A Midsummer Night's Romp (5 page)

“Are you sure Roger's not going to ask me to be a servant?” I trotted after her, worrying unduly about anything that would get in the way of my plan. “Not that I'm
not
a team player or anything, but honestly, I don't think I'd be good vomit-scraping servant material. If I have to be a Roman, couldn't I wear a long gown and pretend to play a lyre? I used to know how to play a guitar, so I could mime playing pretty well.”

Fidencia evidently had other thoughts on her mind as we hurried out of the tent village and toward the line of RVs. “What? What are you saying?” she snapped. “I don't have time for this!”

“Sorry. I'm just grousing to myself.”

A static burst from a walkie-talkie had Fidencia
pausing, listening intently for a few seconds, then responding, “Oh, for the love of . . . no, I do not know why someone is trying to move the portable toilets. I'm an archaeologist, not a lackey! Ask Roger what's going on.”

More static, this time with a testy note to it.

“Look, just because I agreed to be a liaison between Roger's people and the CMA doesn't mean I am everyone's bitch. Roger's not paying me enough to run around and fix everything!”

“That's exactly what you
are
being paid for,” the disembodied voice said out of the radio. “And if you don't want the job, we can find someone else—”

“You push me any harder, and you're going to have to! I'll see to this, but it's the last straw, do you hear me? I have digging to do this afternoon!” Fidencia viciously turned off the radio with a little snarl. “A waste of a perfectly good education . . . I can't stay to babysit you,” she said, giving me a shove toward the line of RVs. “Evidently I must now go deal with some sort of issue catering has with the grills. I swear to god, no amount of money is worth this aggravation.”

“Sorry. I'll find my way to him just fine. You go deal with catering.”

She stormed off, muttering rude things under her breath. With a growing sense of worry, I hustled my way to the RVs, which were lined up nose to tail. I whipped around the farthest one, intent on things I would say to Roger if he insisted I do some playacting for the camera, but the sight of a man on a scooter about to mow me down drove all thoughts from my head.

“Ack!” I yelled, and tried to leap to the left, but the man jerked the handlebars at the same time, with the result that he drove right over the top of my foot.

“B
loody, buggery hell!” I shouted, clutching my poor abused foot, and hopping in pain.

Tears pricked in my eyes, which is probably one reason for what happened next. The aforementioned propensity for escapades is another, and lastly, the scooter driver's decision to circle around was the final nail in the coffin of my supposed grace and elegance. In midhop, my ankle twisted, and when I landed, I listed to the side, about to fall hard on the ground, except the man on the scooter was in the way, which meant I ended up draped across his lap, and clutching his shoulders to keep from sliding off.

“Hullo,” he said, and wrapped both arms around me to hoist me up so I was sitting across him. “I can't apologize enough for running over you. You just seemed to come out of nowhere, but that's no excuse. How bad is your foot? Is it broken? I hope not, because I can tell
you from firsthand knowledge that a broken foot is the very devil. Can you wiggle your toes?”

It was the brother of the owner, the very man with the long hair, chiseled jaw, and sexy profile who had Daria drooling. I gazed up into his pale blue eyes, absently noting that they were ringed in black, which made them quite noticeable. And attractive. Oh, who was I fooling? He was downright gorgeous, and his driving skills notwithstanding, I almost enjoyed sitting so intimately across his lap, with his arms around me, and those stunning eyes peering concernedly at me.

“Foot,” I said, unable to get my brain working. “Hurt.”

His forehead wrinkled. “I knew it. I did hurt you. I'll take you up to the house and we'll call a doctor. Just stay where you are—assuming you don't mind sitting on my lap, that is.”

“Foot,” I said stupidly, but as the scooter jerked forward, my wits suddenly returned and I realized that I was being transported toward the castle. “Oh, man alive. No, you don't need to take me to a doctor—I'm fine, really. Your tires are pretty big, and although my foot does hurt, I don't think anything is broken. See? I can wiggle my toes.”

He stopped and we both looked at my foot.

“You have a boot on. I can't see your toes.”

“No, but you can take it from me they're wiggling.” I winced as I did, in fact, move my toes around. “The steel toe saved them, although the top of my foot is a bit tender. But nothing's broken.”

“Steel-toed boots . . . you must be an archaeologist,” he said with a quirky half smile.

“Not really, no.” It was on the tip of my tongue to tell him that my old roommate had been an amateur digger, but I stopped myself in time, appalled at the fact that a few seconds of sitting on his lap and I was ready to blab
everything. “But I do know that boots are
de rigueur
for dig sites.”

“They are indeed. I'm glad to hear your foot wasn't injured.” He stared at me for a second, and it crossed my mind that I should get off him. But one of his arms was still wrapped around me, holding me firmly to his torso. “I do apologize, but as I said, you just came around that corner unexpectedly, and there was nothing I could do. I'm Gunner, by the way. Gunner Ainslie. And you are . . . ?”

“Lorina Liddell. Wait, Gunner as in the father of Cressy?”

His eyes seemed to light up. “You've met my little girl?”

“She's hardly little,” I said before realizing that he might be insulted by such honesty. “That is, she's a smidgen taller than me, and I'm a behemoth.”

“You are not a behemoth. Far from it.”

“I am. I'm just shy of six feet, and I won't tell you my weight because it would probably make you run screaming from me.”

“Women and their body issues,” he said, shaking his head. “I've never understood why women feel that men find bony bodies desirable.”

“Television,” I said sourly. “Movies. Magazines. Every other form of media.”

“Yes, well, they're wrong,” he said, waving away such paltry things. “I happen to like women with some substance to them. Cressy takes after her mother in that respect, and I have no doubt the day will come when I will be carrying a shotgun around just to keep the boys off her. If she ever expresses an interest in them, that is. Her grandmother assures me that it's only a matter of time before she ceases being horse-mad and turns to romance.”

“Ah, the horse stage,” I said, remembering my own youth. “I kind of hope she doesn't change too much. She's quite charming, actually.”

“She is that. Don't know where she gets it from—certainly not her mother, and I'm just an old crusty photographer who does better with inanimate objects than people.”

I stared at him in horror, my stomach contracting with a sudden spurt of concern. For a minute, I thought I might hyperventilate. “You're a photographer?”

“There's a more technical title relating to building sites and forensics, but I like to think of myself as being a photographer at heart. I'm also a minister in an Internet religion if you want to get married.”

My eyes widened to the point where I wouldn't have been surprised if they bugged out. “Did you just ask me to marry you?”

“No, I offered to—oh, I see what you're asking.” His smile, which had been pleasantly lopsided, turned into an outright full-fledged grin. “Although the Ainslie men tend to wed after a short acquaintance, I think that even my brother, who married a perfectly charming American—you're a Yank, too, aren't you?—even Elliott would have something to say if I offered myself to you after having known you for only five minutes.”

“Oh, good, I didn't think . . . but it just seemed like . . .” I remembered that he was the enemy, a man who could potentially destroy the cover I'd built for myself, and returned to feeling sick to my stomach. “Well, thank god you're not into me.”

“That is a
very
risqué thing to say when you are sitting on my lap.”

“I'm sorry.” I sighed, and pushed myself off his lap, flexing my foot before putting my weight on it. “Things
always come out of my mouth wrong. See? Like that. Also risqué, although wholly unintentional, I assure you.”

He laughed. “I like what comes out of your mouth. Oh, lord, now I'm doing it.”

“Sadly, it appears I'm contagious. It's nice to meet you, Mr. Ainslie—”

“Gunner, please.”

“It's nice to meet you, Gunner, but if you'll excuse me, the producer of the TV show has requested my presence, and he's probably wondering where I am.”

I hurried off at a fast limp before he could respond, desperate to get away from him before I blabbed something untoward at him. The knowledge that I was a fake and a liar burned a hole in my gut. “Just my luck there's a bona fide photographer waiting out there to expose me,” I muttered to myself. “And a handsome-as-sin one, to boot. Like I don't have enough issues with him without enjoying sitting on his lap the way I did.”

And that in itself was an oddity. With most men, my initial response was a level of wariness and caution, but there I was sitting on Gunner's lap and enjoying it greatly without the least little concern as to what sort of a man he was, or how he might react to me.

And long, hard experience had taught me how foolish it was to trust a man.

Which made it all that much more curious that my unconventional meeting with Gunner didn't immediately push me into assessing the situation, and my position therein.

That and similar dark thoughts were dismissed when I arrived at my destination. “Oh, hello. I understand you wanted to see me?”

Roger was in the process of emerging from his RV when I hobbled up.

He looked appalled at the sight of me, causing me to wonder if I had fallen into dog poop or something equally repulsive without being aware of it. “Good lord! Are you injured?”

“Not really. Just a little minor accident, nothing serious. Oh, is that why you're looking so horrified?” I gave him a relieved smile. “I thought my deodorant had failed. I'm fine, really.”

“Accident? What sort of accident? Christ above, I'll have the health and safety people down upon us before the shooting has even begun!”

“No, no,” I said soothingly, “it wasn't really an accident. Just my clumsiness.”

He looked doubtfully at me. “You didn't hurt yourself on any of our equipment, did you? Because if you did, the production would still be liable—”

“Actually, the lord of the manor's brother ran me down with his mobility scooter, but I'm not really hurt. Just a little bruised on the top of my foot. My boots are pretty sturdy.”

“Oh, it was Gunner's fault,” he said, visibly relaxing. “Then it's the estate's responsibility. That's excellent. Now, I have a little project in mind, and as you are one to appreciate quality television such as the shows that I have produced in years past, I thought you might be interested in participating.”

“What sort of project?” I asked warily, trying to form an excuse for avoiding anything but the most minimal involvement.

“Ah, well, this is where my brilliance lies, in thinking up truly spectacular opportunities. And one of them is you.”

“It is?” My voice squeaked a little with surprise. “I don't think anyone has ever thought I was any sort of opportunity, let alone a spectacular one. This wouldn't have anything to do with Roman slaves, would it?”

“No, no, although . . . hmm. I'll think on that. Might have possibilities. But this is truly a wonderful opportunity for you to really get to know the dig process, and should provide us both with some wonderful coverage—you for your book, and us for the viewers.”

“I'm a little confused—”

“Everyman,” Roger interrupted, beaming with pride. “You'll be our everyman.”

“I will?”

“Yes, yes, don't you see? You're the only one here who doesn't have any archaeology experience—all the volunteers have some sort of training, either from a university or with an amateur archaeology club. But you have none! Sue believes that the viewers will be lost with all the technical talk if we don't present them with someone who is just as ignorant as they are.”

I wondered if I should be insulted or not, and decided to go with not.

“She had an idea, and I think it's really an excellent one, of picking a person to stand in for the audience, someone to whom the experts can explain things, so that it's all understandable and fun and exciting for even the dullest of persons.”

“OK, now I'm going to be insulted,” I couldn't help but say.

“Don't be,” he said, waving away my objection. “It isn't meant to insult. It's meant to praise your accessibility. You're perfect for the job—you're well-spoken without being snooty, are personable and have a nice presence that will translate well on-screen, and you aren't too pretty, so you won't give Sue a run for the spotlight. Viewers will relate to the fact that you have little experience with archaeology. Plus you'll look good with Gunner.”

“I beg your pardon?” I wasn't sure I heard him correctly. “Look good with him in what way?”

“Didn't I tell you? I'd forget my own head if it wasn't stapled on. Since the others are busy getting the dig started, I've asked him to show you the ropes.” He waved a hand around vaguely. “Turns out he's got some kind of relevant degree, and knows all about the Romans and Celts and whoever else lived here, but because of his leg, he can't dig much.”

Oh, dear lord, that was all I needed. “No!” I said somewhat wildly.

Roger looked askance. “No?”

“Er . . .” Mindful that I was there by the good graces of his production company, I tried to summon a friendly smile. “That is, no, I'm not personable, and I look terrible on film. That's . . . uh . . . that's why I became a photographer, so I could take pictures and not have to have them taken of me.” He just stared at me. I felt like an idiot babbling away, but I couldn't seem to stop. “I appreciate the fact that you thought of me, I really appreciate it, but I'm sure there's got to be someone else who would be much better suited to the role.”

A little frown appeared between his eyebrows. “I am quite well-known for my productions, you know.”

“Of course you are,” I said hurriedly, wanting to smooth over his obviously hurt feelings. “I've told you how much I liked your other shows, and it's clear you're a master at the job of . . . er . . . producing.”

“Yes,” he said coolly. “I am. And part of that mastery is knowing who is right for what role. Is there a reason you don't wish to be filmed? Some secret reason? Perhaps an illegal one?”

I gawked at him for a second, my gut spinning around like a hamster's wheel. “No! I just . . . I'm not comfortable. . . . I'm not here illegally or anything, if that's what you're thinking—”

“Then there is no reason why you can't spend an hour or two a day with the film crew, allowing us to film short segments that will make the project clear to the viewing audience.” His words were clipped and had sharp edges. “I'm sure that since we have been so accommodating as to allow you unfettered access to the filming schedule, not to mention arranging for you to stay, at no little expense, with the crew itself, that you will be agreeable to helping us out where you can.”

My heart turned to lead and dropped to my feet. My stomach compacted into a little black hole of misery. My spirits took one look at the next week or so of trying to pretend I was a photographer while spending time with a real one, and evaporated to nothing.

I tried one last protest, but my heart—leaden and in my feet—wasn't in it. “I'd be happy to just chitchat with the people digging if that would help out. . . .”

“You will be personable and interesting, and the audience will love you.” It wasn't a prediction; it was an order, one that was spoken in an unyielding tone.