She took a deep breath and walked down the book lined room to the art department, and began her search in the island of gray steel filing cabinets of copies of paintings and prints.

A half hour later Lacey had found nothing, and moved to the section containing the books on paintings and began methodically going through the indexes. She found several small references to the artists, but little information on the painting itself. She made careful notes of the references in her small notebook, sighed tiredly and went back to the shelves.

Finally, in an obscure set of old books which she doubted had been opened in ages, she found a short article. After she had made a copy, she found a few more small references, all on von Kowalski. Originally from Poland, he was evidently famous for painting Russian landscapes. Later he had taught at the University of Munich, in Germany.

A line at the copy machine led her to copy it down by hand, sighing. Uncle Henry was not going to be pleased with these crumbs. He would expect no less than an interesting life history from her. He’d always thought she could do anything, just because indulgent country teachers, whom she’d tried too hard to please, had always rewarded her with A's at Beaver High School back home.

She grinned ruefully at the thought and stretched her tired muscles.

"Interesting display of curves! But I'm immune," an amused male voice spoke beside her, bringing her abruptly upright.

Embarrassed, she swung around to face the speaker. A lean, muscular man lounged against the next table, his arms folded in front of him, watching her. About thirty-five, he gave off a scholarly air in spite of being casually dressed in navy slacks and blue and white sweater. She immediately assumed he was a teacher. She stared into an amused pair of attractive blue eyes, then let her gaze travel over a straight nose and a sensuous pair of lips above a firm chin. In fact, his whole being oozed virility.

Wow! Involuntarily she wondered how kissing those lips would feel. A shiver of premonition that she might soon find out slid slowly through her.

A definite gleam of interest in his eyes belied his words, and immediately brought back the cold wall of indifference she’d surrounded herself with since her divorce. She refused to answer his remark, and made her expression carefully blank once more.

Her cold glare did not have the effect it usually had on males, however. Lacey knew that she wasn’t bad-looking. She regularly drew her share of male attention, as she had since she was a teenager. But usually her cool, detached all-business manner protected her from unwanted advances.

Self-consciously she bent back over her notebook. But the warning prickle along the back of her neck assured her he was still there, ruining her concentration. She turned to face him again. Now he was fingering a pipe longingly, as though wondering whether he could get away with lighting it.

"Would you please find some other scenery to waste your time admiring?" she asked, glancing at the librarian at the other end of the room. "I'm trying to finish this before closing time."

"Did I say I was admiring you?"

"Oooh!" What an awful man! Not only staring and making her feel uncomfortable, but insulting as well!

"Sorry, I didn't mean that as it sounded." He seemed genuinely contrite. "I was staring because I was trying to remember where we'd met before. You look very familiar."

"That has to be the oldest line in the book! "I'm positive we've never met."

"My, my! Such fire. I am merely waiting my turn for the book you're using." He grinned, nodding at the yellowed old reference on the table in front of her.

"This book?" A likely story. It had been covered with dust and obviously hadn’t been opened in ages. He had to be pretending to need it just because she had it.

"That's the one I need."

"I've heard better lines from freshman," she said. "Shouldn't you have learned some better ones by your age?"

His blue eyes glittered like cold steel, and she felt a moment of satisfied glee, then a flicker of fear that she was pushing an unknown. After all, he could be anybody; she was just guessing that he was a teacher.

"I'll ask my students at the University for some more original ones," he said. "But until then, the truth will have to do. Are you about finished with it?"

Her heart flipped nervously. So she'd guessed right about his occupation anyway. Well, professors were usually reputable, weren't they?

"Just about. I'll just finish copying this paragraph and it's all yours." She bent back to her task, her fingers tightening around the ball-point pen as she felt rather than saw him move behind her. Her usually neat small script faltered and she swung round on him. He picked up the photocopies she had made and read them. The nerve of the man!

"Do you mind? I can't work with someone hanging over my shoulder."

"Do I distract you? My! My! I thought all pretty girls enjoyed being watched! Aren't you used to it by now?"

"Touché! Now that we've both stated that we're no longer children, would you please give me one minute to finish this in peace?"

"If you'll tell me why you're looking up some obscure artist from the 1800's. You don't look the type at all."

He let his gaze slide boldly and speculatively over her slim figure, noting the fresh young skin, only slightly touched with make-up, the short curly brown hair brushed in a soft hairstyle, modern red office suit, and frilly white blouse. Certainly not the type for musty old art books, he concluded. But definitely familiar. Something about the shape of that pert nose, the stubborn set of the chin--where had he seen her before? He usually remembered details very well, since research was his business, so it irritated him that he couldn't place her now.

He fingered his pipe again, then slipped it back into his pocket.

She watched him run his fingers through his black hair, fascinated by the silver streaks along his temples, while the rest of his body vibrated with youth and controlled strength. Like a panther about to pounce, she thought, a tremor running through her at the thought.

"I'm merely doing a favor for my uncle. He doesn't like to come into the Twin Cities. He's an antique nut," she added as his eyes narrowed speculatively.

"Why does he want to know about von Kowalski?" His voice had grown hard and suspicious.

She stared at him. What was it to him who or what she looked up? This was a public library. "Henry buys and sells old paintings and lithographs." A smile brightened his face, as though he'd just solved a puzzle.