Donovan heard a car approaching the house and went to the living room windows to see who it was. Not that he thought it would be anyone other than Mr. Martin, the man he’d hired to restore the atlas to its original condition. He was still upset with himself for not having noticed what had been done to the volume before he’d made his final bid on it. “Being too competitive will be the death of me,” he murmured. “Or at least of my bank account.”
He watched as the car came to a stop and the door opened. If asked, and who would, he was surprised when he saw the man who got out. He’d expected someone a good deal older. Mr. Martin, if it was him, was on the tall side, and muscular, with dark hair. He appeared to be in his early to mid-thirties.
When the man walked up the stairs to the front do
