Tall, Dark And Difficult. Patricia Coughlin

never had a lady boss. Maybe you ought to go into a little detail about how that works.”

      “It’s not complicated, Griff. Think of me as your commanding officer. I’ll think of you as a raw recruit who doesn’t know his Waterford from his Wedgwood. Or, to put it more simply, I give the orders and you follow them.”

      He had a little more difficulty with that one, she could tell, and she relished the moment. Truthfully, if he had asked her nicely, she would have been happy to help and would have refused to accept a penny. But he hadn’t asked; he’d waged a campaign. And she felt no qualms about recouping some of her loss on the garland.

      “What sort of orders?” he asked finally.

      “That’s hard to say at this point. Hunting for antiques is more art than science. You have to be constantly on the prowl and you have to have good instincts, good timing and good luck. Since we agree you don’t have any instinct for this sort of hunt, we’ll both have to rely on mine.”

      “In other words, you’re the brains and I’m the muscle.”

      “More or less.”

      “I can live with that,” he agreed.

      Rose waited. Neither his tone nor his lazy smile suggested resistance. Still, there was a prickle of apprehension at the back of her neck.

      “With one little stipulation of my own,” he said.

      She folded her arms. “Let’s hear it.”

      “Your conditions apply to work time only. When we’re off duty, we’re on our own.”

      “Meaning?”

      “Meaning you can forget that rule about officers not fraternizing with enlisted men.”

      “I guess I can live with that,” agreed Rose, wondering what she was getting herself into.

      “Good. When do we start?”

      “I’ll let you know.”