Betina Krahn (13 page)

“Inquisitive.” She halted and turned with her eyes narrowed, forcing him to stop as well. “I said we are inquisitive. We
discover
things, we don’t
invent
them.” After a moment, she proceeded down the path. But the heat of his first gibe didn’t have time to dissipate before he fired another salvo.

“Well, perhaps you should take a lesson from your grandmother … be certain you have plenty of evidence of your ‘discovery’ on hand before you write a book about it.”

She turned back with rising anger. “How dare you suggest that my grandmother and I make false claims and manufacture evidence?”

“I made no such charge. I merely observed that your grandmother at least has something tangible to present as
evidence to substantiate her claims.” A glint appeared in his eye. “She even has several
dolphins.”

Celeste’s cheeks caught fire, but she refused to give way to his goading. “You’ll see evidence of my dolphins soon enough. Until then, may I remind you that you are here to verify my writings, nothing else. My grandmother’s work is not open to examination.”

“And why is that?” he demanded. “Because you don’t believe her claims about the artifacts are true?”

“Because it isn’t relevant.” She struggled to contain her temper as she wheeled and started down the steps again.

“What isn’t relevant? Her work or the truth about it?” He hurried down the steps behind her. “Or perhaps you’re just being pragmatic … saving her work for the next book … the next tidy bundle of cash.”

She stopped dead. Money? Was that what he thought this was about? Reversing course, she stalked back with her shoulders braced and her chin up.

“Look around you, Professor,” she commanded, flinging a hand toward the house, part of which was still visible above the edge of the cliff. “Our roof sags, our windows are warped, our floors need bracing, and our furnishings have scarcely been so much as rearranged since Tudor times. We draw all our water from an outside well; we have the luxury of an icebox only in winter; our household linen is near a century old; and there isn’t a decent ‘necessary’ on the place. Does it honestly look to you as though we’re getting rich from the proceeds of the ‘clever fraud’ I’ve perpetrated?”

She looked directly up at him. His lean features were taut, his body radiated an intriguing mélange of heat and male scents, and in the depths of his eyes she glimpsed a shimmering distortion like that which rises above a hot blue flame.

In spite of her better judgment, she lowered her gaze to his parted lips.

The memory of being caught in his arms, pressed tight against his body, and kissed until her knees melted, materialized in her senses. There was yet another aspect to Titus
Thorne’s nature, she realized, something less intellectual, less controlled. Something passionate. It was evident even to her untutored eye. She could see it in his movement, hear it in the huskiness of his voice. And when he looked at her, she could feel it with every exposed inch of her skin.

She whirled back around and headed down the path on wobbly legs.

When they reached the boat, Titus Thorne looked down at it with disdain.

“I see absolutely no sense in my putting out in a boat again,” he declared stiffly, folding his arms over his chest. “You’ve proven that you’re a sailor … I’ll give you that.” He untucked a hand to give a dismissive wave. “Just go fetch your blessed dolphins and haul them back to the dock. I’ll wait here.”

She bristled at his high-handed manner.

“And give you reason to doubt my methods and harbor suspicions that I’ve somehow ‘manufactured’ my dolphins? No, sir.” She narrowed her eyes and lowered her voice to the bottom of its register. “Climb down into the boat, Professor.”

With that she turned on her heel and headed for the boathouse. He was left staring after her, watching her skirt swish the dock with each irritable stride she took. Pulling his gaze from that absorbing sight, he studied the boat for a moment. After a brief but intense struggle between his pride and his instinct for self-preservation, he forced himself to take hold of the ladder and swing around onto the first rung.

In spite of his determination, he felt the blood draining from his extremities as he lowered himself to the boat, steadied himself on the boom, and eased onto the middle seat. Lord, how he hated water and boats. He swallowed hard and then swallowed hard again, fighting to keep the memories at bay. But everything around him was only a reminder … the damp wood of the hull, the scent of the salt water, musty canvas, ropes …

The roar came first, then that sudden, paralyzing chill that
invaded his limbs. Everything darkened in his vision, and grayed. Then he felt the boat beginning to roll and pitch under him, as memory confounded present sense, making it seem he was again in motion. Everything was wet. Even the air was filled with water—plunging, battering waves and vicious spray.

The roar grew deafening and he cried out, inside his own head, to the man struggling with a sail stuck halfway down. With icy hands, he gripped ropes he could no longer feel. That horror, so distant in time, still held him as he felt the boat give a violent heave beneath him and saw the boom break free. And he watched, as he had a thousand times in memory, his father’s coat disappearing beneath a huge wave. He had been a boy of seven … too young, too small to do anything but hang on to the lines his father had tied around him. A brief summer squall. And his life had changed forever.

He battled those disturbing visions back to the periphery of his soul and shook his head to clear it. Damned boats. Damned water. He took a heavy breath. Why did it have to be
dolphins?

When he finally looked up, Celeste was casting off the line and starting down the ladder. Her free arm was full of something, but after she lifted her skirt to climb down he glimpsed bare flesh—from trim ankles all the way to shapely knees.

When she stepped from the ladder and released her skirts, it took a full minute for him to recognize that they weren’t the same blue cotton she had worn that morning. Somewhere along the way, she had changed into a long smock or duster of some sort … a heavy, shapeless dark green affair with large sleeves and no collar.

Neither spoke as she maneuvered out into the cove, then onto the wide, open waters of Pevensey Bay. The wind and sea were so much calmer that they seemed to float along on top of the water as she steered them along the same course they had sailed earlier in the day.

Braced in the bottom of the boat, Titus stretched his neck to peer over the side at the placid waves. Surprised by the calm sea, he felt his stomach with one hand and released his death grip on the seat and edge.

“Feeling somewhat better, I take it,” she observed.

“Somewhat.” He looked up. “Considerably. A great deal better, in fact.”

“A pity.” She gave an exaggerated sigh of resignation. “I was rather looking forward to watching you turn forty shades of green again.”

“Sorry to disappoint you. Perhaps you can amuse yourself by watching me drown in this blasted bilgewater, instead,” he responded, shifting irritably in the water collecting around his hindquarters again.

“You might try sitting on a seat,” she proposed, looking down her nose and smiling. “Revolutionary idea, I know.”

Unwilling to test his good fortune and risk upsetting his stomach, he folded his arms, making it plain that he intended to stay where he was … until he looked up and spotted two blankets stacked on the stern seat, a yard away. He scooted a few inches along the bottom, stretched mightily, snagged them, and stuffed them beneath him.

They sailed on for a while, listening to the caw of the gulls, the quiet rush of water past the bow, and the occasional rustle of canvas as it caught the uneven wind. It didn’t take Titus long to realize he’d made a tactical mistake in choosing to sit in the bottom again. His only view was up and to the rear … a vista occupied entirely by Celeste Ashton and her wind-teased hair, flashing blue eyes, and bare ankles showing as she propped her feet up on the seat.

Lord. Did she have to sit like that? Knees raised, bare flesh showing … He found himself staring at the hem of her baggy smock, recalling the shapely contours of what lay beneath it and feeling himself warming to his thoughts. Suddenly the wet chill in his nether regions took on a disturbingly erotic feel. He shifted to a less stimulating position and glared at the cause of his discomfort.

“So … you don’t believe your grandfather found evidence of Atlantis,” he said in a challenging tone. “That’s why you won’t discuss it.”

She gave him an abrupt, piercing look. “I’ve said all I have to say about that. It has nothing to do with my work or the reason you’re here.”

“Very well. Then tell me, Miss Ashton, what is your real purpose in bringing me out here, sailing fruitlessly back and forth, and wearing my patience and my health down to bare tacks?”

“I should think that was obvious, Professor,” she said, still busily scanning the horizon. “To make you see and experience what I do. To give you a taste of my methodology as well as a glimpse of my dolphins.”

“Come now, Miss Ashton. Neither of us was born yesterday.” He folded his arms and leaned back against the seat. “You’ve concocted a clever scheme here. Downright ingenious. But you and I both know, we could sail around out here for weeks without spotting a single seagoing mammal outside this boat.”

He gave her a smile intended to draw her into an air of confidence, and watched with anticipation as she lowered her feet and shifted to face him.

“I doubt it will take that long, Professor.”

“For what? For me to lose all track of reality and begin seeing pink dolphins leaping around? Or perhaps
blue-eyed mermaids?”
When she slipped the tie rope over the tiller arm and abruptly made her way forward to lower the sails, he came to attention, feeling he had somehow touched a nerve.

“I have to admit,” he continued, “the ‘mermaid’ idea is nothing short of inspired. You certainly have the looks for it.” That caused her a moment’s pause; he could almost see her ears straining for more. “And using portraits as a rebuttal for all of those ridiculous cartoons … a master stroke. Truly.” He leaned forward. “What’s next? Pear Soap adverts?”

“What?” She turned, bracing against the mast.

“You know … Pear Soap advertisements. The company contracts with professional beauties to lend a face and a name to their advertising notices.” He gave her a tart look of appraisal. “I can see you now … hair undone … wearing strategically placed cockle shells … stuffed into a sequined fish tail …”

“I had nothing to do with that ‘mermaid’ nonsense,” she declared, reddening and turning back to lower the sail with a smack. “It was merely an idea of Mr. Cherrybottom’s that somehow got into the newspapers and then got totally out of hand. I’ve told him I want it stopped, immediately.”

“Ummm. And you were so opposed to it that you posed for portraits portraying you as the sultry-eyed siren of the sea.” He smiled. “Interesting sort of protest.”

She flushed crimson. “Mr. Cherrybottom had a photographer set up equipment in the lobby of the hotel and I merely sat for a few moments while the fellow took a few—” She sat down on the edge of the stern seat, gripping her knees. “What’s this about portraits?”

“One was published in the
Gazette
the day I arrived.” He studied her surprise, deciding it was probably genuine. “I take it you haven’t seen it. Capital likeness. Definitely highlights your best attributes.”

He leaned back against the seat, and swept her with a look. “Take a bit of friendly advice, Miss Ashton. If you think your little mermaid charade is going to work on me, you’re quite mistaken. I’m here to see your dolphins, not your”—his gaze dropped to her skirts—“
flippers
. And I won’t settle for anything less.”

“You’ll see dolphins, all right,” she declared, scanning the waters around them.

“I know …” He leaned forward, his eyes glowing. “Why don’t you just slip into your tail fins, dive into the water, and go
look
for them, like a good little mermaid?”

She stared at him for a moment, then, to his surprise, threw him a half-smile.

“Excellent idea, Professor.” She stood up and reached for
the buttons of her smock. “You obviously won’t be satisfied until you’ve seen the
Lady Mermaid
at work.” One button gave, then a second … “So, why not show you how she works?” A third … a fourth … a fifth …

His jaw loosened. His attention fixed frantically on the parting button placket of her smock. Good Lord—he’d called her bluff and now she was taking off her clothes! He swallowed hard, feeling his senses springing to life, focusing in spite of himself on the white muslin being bared before his eyes. Then she bent to reach the lower buttons and he glimpsed a rounded bit of flesh down the front of her … what, shift? Shirt? Oh, who the hell cared what they called it?

He almost groaned aloud when she straightened, ripping those erotic curves from his sight. But then she stood for a moment, her smock completely undone, her eyes heated, her thick golden braid draped over her shoulder. For a moment, the sun lit her hair from behind and he realized he was doomed.

She was going to slide that smock from her shoulders … and stand there in all her seductive, golden-haired glory, tantalizing him. Then she was going to come to him and glide down atop him … and he was going to lose every shred of objectivity and integrity he possessed. He was going to make mad, passionate love to her on a bed of blankets oozing bilgewater.

Oh, God … why couldn’t he just have been seasick?

C
ELESTE STOOD COLLECTING
his attention, prolonging the suspense, letting him wonder, making him wait. With a deliberate air, she peeled back her long smock and let it slide down her shoulders. She paused in her short, knitted cotton combinations, giving him a glimpse of what a “mermaid” really wore. Then she bent down to pick up the goggles from her tackle box, stepped up on the seat, and dove in a graceful arc, straight into the sea.

The chill of the blue-gray water was both familiar and welcome against her burning skin. The sea closed around her like a caress that covered every inch of her being, massaging away her tension and much of her anger. She surfaced briefly to don her goggles, then filled her lungs and dived in earnest … leveling at a modest depth and circling in a spiral pattern … searching the blue-tinged depths for the silver flash of a fin or fluke, and alert for the prickle in her skin caused by the clicking sounds her dolphins produced … never far from that dark, rectangular shape bobbing on the surface, overhead.