Holding the Dream Page 0,15

back room a couple of times to boot up the computer and check Margo's bookkeeping. But only when her lead was comfortable. She corrected the expected mistakes, rolled her eyes over a few unexpected ones, and tidied up the files.

She was forced to admit, in the end, that accountant's lapse was what cost her the victory. When she came back, smug, already preparing the lecture she intended to deliver to Margo on the cost of careless accounting, her rival was closing a sale.

A whopper.

Kate knew antiques. A child didn't grow up at Templeton House and not learn to recognize and appreciate them. Her heart sank even as dollar signs revolved in her head when she recognized the piece Margo was cooing over.

Louis XVI, Kate recited in her head. A secretaire-a-abattant, probably near 1775. The marquetry panels, typical of that era, included vases and garlands of flowers, musical instruments and drapery.

Oh, it was a stunner, Kate thought, and one of the remaining pieces from Margo's original stock.

"I'm sorry to lose it," Margo was telling the dapper white-haired gentleman who leaned on a gold-headed cane and studied the secretaire and the woman who described it with equal admiration. "I bought it in Paris several years ago."

"You have a wonderful eye. In fact, you have two wonderful eyes."

"Oh, Mr. Stiener, that's so sweet of you." In her shameless style, Margo trailed a finger down his arm. "I do hope you'll think of me, now and again, when you're enjoying this."

"I can promise you I will. Now, as to shipping?"

"Just come over to the counter and I'll take all the necessary information." Margo crossed the room, hips swinging, and shot Kate a triumphant look.

"I think that crushes you for the day, ace," she said when her customer strolled out.

"The day's not over," Kate insisted. "We still have two hours until closing. So until the fat lady sings - which will be you in a few months - don't count your chickens."

"Such a sore loser." Margo clucked her tongue and was ready to pounce when the door jangled. It wasn't a customer, but she pounced anyway. "Josh!"

He caught her, kissed her, then pulled her to a chair. "Off your feet." He kept one hand on her shoulder and turned to glare at Kate. "You're supposed to be keeping an eye on her, making sure she doesn't overdo."

"Don't hang this on me. Besides, Margo doesn't stand when she can sit and doesn't sit when she can lie down. And I made her drink a glass of milk an hour ago."

Josh narrowed his eyes. "A whole glass?"

"What she didn't spit at me." Because it amused and touched her to see her big brother worry and fuss, Kate decided to forgive him. She stepped over and kissed him. "Welcome home."

"Thanks." He stroked a hand over her hair. "Where's Laura?"

"Upstairs with a couple of customers."

"And there's another one in the wardrobe room," Margo began, "so - "

"Sit," Josh ordered. "Kate can handle it. You're looking pale."

Margo pouted. "I am not."

"You're going home and taking a nap," he decided. "No way you're going to work all day, then run around giving a party. Kate and Laura can finish out here."

"Sure we can." Kate shot Margo a smug look. "A couple of hours should do it."

"Keep dreaming, Powell. I've already won."

"Won?" Always interested in a bet, Josh looked from woman to woman. "Won what?"

"Just a friendly wager that I could outsell her."

"Which she's already lost," Margo pointed out. "And I'm feeling generous. You can have the two-hour handicap, Kate." Taking Josh's hand, she rubbed it against her cheek. "And when you've lost, officially, you wear the Ungaro slip dress, the red, to the party tonight."

"The thing that looks like a nightgown? You might as well be naked."

"Really?" Josh wiggled his eyebrows. "No offense, Kate, hope you lose. Come on, duchess, home, bed."

"I'm not wearing a red slip to any party," Kate insisted.

"Then don't lose," Margo said with a careless shrug as she walked with Josh to the door. "But when you do, have Laura pick out the accessories."

She wore a hammered-gold collar and triangular earrings that danced below her lobes. Her complaints that she looked like a slave girl captured by the Klingons fell on deaf ears. Even the shoes had been forced on her. Red satin skyscrapers that had her teetering at three and a half inches over her normal five seven.

She sipped champagne and felt like a fool.

It didn't help matters that some of her clients were there. Margo