She should’ve just kissed him back. Wanted to kiss him back.

Why didn’t she kiss him back?

And why wasn’t he here to meet her? If he was a different man, he might’ve thrown in the towel and decided he had better things to do. But he needed her father’s money. He’d show.

Unless he’d solved her mother’s alphabet and traced his two urns somewhere else already.

Best not to consider that possibility. Exhaling a long breath, she pushed the heavy door of the Columbarium’s entrance and stepped into the rotunda. Four levels ringed in columns circled up toward a stained-glass ceiling capping the dome, and lining the walls were hundreds upon hundreds of niches that served as the final resting space for many of the city’s residents. Most were no bigger than a post-office box. Some were covered by copper doors engraved with the name of the deceased, and others were fronted with glass windows, allowing visitors to see the urn or even a tableau of the deceased’s favorite things: baseballs, books, curios, photographs.

Hadley’s footfalls echoed around the rotunda. She stopped in front of a section of niches. She could spend all day browsing here. Maybe one day an archaeologist like her would uncover the Columbarium’s ruins and try to divine details about San Francisco society.

“Found anything?”

She jumped and spun around. The brim of a tilted rust-colored fedora cast a shadow over Lowe’s eyes, and his long brown coat covered the tops of his knee-high riding boots.

“I didn’t hear your motorcycle.”

“I didn’t drive her,” he said flatly, stuffing his hands into his pants pockets. “Took a cab. How’s your father doing today?”

Her father? “I wouldn’t know. We don’t usually speak to each other much outside of work. When he’s angry at me, we speak even less.”

A grunt was his answer. “So, how are these niches arranged?” His usual good humor was missing. He wasn’t angry—he just wasn’t . . . anything. Guess they weren’t discussing the kiss. Not that she wanted to rehash it.

“It would’ve been helpful if they were arranged by date, but no such luck,” she said, craning her neck to look up into the dome. “We could look for a canopic jar in the niches with windows, but it might take a couple of hours, even if we split up.”

“And it might be hidden behind a copper door without a window.”

“True,” she said. “Were you able to translate any of the pictograms?”

“Some of the characters are mirror images. Reversed.”

“Oh?” She hadn’t noticed that on the two paintings she’d taken home.

“There’s got to be an office with files on the niches,” he mumbled to himself.

She shook her head. “Wouldn’t help. Why would they sort the files by date? Would most likely be by surname.”

A throat cleared behind them. “Pardon, ma’am, but the crematory and offices were closed up when cremation was outlawed nearly twenty years ago.” Standing in a prism of light spilling in from one of the angel windows, an elderly black man held a can of tarnish remover and a rag.

Lowe tipped his hat. “Good morning. You work here?”

“Caretaker,” he said with a kind smile.

“My cousin and I have traveled from Salt Lake City to spend a weekend in town,” Lowe started.

Good God, here we go again, Hadley thought.

“We were looking for our aunt Tessa’s niche,” he continued. “She died before the Great Fire. Pretty sure her ashes are here, but we don’t know what surname was used. She’d been divorced a few times, you see. Anyway, we have fond memories of her from childhood. Thought we’d pay our respects.”

At least this concocted fable didn’t denigrate her character. Still, Lowe showed more cheer to the old man than he had toward her. Was he angry with her about the kiss? Upset? Or was she reading too much into his mood? Maybe he’d already forgotten it. She certainly wished she could.

“That is a problem,” the caretaker said, nodding. “Even if you knew the surname, wouldn’t help. The older files were relocated ten years back. A warehouse downtown. You’d have to contact the owners. If you’re only here for the weekend, might not be able to catch them.”

Lowe made a sound of disappointment and looked around the rotunda, where a dozen or more mismatched chairs sat empty. “Been the caretaker for long?”

“Thirteen years, now.”

“Ever seen an Egyptian urn around here? It would have a sculpted lid about this high.” Lowe measured with his hands. “Shaped like a head. A baboon or a jackal dog or—”

“Long ears?”

“Yes,” Hadley said. “Long snout, too. Two rows of symbols on the front of the jar.”

“Sounds like Mrs. Rosewood’s urn.”

A moment of silence hung in the rotunda as Lowe flashed her an expectant look. But Hadley didn’t want to hope too much. Not about the urn. And definitely not about Lowe.

“Could you show us?” she asked.

He shook his head. “Sorry, it’s not here. Back in my younger days, I used to work at Dolores Crematorium, between Telegraph Hill and North Beach. I remember an urn like that for Mrs. Rosewood’s cremation.”

“Who’s this Mrs. Rosewood?” Lowe asked.

“A shipping heiress. Her death was quite the scandal. Folks said her sons killed her to get their hands on her mansion near the top of Telegraph Hill at the edge of the park. Rumor was, they wanted to turn it into a gambling den. That was right before the Quake in ’06. The mansion survived, but once they took possession, they claimed her ghost haunted the place.”

Hadley didn’t care a thing about ghosts; she had her own to worry about. “Do you know where her urn was housed?” she asked. A few local churches had niches for funerary ashes, but she questioned whether churches would welcome a pagan urn shaped like a jackal-headed god.

“The family kept it, far as I know. Nice display piece like that? Probably on someone’s mantelpiece.”

 • • •

Lowe relayed the caretaker’s directions to the waiting taxi outside the Columbarium, and then rode in silence with Hadley as the car sped down rain-darkened streets. He’d done his damned best to leash his feelings and pretend as if nothing had happened between them the previous night. Well, nothing had happened on Hadley’s end, so the charade was more a matter of his own self-preservation. Reclaiming his bruised male pride.

But it would’ve been a lot easier if the Cinderella spell he’d prayed she’d been under had magically faded overnight. After all, she wasn’t wearing the fantasy whirlpool dress. No flower in her hair. In fact, she was back to her normal, funeral-colored, straightlaced curator self.

And even more damned beautiful than the night before.

God help him.

She didn’t smell like lilies today, so that was helpful. But when he’d held the taxi door for her, he’d noticed the backs of her stockings were decorated with a line of black bows. Different. A subtle sort of daring, especially for her. But the stockings weren’t his primary distraction at the moment. No, that honor went to the thing that had caught his attention the moment he’d seen her in the Columbarium.

Her coat was mis-buttoned. Unusual for her to be sloppy. The top buttonhole was circling the second button instead of the first, which created a tunneled gap under the edge of the wool—a little shadowed hidey-hole. He imagined small woodland creatures burrowed inside it, right next to her breast, and had to refrain from teasing her about it.

But when the cab turned a corner and headed into North Beach, he spotted something more interesting than a wee mouse beneath her out-of-line buttons. A flash of skin. Was she wearing a low-cut dress beneath that drab gray coat? His thoughts strayed to her brightly colored underthings and it took the fortitude of a monk to stop himself from mentally flicking open the coat button.

Remember the terrible kiss, he thought. Should’ve been enough cold water to shift his concentration to their mission. But it only revived something that had been niggling his thoughts since he’d left Hadley the night before.

She caught him staring and offered a tight smile. “Dreary day.”

“Hmm.”

“Should’ve brought an umbrella.”

“Are you and that fellow seeing each other?”

Sharp eyes widened. “Who?”

“That Oliver Ginn fellow.”

“Oh.” Did her shoulders fall? She definitely looked more relaxed, didn’t she? “Mr. Ginn has been calling on me for a couple of months now, I suppose.”

“I see.” He didn’t. “Serious, is it? Wedding bells in your future?”

One brow lifted. “None I’m aware of. I suspect someone would inform me first.”

He tapped a random rhythm on one knee. She was teasing him. That was good, surely? Because it definitely didn’t sound like the sort of response a girl who was madly in love would give. He thought perhaps the reason she’d been so unresponsive when he’d kissed her was because she had feelings for someone else.

“Oliver wasn’t the reason,” she said in a small voice, eyeing the taxi driver.

His hand stilled. “Pardon?”

“Firstly, I wasn’t sure if you were only doing it to trick me.”

Her voice was almost too low to hear, so he leaned closer. “I’m not following.”

“Tricking me out of the canopic jar paintings.”

Hold the line one second: she was talking about the kiss. “No, it wasn’t a trick,” he said quickly. “I mean, yes, I wanted the paintings. But I kissed you because I wanted to.”

She blinked rapidly. “Well, regardless, my doubt about your motives wasn’t the entire problem. It’s just that I suppose I have trouble with touching.” She watched the city rolling by her window, gloved hands clutched in her lap. “It’s indirectly because of my . . . well, what happened with the chandelier.”