Yet caution and distrust were almost as deeply ingrained in the granddaughter as in the grandmother.
    “Thank you,” Serena said, “but I’ll take care of it myself.”
    “As you wish. I took the liberty of making color copies of these sheets myself.” He emphasized the last word slightly, assuring her that the matter had been conducted with great discretion. “While the pages don’t appear to be fragile . . .” He shrugged. “Surely being hauled around in a suitcase can’t help them. A competent appraiser should be able to tell from a few color copies whether it is worth the trouble and expense of having the entire block of eight originals appraised.”
    “Again, thank you. You’ve gone to a great deal of effort for someone you don’t even know.”
    He smiled faintly. “It was worth it to see Lisbeth’s eyes again.”
    Serena didn’t know what to say, or if she could say anything at all past the sudden tears in her throat. Without thinking, she picked up the ancient scarf and wrapped it around her throat. It soothed her like a caress. She touched the cloth in return, gently.
    Then she collected her surprising inheritance and left Morton Hingham to his memories. She needed to go somewhere and think, hard, about what she wanted to do.
    Or not do.
    Trust no man. Your life depends on it.
    Be a moving target.

Chapter 3
PALM SPRINGS
WEDNESDAY MORNING
    E rik North sat in a lounge chair in his walled backyard. Sun brought out every bit of blond in his thick, golden-brown hair. Barefoot, naked to the