Cordina's Crown Jewel, Page 6
Nora Roberts
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.”
“Really?” Her anger was full-blown now, a state she worked to avoid. When she was angry, overcome with anger, she knew she could be incredibly rash. She did her best to cool down, to take the reins of her temper in hand. “That’s fortunate for both of us then.”
She eased back, tugged her arm free when his grip on her loosened. She saw something flicker in his eyes—relief or disdain, she wasn’t sure. But either way, it fanned the flames again.
“But it’s a lie.”
She was angry, rash—and, she supposed, incredibly stupid. But the reins of temper slipped, and she fisted both hands in his hair and crushed her mouth to his.
Her first reaction was satisfaction, pure and simple, when she heard his quick, indrawn breath. She went with it, using her lips and tongue to get a good taste of him.
And as that taste filled her, pumped inside her with an unexpected wave of heat, it led to her second reaction.
A slow and slippery meltdown.
She hadn’t been prepared for it, not for need to burn through anger, every layer of it, and pull the hair trigger of her own passion. She made a little sound, both surprise and pleasure, and slid into him.
His mouth was hard, his face rough and his hair as thick and soft as mink pelt. She could feel the jackhammer of his heart, and the grip of his hand—this time vised on her nape. His teeth, then his tongue met hers. All she could think was: Give me more.
His reflexes were sluggish. It was the only excuse he could give for not shoving her away before she slid into him. And he was only human. That was the only reason he could find for his hand lifting—not to push her off, but to clamp over her neck, to keep her just where she was.
All over him.
The soft, greedy sounds she made had his blood surging, drove him to fight to deepen the kiss even as it reached depths he wasn’t sure he could stand.
He shifted, struggling to wrap his other arm around her, drag her onto his lap. The sudden careless move had bright, blinding pain smothering passion.
She jerked back. She’d felt his body go rigid, heard him fight to catch his breath, knew she’d hurt him. Concern, apologies nearly fell off her tongue before his vicious glare stopped them.
“Stay the hell away from me.” He couldn’t pull in any air, and his head swam. He cursed because he knew it had every bit as much to do with his body’s reaction to her as it did to the pain.
“Let me help—”
“I said stay the hell away.” His chair crashed to the floor as he pushed himself upright. When his vision blurred he nearly swayed, and the weakness only added to his fury. “You want a quick roll, go somewhere else. I’m not in the market.”
He strode out of the house, the two doors slamming like bullets at his back.
* * *
She was thoroughly ashamed of herself, and had barely slept all night for cringing every time she replayed the scene in her head.
She’d pushed herself on him. All but forced herself on him. It meant nothing that she’d been angry and insulted and aroused all at once. Why if a man had behaved as she had, Camilla would have been first in line to condemn him as a brute and a barbarian.
She’d made him kiss her, taking advantage of the situation and her physical advantage. That was unconscionable.
She would have to apologize, and accept whatever payment he wanted for the offense. If that meant booting her out of the house on her ear, he had a perfect right to do so.
She hoped it wouldn’t come to that.
It might have been an embarrassingly female cliché, but she stationed herself in the kitchen, only an hour after dawn, and prepared to fix him a lovely breakfast to soften him up.
Of course, she might have to adjust that to lunch, as he hadn’t come back into the house until after three in the morning. When she heard him come in, she hadn’t started breathing again for ten minutes, half expecting him to burst into her room, haul her out of bed and pitch her out of the window then and there.
Not that he hadn’t responded to her advance, she reminded herself as shame continued to prick. He’d all but devoured her like a man starving. And if he hadn’t tried to drag her closer and caused himself pain …
Well, she supposed it was best not to think of that.
She had coffee brewed, juice chilling. She’d made batter and filling for apple-cinnamon crêpes from scratch and had a generous slice of country ham waiting. Now if the bear would only lumber out of his cave.
Minutes later she heard the creak overhead that told her he was up and about. She had to wipe suddenly damp palms on her slacks before she turned to heat the griddle for his breakfast.
* * *
Because Del was also replaying the scene in his head, he was in the foulest of moods as he showered. Part of him was furious with the woman for putting him in such an impossible position. The other stood back in amazed disgust at his reaction.
He’d had a beautiful woman come on to him in a staggeringly open and avid way. A gorgeous, sexy, unattached woman had grabbed him in the middle of the night and kissed his brains out.
And he’d stormed out of the house in a huff.
What was he, crazy?
Careful, he corrected, annoyed with the internal debate. He had no problem with casual, healthy sex between consenting adults. But if there was a casual bone in Camilla’s body, he’d dance a jig naked in the middle of the road to town.
The woman breathed complications.
Besides the fact, he reminded himself as he dressed, he didn’t have time for fun and games. He had work to do. And when he did have time, he made the damn moves.
Not that it hadn’t been … interesting to have that step taken out of his hands, momentarily.
The woman had a mouth like a goddess, he thought. Hot, persuasive and potent.
Better not to think about it. Much better to decide what the hell to do about it. As far as he could see, there were two choices. He could pretend it never happened, or he could fire her, drive her into town and dump her.
The latter, it seemed to him, was the safest bet all around.
He was halfway down the stairs when he smelled coffee. The siren’s scent of it weakened his resolve. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times in his adult life he’d woken to the aroma of fresh coffee.
Then he caught the scent of grilling meat.
Plays dirty, he noted. Just like a female.
The minute he stepped into the kitchen, she turned, coffee mug in hand. Rather than hand it to him, she set it on the table. She didn’t smile, but her eyes met his and stayed level.
“I want to apologize for my behavior.”
The tone, judge-sober, threw him off stride. He figured the best move was to keep his mouth shut—and drink the coffee.
“It was,” she continued, “completely indefensible. I took advantage of the situation and abused your hospitality. I couldn’t be more sorry for it. You’d be perfectly justified in throwing me out. I hope you won’t, but I won’t argue if that’s what you’ve decided to do.”
Did he think she played dirty? he mused, eyeing her over the rim of his cup as she stood, solemn and patient with ham sizzling at her back. A heavyweight champ wouldn’t last a full round with her.
“Let’s just forget it.”
Relief trickled through her, but she couldn’t relax until she’d finished. “That’s very generous of you.” She shifted to pick up the kitchen fork and turn the meat. “I’d like to tell you I’ve never done anything like that before.”
He thought of the kiss, the smoldering punch of it. “Like what before?”
“Pushed myself on a man.” The memory of it had hot color washing into her cheeks, but she continued to cook with a steady hand. “It occurred to me afterward that if the situation had been reversed—if you had pushed yourself on me, particularly when I was incapacitated—”
“I’m not incapacitated.” Irritated, he swallowed coffee, then went for more.
“Well … in any case, it occurred to me that it would’ve been contemptible, perhaps even criminal, so—”
“We locked lips. Beginning and end,” he snapped out, growing more and more uncomfortable. “It’s not a big damn deal.”
She slid her gaze toward him, then away again. The deal, big or otherwise, had kept him out of his own house most of the night. So she would finish groveling. “A sexual act of any kind must be mutual or it’s harassment. Worst, molestation.”
“The day some skinny-assed woman can molest me is the day pigs go into orbit.”
“I’m not skinny, assed or otherwise, but to finish. I was angry and I’m attracted to you—God knows why—and both those reactions, as well as the simple curiosity I felt, are my responsibility to control. I appreciate your acceptance of my apology. Now if you’d like to sit down, I’m going to make crêpes.”
She stabbed the ham, dumped it on a plate. Before she could turn to the crêpe batter, he spun her around, clamped his hand over her throat. And lifting her to her toes closed his mouth over hers.
The fork she still held clattered to the counter. Her arms fell helplessly to her sides. It was an assault, a glorious one that made her weak-kneed, light-headed and hot-blooded all at once. Even as she started to sway toward him, he gave her a light shove. Stepped back.
“There, that clears the slate,” he said, then picking up his coffee again, sat. “What kind of crêpes?”
Chapter 5
The beard irritated him. So did the woman. His ribs were a constant dull ache. As was his libido.
Work helped such nagging and unwelcome distractions. He’d always been able to lose himself in work—in fact he figured anyone who couldn’t just wasn’t in the right field.
He had to admit sh
e didn’t annoy him when she was helping transcribe and organize his notes. The fact was, she was such an enormous help he wondered how the devil he would get anything done when she was gone.
He considered playing on her gratitude and wheedling another couple of weeks out of her.
Then he’d be distracted by something as ridiculous as the way the light hit her hair as she sat at the keyboard. Or the way her eyes took on a glint when she looked over at him with a question or comment.
Then he’d start thinking about her. Who she was, where she was from. Why the hell she was sitting in his kitchen in the first place. She spoke French like a native, cooked like a gift from God. And over it all was a glossy sheen of class.
He hated asking people questions about themselves. Because they invariably answered them, at length. But he had a lot of questions about Camilla.
He began to calculate how he could get some information without seeming to ask the questions.
She was smart, too, he thought as she painstakingly filed and labeled on-site photographs while he pretended to study more notes. Not just educated, but there was plenty of that. If he had to guess, he’d say private schools all the way—and with that whiff of France in her voice, he’d put money on some kind of Swiss finishing school.
In any case, wherever she’d been educated, she was smart enough to let the whole matter of that little sexual snap drop.
She’d simply nodded when he’d said they were even, and had made her fancy breakfast crêpes.
He admired that, the way she’d accepted the tit for tat and had gone back to business as usual.
There was money—or there had been money. Pricey Swiss watch, silk robe. And it had been silk. He could still feel the way it had floated and slithered over his bare skin when she’d wrapped herself around him.
Damn it.
Still, she was no stranger to work. She actually seemed to like cooking. It was almost beyond his comprehension. Plus she’d sit at the keyboard for hours without complaint. Her typing was neat and quick, her posture perfect. And her hands as elegant as a queen’s.
Breeding, he thought. The woman had breeding. The kind that gave you spine as well as a sense of fair play.
And she had the most incredible mouth.
So how did it all add up?
He caught himself scratching at the beard again, and was struck with inspiration.
“Could use a shave.”
He said it casually, waited for her to glance his way. “I’m sorry?”
“A shave,” he repeated. “I could use one.”
Because she considered it a friendly overture, she smiled. “Can you manage it, or do you want help?”
He frowned a little, to show he was reluctant. “You ever shave a man?”
“No.” She pursed her lips, angled her head. “But I’ve seen my father and my brothers shave. How hard can it be?”
“Brothers?”
“Yes, two.” Thoughtful, she stepped to him, bending a bit to study the terrain of his face. A lot of angles, she mused. Dips and planes. There certainly wasn’t anything smooth or simple about it, but that only made it challenging. “I don’t see why I couldn’t do it.”
“It’s my flesh and blood on the line, sister.” Still he lifted a hand, rubbed irritably. “Let’s do it.”
* * *
She took the job seriously. After some debate, she decided the best spot for the event was the front porch. They’d get a little fresh air, and she’d be able to maneuver a full three hundred and sixty degrees around his chair as she couldn’t in the tiny upstairs bathroom.
She dragged out a small table, and set up her tools. The wide, shallow bowl filled with hot water. The can of shaving cream, the towels, the razor.
Part of her wished it was a straight rather than a safety razor. It would’ve been fun to strop it sharp.
When he sat, she tied a towel around his neck. “I could trim your hair while I’m at it.”
