Cordinas Crown Jewel (8 page)

He snagged a bag and followed her inside. She walked across the dirt and gravel, he thought, as if she were gliding across the polished marble floor of a ballroom. He decided it had something to do with all that leg. Which he wasn’t, of course, paying any attention to. Whatsoever.

“How many people are you planning to feed for the next few days?”

“Oh, don’t be cranky.” She waved him off and began to unload supplies. “I’ll make you a sandwich as soon as these are put away.”

*  *  *

She knew how to make a sandwich, he had to give her that. He ate, and ate well, in his now spotless kitchen, his mood improving as he scanned the next batch of notes. His ribs ached a bit, but the discomfort had eased to tolerable with just aspirin.

When he was done, he dictated for another three hours while she transcribed. She interrupted now and then, but her questions didn’t bother him as much.

The fact was, they were good questions, the kind that made him think. He did classroom duty from time to time, though it was never his first choice. He was forced to admit that the majority of students professing a desire to make a career in the field didn’t have as quick an understanding of the
point
as she did.

He caught himself studying the long line of her neck. The graceful curve and arch of it. Mortified, he turned away, pushed himself back into his notes and forgot her.

She knew he’d been staring, just as she knew he’d switched her off again as easily as a finger flicked a light from on to off.

She found she liked it—all the aspects. His interest, his annoyance with it and the focus that allowed him to dismiss it.

His interest had nothing to do with her family, her blood or her rank. It was the first time in her life she’d been utterly sure of that, and the response inside her was quick and pleased. As to the annoyance she could sense him feeling, that was purely satisfying.

He saw her as a woman, first and last. Not an image, not a title. And that made her feel like a woman. He was attracted to her and didn’t want to be. That gave her a lovely edge of control—an essential female control that wasn’t weighed down with royal command.

And his focus, well, that attracted
her.
It was a kind of skill she respected, and stemmed from willpower, intellect and passion for his work.

It also challenged her. Though she knew it would be wise to resist that challenge. She was, after all, essentially alone with him—a man she knew little about—and flirting with that focus, trying to undermine it for her own curiosity and satisfaction might have … consequences.

Then again, what was a quest without consequences?

When he paused long enough, she rolled her stiff shoulders, smiled over at him. “Would you mind if we took a break?”

She watched him come back to the present, back to the room, back to her. Felt his gaze, sexy and scholarly behind his reading glasses, slide over her as she rose to stretch.

“I’m not finished,” he told her.

“We can pick it up again after dinner, if you like.” She kept her smile easy. “I could use a walk before I start cooking. Do you ever walk in the woods, Del?”

There was the faintest hum of invitation in her voice. He was sure—damn sure—it was deliberate. It packed a hell of a punch. He hated to think what she could do if she took a good, solid shot at a man.

“Go ahead, I’ve got stuff to do.” He picked up more notes, dismissing her. He waited until she’d passed into the mudroom before he called out, “Watch out for snakes.”

The hesitation in her stride, the faintest gasp, gave him a great deal of satisfaction.

*  *  *

He woke in the middle of the night with his ribs aching and his mind blurry.

He’d been dreaming of her again, damn it. This time they’d been in the kitchen working on his notes. She’d sat at the keyboard, stupendously naked.

The fantasy was juvenile enough to embarrass him.

The problem with women was they could get to you just by breathing.

He lay there a moment, willing his ribs to settle and his blood to cool.

He’d gotten through the day and the evening, hadn’t he, holding on to his stipulation. He’d never touched her, not once. It would’ve been easy to. A finger trailed down that pretty nape while she’d typed. A brush of his hand when she’d passed him the salt over dinner.

Easy, as easy as grabbing her one-handed, diving in and finding out what that long, mobile mouth tasted like.

But he hadn’t. Points for him.

Still, it made him a little nervous that he kept
thinking
about doing it.

And she was flirting with him. He’d ignored, evaded or moved in on flirtations often enough to recognize
one. Especially when the woman wasn’t being particularly subtle.

He’d had students—or the occasional groupie who hung around digs—put moves on him. Mostly, in his estimation, because they’d dreamed up some romantic image about the field. He put the blame squarely on Indiana Jones for that. Though those movies had been so damned entertaining he couldn’t be sore about it.

He dismissed the flirtations, or fell in with them, depending on the timing, the woman and his mood. But as far as serious relationships went, he’d managed to avoid that boggy complication. The redhead had complication written all over her, so fun and games were out of the question.

He should get her a room in town. Pay for it. Move her out.

Then he thought of the pile of neatly typed pages, and the intensity of his annoyance went way down. She was a miracle worker. Not only did her help mean he didn’t need to fight his way through the material on his own, but her questions, her interest and her organizational ability was actually getting him to deliver the best material he’d ever done. Not that he was going to mention that.

He thought of the meal she’d put on the table. He hadn’t a clue what she’d done to that humble chicken, but she’d turned it into a feast.

He began to revise his notion that she had a rich, irritated husband or lover stashed somewhere. She was too efficient, too clever in the kitchen to be somebody’s spoiled and pampered tootsie.

Which was a good thing as fantasizing about another man’s woman was too close to fooling around with another man’s woman. And that was on his short list of unbreakable rules.

If he moved her out, he’d be back to square one. If he moved her out, he’d be admitting he couldn’t keep his hands off her. If he admitted that, well, where was he?

Giving up, he rose—remembered at the last minute to tug on sweats—and went down the hall to the bathroom. He didn’t notice the sparkling tiles and neatly hung fresh towels any more than he’d have noticed soap scum and damp heaps. But the scent caught him, because it was hers.

And it tightened every muscle in his body.

He yanked his pain medication from the cabinet, then shoved it back again. Damn pills made him stupid.
He’d rather toss back a handful of over-the-counter stuff and a short, neat whiskey.

He didn’t allow himself to so much as glance at her bedroom door, to think—even for an instant—of her lying in bed behind it. A minute later, he realized that fantasy would’ve been wasted because she wasn’t in bed.

He heard her voice, the quiet murmur of it coming from the kitchen. Eyes narrowed, he paused, listened. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tone was soft, full of affection. It set his teeth on edge.

Who the hell was she talking to? He moved forward and caught the end of her conversation.

“Je t’aime aussi. Bonne nuit.”

The quiet click of the phone on the receiver came an instant before he hit the lights.

She stumbled back, bit off a scream and slapped both hands to her mouth.
“Mon Dieu! Vous m’avez fait peur!”
She let out a shaky breath, shook the French out of her head. “You frightened me.”

“What are you doing down here in the dark?”

She’d crept down to check the phone, and finding it working, had called home to reassure her family. She kept the lights off and her voice low to avoid exactly what was happening now. Explanations.

“The phone’s back on.”

“Yeah. Answer the question.”

Her shoulders went back, her chin went up. “I didn’t realize I was meant to stay in my room like a child after bedtime,” she tossed back. “I’m repaying you for the lodging, and assumed I was free to make use of the house.”

“I don’t give a damn if you dance a tango in the moonlight. I want to know why you’re sneaking around and whispering on the phone in the dark.”

She gave him the truth, and coated it with ice. “I couldn’t sleep. I came down for a drink and checked the phone. When I discovered it was in order, I made a call. Don’t worry, I reversed the charges. If my mobile worked in this … backwater, I wouldn’t have presumed to use yours. And having the courtesy to be quiet when another person in the house was,
presumably
, sleeping isn’t sneaking.”

It was reasonable. It rang true. So he nodded, slowly. “Fine. You want to check in with your husband or
boyfriend, go ahead. But don’t prowl around like a thief.”

Her color bloomed, her eyes went burning gold. “I was not prowling, and I don’t have a husband. If you must know, I spoke with my mother to reassure her I was well. Is this inquisition over?”

He hated feeling stupid so he said nothing and stepped to the cabinet for aspirin.

“I should’ve known.” With an impatient huff, she took down a glass to fill it with water. “You’re only more impossible when you’re in pain. Here.”

“I don’t want water.” He moved around her to root at the bottle of whiskey from the pantry.

“Have the water first, you’ll spoil the taste of the whiskey otherwise.” She got down another glass, took the bottle from him and poured a tidy three fingers. “I imagine it should help the discomfort. Is it your shoulder or your ribs?”

“Ribs mostly.”

“I suppose they hurt more as they heal. Why don’t you sit and I’ll make you an ice pack for them.”

“I don’t need a nurse.”

“Stop being such a hardhead.” She filled a small plastic bag with ice, then wrapped it in a thin dishcloth. “Sit, drink your whiskey. Tell me about one of your other digs. Something foreign and exotic.”

It amused her, pleased her, to hear her mother in her voice, the brisk indulgence of it, the tone she’d used to soothe and distract her children during illness.

“Go away.” The order didn’t have much punch behind it, and he sat down.

“When I was cleaning I noticed some correspondence to Dr. Caine. I was impressed.” She sat, holding the cloth to her cheek and waiting for it to cool. “Where did you study?”

She was wearing a robe, the color of copper. He figured it had to be silk, and from the way it clung, shifted, that she had little to nothing on under it. In defense he closed his eyes and let the whiskey slide down his throat.

“Oxford.”

“Now I’m more impressed. Delaney Caine, a doctorate degree from Oxford. How did you know you were an archaeologist?”

It was an odd way to phrase it, he thought. Not how did you become, or when did you decide, but how did you know. And it was exactly right. “I always wanted to know how and why and when. And who. Whenever I’d go on a dig with my parents—”

“Ah, they’re archaeologists, too.”

“Paleontologists. Dinosaurs.” He kept his eyes closed, knowing between will and whiskey the ache would ease. “I liked the digs, but it seemed more exciting to me when they’d dig up something human. Pieces of pottery or tools or weapons. Something that said man walked there.”

He hissed a bit through his teeth when the cooled cloth made contact with his ribs.

Poor thing, she thought sympathetically. So angry at the pain. “My brothers went through a fascination with dinosaurs. I think all boys do.” She saw the strain go out of his face as the ice numbed the ache. “Were they disappointed, your parents, that you didn’t go into their field?”

“Why would they be?” He let himself relax, inch by inch. An owl hooted, long, slow calls from the woods beyond the cabin. Her scent drifted over him like a gentle stroke of hands.

“Oh, tradition, I suppose. It’s comforting, isn’t it, to have parents who understand—at least try to understand—when you have to test yourself, try your own direction? Some of us wait too long to do so, fearing disapproval or failure.”

He was relaxed, she thought, drifting toward sleep. Odd, he looked no less formidable now than he did when he was alert. Maybe it was the bones of his face, or that prickly shadow of beard. Whatever it was, it had a snake of arousal twining through her to look at him, really look at him when he was unaware.

Then his eyes opened, and that interesting face was very close to hers. She nearly eased back with instinctive courtesy, but there was a wariness in those deep green depths. An intriguing awareness that nudged her to test her power.

She stayed close, very close, and lifted a hand to give the rough stubble on his face a testing, and flirtatious, rub. “You need a shave, Dr. Caine.”

He could smell her, all fresh and dewy despite the lateness of the hour. Her breath fanned lightly over his
skin. And made his mouth water. “Cut it out.”

“It’d be tricky to shave one-handed.” She trailed a fingertip along his jaw. Down his throat. “I could do it for you in the morning.”

“I don’t want a shave, and I don’t like you touching me.”

“Oh, you like me touching you.” Surely this lust that was curling around in her belly wasn’t all one-sided. “You’re just afraid of it. And annoyed that I’m not afraid of you.”

He grabbed her wrist with his good hand, and his fingers tightened warningly. “If you’re not afraid, you’re stupid.” Deliberately he raked his gaze over her, an insulting pass down her body and back up again. “We’re alone out here, and you’ve got no place to hide. I may have only one good arm, but if I decided to help myself, you couldn’t stop me.”

Anger danced up her spine, but there was no fear in it. No one had ever laid hands on her unless she’d allowed it. She didn’t intend for that to change. “You’re wrong about that. I don’t hide, I confront. I’m not weak or helpless.”

He tightened his grip on her wrist, fully aware his fingers would likely leave marks. He hoped they did, and she remembered it. For both their sakes. “You’re a woman, and I outweigh you by close to a hundred pounds. A lot of men would use that advantage to take a sample of you. Whether you were to their taste or not. I’m more particular, and, sister, you don’t appeal to me.”