Written In The Heart. Judith Stacy

her, stirring her senses to a sharper awareness, making everything seem more intense.

      She glanced across the room once more and found Stephen staring at her again. He looked away sharply. Caroline drew in a calming breath. She got out her magnifying glass and went to work.

      Faint strains of music drifted from upstairs and a clock ticked somewhere in the house, then chimed the hour. Caroline lost herself in her work, as she usually did.

      She wasn’t so absorbed, though, that she didn’t notice Stephen every time he moved. He seemed agitated. He squirmed in his chair, then paced, then sat again. Beside him in the matching wing back, Richard read a stack of papers, oblivious to them both.

      Caroline worked steadily, and when she was finished she looked over her notes one final time, then rose from her chair.

      “All done?” Richard asked, coming to where she stood, smiling at her again.

      He was a nice man and Caroline felt at ease with him. Like a brother, she guessed, though she didn’t actually have a brother to compare him to. But Richard had been equally pleasant at last Saturday’s party where she’d met him, and so far, he’d been the only amiable thing about tonight. She was sorry she’d slapped him.

      “Yes, all done,” she said.

      “Maybe you could tell Stephen a little about graphology?” Richard suggested.

      He was in the chair now, his legs crossed, his fingers propped together in front of his chest. When he looked up at her a little ripple of something passed through Caroline. Nerves, she decided. What else could it be?

      “Graphology is the study of handwriting,” she said. “It’s been researched primarily in Germany and France. That’s where I learned the skill.”

      Stephen rose from his chair and began pacing, hands thrust deep in his trouser pockets, eyes studying the tips of his black shoes.

      Caroline went on. “Handwriting is unique. Because there are so many different writing styles, it’s unlikely that any two people would write precisely the same. By studying an individual’s style, many things about the writer can be determined.”

      “Like what?” Richard asked.

      “Personality traits, mostly,” Caroline said. “Age can be determined to some degree. But no absolute distinguishing style can differentiate a man’s and woman’s handwriting. Sometimes samples indicate if a writer is left- or right-handed. It can’t, however, tell things like nationality or race.”

      “Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said, “at the party last week you mentioned that graphology is being used in Europe for criminal investigations.”

      Caroline nodded. “Yes, it’s used for verification of signatures, for example, and in forgery cases.”

      Richard’s smile broadened. “Come over here, Stephen. Let’s see what she’s come up with.”

      Stephen ventured closer, looking over Caroline’s shoulder as she sorted through the handwriting samples Richard had given her. Heat from him caused her heart to thump a little faster.

      She held up the first one. “This writer, I would say, is unimaginative, rather boring and preoccupied with money matters.”

      “Jenkins wrote this. He’s Stephen’s head accountant,” Richard said. He turned to Stephen. “Dead accurate analysis, I’d say.”

      Caroline was pleased with herself, though Stephen only grunted noncommittally. She turned to the second sample.

      “This person is a worrier,” she said. “Indecisive, I’d imagine, and a little materialistic.”

      She glanced up at Richard, who smiled.

      “Aunt Delfina,” he said.

      Stephen’s eyebrows drew together, and Caroline guessed that analysis was correct as well, whoever Aunt Delfina was.

      “The writer of this,” she said, turning to the final sample, “is confident, enterprising and ambitious. But also obstinate, pigheaded and…sexually frustrated.”

      Stephen glared over her shoulder. “That’s my handwriting.”

      He jerked the paper away from her and crumpled it up. Caroline saw crimson creep up from his shirt collar as her own cheeks warmed.

      “Excellent demonstration, Miss Sommerfield,” Richard said. “I think it’s obvious that you have extraordinary talent in this field.”

      Stephen mumbled something and shoved the ball of paper into his pocket.

      “Excuse me, sir.” Charles spoke from the doorway. “Your carriage is at your disposal.”

      A little pang of disappointment thumped in Caroline’s stomach. She hadn’t wanted to be here, had been on edge since arriving, yet now was reluctant to go.

      But it was for the best. She chanced another look at Stephen. He was again watching her. Yes, she decided, it was for the best that she leave.

      She loaded her tools into her satchel.

      “I’ll walk you out,” Richard said.

      At the doorway, Caroline glanced at Stephen one last time. He stood staring out the dark window, his back to her.

      “Happy birthday,” she said.

      He spun around, obviously surprised.

      “Sorry you didn’t get the gift you wanted.” She glanced at the desk. “But the day’s not over.”

      Stephen leaned forward slightly, then plopped into his chair.

      How was he ever going to work in his office again?

      Stephen stepped behind his desk and squared the ledgers and stacks of papers Richard had replaced while he was chasing down Caroline. But he didn’t see the work that awaited him. He saw a naked woman. On his desk. His two favorite things in the whole world, together.

      Stephen sank into his chair. Of course, the naked woman he imagined on his desk wasn’t just any woman. It was Caroline Sommerfield.

      He pulled loose his tie and popped open his collar. What a hell of a birthday.

      “So, what do you think?” Richard asked, striding back into the office. “Isn’t she wonderful? Isn’t she everything I said she was?”

      That and more. If only Richard knew.

      Stephen leaned back in his chair. Richard was his assistant, and would have been a partner if he’d had the required financial backing. Still, he was indispensable. Stephen listened to him, trusted him, confided in him. And Richard had never let him down.

      “I don’t know…” Stephen said.

      “You saw her evaluation of those handwriting samples,” Richard said. “She had old Jenkins cold.”

      “That’s true.”

      “And Delfina?” Richard grinned. “I like your dear, sweet aunt Delfi as much as anyone, but you have to admit that she is indecisive, just as Caroline said.”

      Stephen shrugged. He couldn’t argue with Caroline’s assessment of his aunt.

      Richard chuckled. “She did a good job on you, too, Steve.”

      He sat forward, not the least amused by Caroline Sommerfield’s determination of his own personality. Not that she wasn’t accurate. He just didn’t like being analyzed like a bug in a jar.

      “Sexually frustrated.” Richard laughed again. “Maybe I should have sent you a whore for your birthday.”

      “I can find my own women.”

      “Then why don’t you?”

      Stephen shifted in the chair. “I don’t have time.”

      “Yes, you do,”