Cordinas Crown Jewel (11 page)

“Oh, well. No … no, I’m not.” She glanced back to the desk where the inkwell was displayed. Her uncle’s birthday was only three months away. “I wonder, would you take a small deposit to hold it for me?”

The clerk considered, giving Camilla a careful measure. “You could put twenty down. I’ll hold it for you for two weeks.”

“Thanks.” Camilla took the bill from her dwindling supply.

“No problem.” The clerk began to write out a receipt for the deposit. “Your name?”

“My … Breen.”

“I’ll put a hold tag on it for you, Miss Breen. You can come in anytime within the next two weeks with the balance.”

Camilla fingered her watch, and a glance at it widened her eyes. “I’m late. Delaney’s going to be furious.”

“Delaney? Caine?”

“Yes. I was supposed to meet him five minutes ago.” Camilla gathered her bags and rushed toward the door.

“Miss! Wait!” The clerk bolted after her. “Your receipt.”

“Oh, sorry. He’s just so easily annoyed.”

“Yes, I know.” The woman’s eyes danced with a combination of laughter and curiosity. “We went out once or twice.”

“Oh. I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies.” So she offered a smile. “I’m working for him, temporarily.”

“In the cabin? Then I’ll offer you
my
sympathies. Tell him Sarah Lattimer sends her best.”

“I will. I have to run or I’ll be hiking back to the cabin.”

You got that right, Sarah mused as she watched Camilla dash away. Del wasn’t a man known for his patience. Still, she sighed a little, remembering how she’d nearly convinced herself she could change him—tame him—when she’d been twenty.

She shook her head at the idea as she walked back to put the hold tag on the inkwell. She wished the pretty redhead plenty of luck. Funny, she thought now, the woman had looked familiar somehow. Like a movie star or celebrity or something.

Sarah shrugged. It would nag at her until she figured out just who Del’s new assistant resembled. But she’d get it eventually.

*  *  *

Juggling bags, Camilla made it to the parking lot at a full run. She grimaced when she spotted the truck, then just wrenched open the door and shoved her purchases inside. “Have to pick up a few things,” she said gaily. “I’ll just be another minute.”

Before he could open his mouth—to snarl, she was sure—she was rushing inside the market.

Snagging a cart, she set off toward produce at a smart pace. But the process of selecting fresh fruits and vegetables simply could not be rushed. She bagged lemons, delicately squeezed tomatoes, pursed her lips over the endive.

The supermarket was such a novelty for her, she lingered longer than she intended over fresh seafood, over the baked items. She liked the colors, the scents, the textures. The big bold signs announcing specials, and truly horrible canned music numbers playing over the loud speaker, interrupted only by voices calling for price checks and cleanups.

She shivered in frozen foods, deciding the chances of talking Del into an ice-cream cone now were nil. So she bought the makings for them. Delighted with the variety of choices, she loaded the cart, then wheeled it to
checkout.

If she were a housewife, she thought, she would do this every week. It probably wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Just another obligation, she thought, and that was a shame.

She came back to reality with a thud when she moved up in line and saw her own face staring out from the cover of a tabloid.

PRINCESS CAMILLA’S HEARTBREAK

Why, they had her in grieving seclusion, Camilla saw with growing irritation. Over an aborted romance with a French actor. One she’d never even met!
Imbéciles! Menteurs!
What right did they have to tell lies about her personal life? Wasn’t it enough to report every move she made, to use their telephoto lenses to snap pictures of her night and day?

She started to reach for the paper, for the sheer pleasure of ripping it to pieces.

“What the hell are you
doing
in here?” Del demanded.

She jumped like a thief, and instinctively whirled around to block the paper with her body. Fury, which she’d considered a healthy reaction, became a sick trembling in her stomach.

If she was unmasked here, now, it would all be over. People would crowd around her, gawking. The media would be on her scent like hounds on a rabbit.

“I’m … waiting in line to pay.”

“What is all this stuff?”

“Food.” She worked up a smile as a cold sweat slid down her back.

“For what army?”

She glanced at the cart, winced. “I may have gotten a little carried away. I can put some of it back. Why don’t you go outside and—”

“Just get through the damn line.” He stepped forward, and certain he’d see the tabloid, she dug in her heels.

“Don’t push me again.”

“I’m not pushing you, I’m pushing the stupid cart.”

When he moved past the newspaper rack without a glance, Camilla nearly went limp.

“Hey, Del, didn’t expect to see you back in here so soon.” The cashier began ringing up the things Del began pulling out of the cart and dumping on the conveyer belt.

“Neither did I.”

The woman, a plump brunette whose name tag identified her as Joyce, winked at Camilla. “Don’t let him scare you, honey. Bark’s worse than his bite.”

“Not so far,” Camilla muttered, but was relieved that he was at the wrong angle now to see the grainy photograph of her. Still, she put her sunglasses back on before turning her face toward the cashier. “But he doesn’t scare me.”

“Glad to hear it. This one’s always needed a woman with plenty of spine and sass to stand up to him. Nice to see you finally found one, Del.”

“She just works for me.”

“Uh-huh.” Joyce winked at Camilla again. “You hear from your mom lately?”

“Couple weeks back. She’s fine.”

“You tell her I said hi—and that I’m keeping my eye on her boy.” She rang up the total and had Camilla wincing again.

“I think I might need a little more money.”

“Damn expensive lemons.” Resigned, Del took what he’d given her, added more bills.

She helped him load the bags into the truck, then sat with her hands folded in her lap. She’d overreacted to the tabloid, she told herself. Still her initial spurt of anger had been liberating. Regardless, she’d recovered well, and a lot more quickly than she might have done just a week or two before.

That meant she was stronger, steadier. Didn’t that serve to prove she was doing the right thing?

Now it was time to put that issue away again, and deal with the moment.

“I’m sorry I took so long, but I don’t think it’s unreasonable for me to want to see something of the town.”

“Your car should be ready tomorrow. Maybe the next day seeing as Carl’s claiming to be backed-up and overworked. Next time you want to play tourist, do it on your own time.”

“Be sure I will. Sarah Lattimer at the antique store said to give you her best. I wonder that anyone so well-spoken and courteous could have ever gone out with you.”

“She was young and stupid at the time.”

“How fortunate for her that she matured and wised-up.”

“You got that right.” He caught her soft chuckle. “What’s so funny?”

“It’s hard to insult you when you agree with me.” It was hard to brood about a silly photograph in a trashy newspaper when he was so much more interesting. “I like you.”

“That makes you young and stupid, doesn’t it?”

She grinned, then amused at both of them leaned over and kissed his cheek. “Apparently.”

I
’
m having the most wonderful time. It wasn’t the plan to stay in one place so long, or to do one thing for any length of time. But it’s such a beautiful place, and such an exciting thing to do.

Archaeology is truly fascinating. So much more interesting and layered to me than the history I enjoyed and was taught in school, or the sociology classes I took. More fascinating, I find, than anything I’ve studied or explored.

Who, where and why? How people lived, married, raised their children, treated their elderly. What they ate, how they cooked it. Their ceremonies and rituals. Oh, so much more. And all of it, society after society, tribe by tribe speaks, doesn’t it, to our own?

He knows so much, and so much of what he knows is almost casual to him, in the way a true scholar can be. Not that knowledge itself is casual to him. He seeks it every day. He wants to know.

I find that passion admirable, enviable. And I find it alluring.

I’m attracted to his mind, to all those complex angles. Working with
—
all right, for
—
him is hard and demanding, sometimes physically exhausting. Despite his injuries, the man has astounding stamina. It’s impressive the way he can lose himself, hours at a go, in his work.

It’s also an absolute thrill for me to do so as well. I’ve studied bone fragments that are centuries old. Sealed, of course, in plastic.

I wonder how they might feel in my hands. If anyone had told me I’d actually
want
to handle human bones, even two weeks ago, I’d have thought them mad.

How I wish I could go to the dig
—
or wet archaeological site
—
and actually see the work being done there. Though Delaney paints a very clear picture when he speaks of it, it’s not the same as seeing it for myself.

This is something I want to see, and do, for myself. I intend to look into classes, and what Delaney somewhat disdainfully refers to as knap-ins (a kind of camping session on sites for amateurs and students) when I’m home again.

I believe I’ve found an avocation that could become a vocation.

On a personal level, he’s not as annoyed by me as he pretends to me. At least not half the time. It’s odd and very educational to have someone treat me as he would anyone else
—
without that filter of manners and respect demanded by rank. Not that I appreciate rudeness, of course, but once you get to know the man, you can see beneath the rough exterior.

He’s a genius. And though courtesy is never out of place, the brilliant among us are often less polished.

I find him so attractive. In my life I’ve never been so physically drawn to a man. It’s exciting on one level, terribly frustrating on another. I was raised in a loving family, one which taught me that sex is not a game, but a joy—and a responsibility
—
to be shared with someone you care for. Someone you respect, and who affords you those same emotions. My position in the world adds another, complex and cautious layer, to that basic belief. I cannot risk taking a lover casually.

But I want him for a lover. I want to know what it’s like to have that fire inside him burn through me. I want to know if mine can match it.

The tabloid in the supermarket reminded me of what I’d nearly let myself forget. What it’s like to be watched, constantly. Pursued for an image on newsprint. Speculated about. The fatigue of that, the unease, the discomfort. Gauging how I feel now against how I felt the night I left Washington, I understand I was very close to breaking down in some way. I can look back and remember that hunted feeling, feel the nerves that had begun to dance, always, so very close to the surface.

Much of that is my own fault, I see now, for not giving myself more personal time to
—
well, decompress, I suppose
—
since Grandpère died, and everything else.

I’m doing so now, and none too soon.

My time here is, well, out of time, I suppose. I feel it’s been well spent. I feel
—
perhaps renewed is an exaggeration. Refreshed then, and more energized than I have felt in so many months.

Before I leave and take up my duties again, I’ll learn all I can about the science of archaeology. Enough that I might, in some way, pursue it myself. I’ll learn all I can about Camilla MacGee—separate from Camilla de Cordina.

And I might consider seducing the temperamental Dr. Delaney Caine.

*  *  *

The cabin smelled like a woodland meadow. Since it was a nice change from the musty gym sock aroma he’d gotten used to before Camilla, it was tough to complain.

And he wasn’t running out of socks anymore. Or having to scavenge in the kitchen for a can of something for his dinner. His papers—after a few rounds of shouts and threats—were always exactly as he left them. A good third of his notes were typed, and the articles needed for the trade journals and the site’s Web page were nearly finished. And they were good.

The coffee was always fresh, and so were the towels. And so, he thought with some admiration, was Camilla.

Not just the way she looked, or the pithy remarks that she aimed regularly in his direction, but her brain. He hadn’t considered just how much a fresh mind could add to his outlook and his angle on the project.

He liked the way she sang in the mornings when she cooked breakfast. And how rosy she looked when she came out of the woods after one of her breaks. Breaks, he recalled, they’d negotiated with some bitterness.

He couldn’t say he objected to the candles and bowls of smelly stuff she’d set around the place. He didn’t really mind the fancy soaps she’d put out in the bathroom, or coming across her little tubes and pots of creams in his medicine cabinet.

He’d only opened them for a sniff out of curiosity.

He even liked the way she curled up on the sofa in the evening with a glass of wine and grilled him about his work until he gave in and talked about it.

Alone in the kitchen, he did slow curls with a two-pound can of baked beans with his weak arm. It was coming back, he decided. And he was burning that damn sling. His muscles tended to throb at odd times, but he could live with that. Mostly it just felt so good to
move
his arm again. The ribs would take longer—the doctors had warned him about that. And the collarbone would probably trouble him for some time yet.

But he didn’t feel so frustratingly helpless now.