Twelfth Sun

by Mae Clair

  Reagan served herself and joined Brody at the table. Minutes later, Elijah shuffled onto the deck. He looked sloppy, even sickly, his face tinged an odd shade of green. He grimaced as the smell of food hit him, then fumbled with the silver carafe marked tea, his hands visibly shaking as he tried to steady the cup.

  Brody chuckled. “What’s the matter, kid? Too much wine last night?”

  Elijah shot him a glare. He slumped in a chair, as far away from the food table as possible. His loose curls were wet as if he’d come from the shower, and he wore a pair of black wire-rimmed glasses.

  Reagan covered her mouth with her hand, hiding a smile. The man obviously couldn’t drink. She’d heard him in the bathroom late last night throwing up, and figured his pride was bruised. Spearing a piece of fruit, she watched him from the corner of her eye.

  He wore gray cargo pants and a loose black t-shirt bearing the name of some place she’d never heard of–the Coal Sack. Nightclub? Bar? Right now, he looked like he’d spent a week in one. His legs were sprawled before him, and he sat with his elbow propped on the arm of the chair, his head slumped against his palm. Behind the lenses of his glasses, his eyes narrowed to slits. At least he wouldn’t be flinging innuendo this morning.

  When Elijah failed to respond to his ribbing, Brody muttered something unintelligible and disappeared into the house.

  Reagan shook her head. “I’d avoid Pellar if I were you.”

  Elijah grimaced. “You’re probably right. He gets enough kicks pointing out my shortcomings.” He left his chair and joined her at the table. Up close, his eyes were ringed with shadows even his glasses couldn’t hide. “I’m sorry if I embarrassed you last night. When I got sick…in the bathroom.”

  She regarded him steadily. “More likely you embarrassed yourself.”

  “I can’t drink. I don’t drink.”

  “Then why did you?”

  “Because sometimes I’m an idiot.”

  She folded her arms across her chest, her expression stern. “You hardly qualify as an idiot, Elijah.”

  “Elijah. I like the sound of that.” He managed a smile, not up to normal wattage, but close. “How about an incredibly hunky marine archeologist you can’t keep your hands off of?”

  Reagan rolled her eyes. The remark didn’t grate on her nerves as it would have yesterday. She was growing accustomed to his oddball attitude. Either that or he had her sympathy vote this morning. She didn’t know why. He deserved every head-pounding moment of agony he got.

  He swallowed a mouthful of tea. “I’ve got two speaking engagements scheduled the week of Sothern’s treasure hunt, but I can shift them around. I’ll call your uncle when I get home and give him my opinion of the journal. I’ll be here next Sunday, either way. Even if Gavin isn’t interested, I can’t pass on the historical find of a lifetime.”

  Reagan nodded, sipping her tea. As rough as he might feel, he still looked sexy. Right down to the wire rims on his black glasses. Damn the man for being right all the time! It was getting annoying.

  “What’s the Coal Sack?” she asked, feeling the need to change the subject.

  “The what? Oh.” Elijah glanced down at his t-shirt. He grinned sheepishly. “Not some grunge band, if that’s what you’re thinking. It’s a dark nebula.”

  She blinked. “A what?”

  “A cloud in the Milky Way Galaxy, composed of gas and dust. Dark nebulae obscure starlight.” He warmed to the subject. “To the naked eye they look like black patches in the night sky. The Coal Sack is part of Crux, the Southern Cross.” He shrugged and threaded a hand through his wet hair. “When I’m not diving for shipwrecks, I have a passing interest in astronomy.”

  Reagan felt a twinge of uneasiness. The Southern Cross. Was it merely a coincidence the stranger in the planetarium had been viewing that same constellation?

  “Don’t say I never do you favors, Doc.” Brody reappeared suddenly, scattering her thoughts. He shoved a glass of what appeared to be tomato juice under Elijah’s nose. “Here, drink this. It’ll help with the hangover.”

  Elijah drew back, eyeing the glass distrustfully. “What is it?”

  “Tomato juice, Tabasco, some Worcestershire and few other things I’m not going to tell you. Drink up, kid. You might be brainy as hell, but you don’t have clue one about hangovers. If I got blitzed on three and a half glasses of wine, I’d consider Kool-Aid.”

  Elijah frowned. “How do you know how much I drank?”

  “Because I make it a habit to look out for your sorry butt. Now, are you going to drink this or ask stupid questions?”

  Reagan laughed, enjoying the friendly antagonism between them.

  Elijah grabbed the glass and downed the revolting mixture in three gulps. He grimaced and shoved it back into Brody’s hand. “Are you trying to poison me?”

  “Only your mind.” Brody gave him a pat on the shoulder. “Take it easy, kid. I’ll see you both in a week.”

  As he left the deck, Reagan sent Elijah a worried glance. He seemed paler than before, the green cast of his skin turning waxy yellow. He’d be in for a rough ride home, driving a Jeep Wrangler. Between the heat, which was sure to increase, and the jarring motion of a vehicle that wasn’t built for comfort, he’d be lucky if he made it a few miles down the road. “Maybe you should lie down for a while,” she suggested.

  He grinned brazenly. “Join me?”

  She shook her head. She didn’t know how he did it–sick, fighting a hangover and he still managed to hit on her. She pushed back her chair and stood. “I’m heading home. You might want to wait a few hours before giving it a try. I’ll see you in a week.” Impulsively, she leaned down and kissed his cheek.

  He caught her wrist before she could withdraw and brushed his lips lightly against hers. Not a real kiss, but the ghost of something promising.

  He smiled. “When I’m better, I’ll kiss you for real.”

  She pressed her hand to his shoulder and shoved him back in his chair. “When you’re better I’ll deck you for it.” She grinned, enjoying their teasing.

  Maybe he wasn’t so impossibly young after all.

  Chapter 5

  Reagan spent the week putting Winning Concepts in order, then packed for a longer stay at Eric Sothern’s Atlantic estate. She visited with her uncle, who had already received a call from Elijah detailing Sothern’s treasure hunt and assuring him Rook’s journal was genuine. Afterward, she drove to St. Michael’s, a tiny town on the Chesapeake, to see her mother.

  Donelle Cassidy had remarried eight years ago. Now Donelle Bonetti, she ran a small cafe with her ex-NYPD husband, who was as darkly Italian as she was Irish. Reagan was glad she’d found happiness. While she knew her mother had loved her father dearly, she’d often been alone when his piloting took him overseas.

  Their visit was pleasant, but underscored by the same nagging question: You haven’t met anyone, Reagan?

  Her mother fretted daily that thirty-five was much too old to be unattached. She’d held great hopes for Neil, the cheating ad executive Reagan had been involved with, and had been devastated to learn of his infidelity.

  As she left for Sothern’s estate the next day, Reagan thought about Elijah Cross. She’d considered telling her mother about him, but had backed out at the last minute. There was nothing between them other than a confusing attraction she wasn’t certain she wanted to pursue. He was too young and, in all likelihood, had probably already forgotten her. A man who looked like he did was sure to have a string of women at his beck and call. She wasn’t going to be labeled a cougar or end up another conquest on what was likely a lengthy list.

  Yet, as she pulled into Sothern’s driveway on Sunday, Reagan mentally admitted to missing Elijah’s unpredictable remarks and teasing banter. She’d thought about him frequently, even dwelling on his spur of the moment kiss. Part of her wanted to experience that shocking delight again and fantasized about being in his arms, her fingers tangled in the long loose curls of his hair. She looked around for h
is Jeep, but didn’t see it parked outside. A twinge of disappointment pinged through her. Had he changed his mind about returning?

  She found Brody and Monica indoors, the first glad to see her, the other offering a tart hello. Tarvick arrived an hour later, with Alan and Livy strolling in right before dinner. Sothern was missing again, but had Pellar offer his apologies. Dinner was in the east dining room this time, a relaxed environment with a see-through gas fireplace and whitewashed wainscoting as backdrop. Halfway through the meal, it started raining. Within moments, the steady shower progressed into a full-fledged storm, battering the house with gusts of wind, thunder and lightning.

  When eleven o’clock rolled around and Elijah still hadn’t arrived, Reagan began to worry. Had something happened? The drive to Sothern’s estate was winding and treacherous, with sheer drop-offs on the ocean side. Had Elijah been involved in an accident? Even Brody frowned and glanced at his watch, pacing to look out the windows on more than one occasion.

  Monica went to bed, but the remainder of the group gathered in the front parlor for tea and brandy. Livy and Alan had their heads bowed together, apparently plotting their strategy for the treasure hunt, while Brody paced and Tarvick sat enthroned in a plush winged-back chair.

  The bald man stroked his goatee. “Looks like Boy Wonder has decided to bow out,” he commented to Brody, watching him pace to the window for the third time. “Maybe Cross isn’t so confident about testing his wits against the rest of us.”

  Brody shot him a scowling glance. “He can think rings around you, Tarvick.”

  Tarvick chuckled. “A long-haired kid with bubble-gum credentials? I was buying and trading antiquities when he was playing with building blocks.” His gaze narrowed. “You’ve always been defensive about him. It’s a cutthroat business. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you have a personal interest in Cross.”

  Brody stopped pacing. Abruptly. That same caught-off-guard look Reagan had seen once before flashed through his eyes. It lasted only a second, replaced by frowning disgust. “Some of us are more human than others. It’s not like Elijah to be this late. I’m concerned, that’s all.”

  He wasn’t the only one. When midnight rolled around, Reagan went to bed, still uneasy. Pellar had given her the same room as before, and she took comfort in the familiar surroundings. What she wouldn’t give to hear Elijah fumbling around on the other side of the shared bathroom. She tossed and turned, eventually drifting to sleep somewhere past one.

  The storm woke her at three and she shuffled bleary-eyed to the bathroom, her mouth parched and dry. Shadows hugged the furniture and walls, creating lumpy black patches in the bedroom. She opened the bathroom door and felt it connect with a soft thud. A low curse followed. A man’s voice.

  Reagan’s heart leaped to her throat before her foggy mind registered who was likely to be in the bathroom. She fumbled for the wall switch, flooding the room with light. Her pupils contracted painfully, adjusting to the sudden brightness.

  “We really have to stop meeting like this,” Elijah muttered.

  Reagan flushed. He wasn’t naked, but he might as well have been, dressed only in a pair of black boxers. His hair was dripping wet and a pile of equally soaked clothing lay on the floor at his feet. Her eyes flicked over his chest, dipping lower to his flat stomach and the top of the boxers where a strip of dark hair disappeared beneath the waistband. Realizing she was staring, she bumped back against the doorframe. “I…I…Why didn’t you lock the door?” She was suddenly furious with him. “Why did you have the light off?”

  You wanted me to open the door. You wanted me to find you. She had a maddening urge to strangle him. To wring his egotistical neck until he admitted his devious, underhanded scheme to make her look like a sex-starved fool. She’d been worried about his safety, but wouldn’t think twice about summoning a lynch mob if one were handy. And, damn, he wasn’t the only one scantily dressed. She wore a flimsy pink nightie that barely covered the tops of her thighs. Pink! She groaned silently. Any other night she would have picked the green one.

  Elijah became aware of her attire about the same time she did. His eyes dropped to her bare legs, lingering too long. She felt his gaze travel up the skimpy nightie and settle on her disheveled hair. Heat crackled through her at the smoldering look in his eyes.

  Electric blue flame. The man was dangerous. Desirable and dangerous. She gripped the doorjamb harder.

  “Why didn’t you lock the door?” she demanded again.

  “Um…”

  “Um is not an answer, Dr. Cross.” She grew angrier by the minute. Frightened too. There was a tightness in her stomach she didn’t understand. A warm pool of heat, ignited by the flame in his long-lashed eyes. His lashes were wet, spiked into clumps, and there was a sheen of moisture on his face as if he’d just come from outside. “The door has a lock for a reason.”

  “Sorry.” He shoved his fingers into his wet hair, raking it back from his face. “I didn’t want to wake you, so I didn’t use the light. I didn’t think about the lock.” He looked at the pile of clothes on the floor. A small puddle had formed beneath his jeans. “I got sidetracked helping one of the students at the university and got a late start. My Jeep broke down about three miles south. I tried to call for a ride, but my cell was dead, so I ended up walking.” He sent her a guarded glance, less direct this time, more contrite. “I’m sorry, Reagan. I didn’t mean to…” He trailed off, motioning awkwardly with one hand. “Well…you know.”

  She wanted to hear him say it, make him squirm. Instead she tossed him a towel. “From now on you are going to lock this door.” She grabbed it with one hand and jabbed her finger against it with the other, making sure he knew precisely which door she was talking about. “I don’t care if you’re only in here brushing your teeth or primping those long curls. I mean it, Elijah.”

  He mopped the towel across his neck and shoulders, destroying her lecture with a crooked grin. “You like my curls?”

  Reagan huffed out a disgusted breath and looked at the ceiling. She inhaled deeply, ready to launch into another tirade.

  He stepped closer. Alarm pinged through her, squelching her anger in a single shuddering heartbeat. She swallowed, terrified he would do or say something to resurrect the confusing, over-the-top attraction she felt. Desperately, she scrambled to recapture her anger, but he was standing too close. She was acutely conscious of his nakedness, of the way his chest rose and fell when he breathed, of the sweep of his lashes as his eyes dropped to her lips.

  “I thought about you all week,” he said quietly. The air between them crackled with the energy of the storm raging outside. Reagan could hear her heart beating and felt it lurch wildly. Elijah brushed the hair from her shoulder, sending a bolt of warmth streaking to her heels.

  “I missed you.”

  She closed her eyes, knowing he was going to kiss her, wanting him to kiss her. The pulse of his body, so close to hers, rippled over her skin like a living thing. She tilted her head, his lips hovering inches shy of her own, sun-touched fire and blistering promise. He smelled of wind and rain, of wild untamed night and all things male.

  Elijah reached behind her and switched off the light.

  “I’ll see you in the morning.” He dumped his wet clothes in the bathtub and walked out the door without another word.

  Dumbfounded, Reagan stood in the dark. Her body tingled with the remembered feel of his nearness, the electric shock of skin on skin when he’d brushed the hair from her shoulder. How could he come so close to kissing her, to making her yearn for his touch, then shut down all that heat and passion as if she were stone? The man was infuriating! Despicable!

  Why then did she feel like she’d stepped off a dizzying precipice with no way back?

  She slumped against the doorframe. Denying her attraction to him grew harder and harder. Maybe it was time to come down off her high horse and go with the flow.

  Age gap and all.

  * * * *

  Breakfast was
early, served on the sundeck at eight AM. Elijah made short work of a stack of pancakes slathered with butter and maple syrup, then finished the meal by adding bacon, English tea and orange juice. He stifled a yawn and looked across the table at Reagan, who’d treated him frostily that morning.

  Not that he blamed her after the stunt he’d pulled last night. But hell, he’d never had to chase a woman so hard and was finding the whole thing gut-twisting. One minute all he wanted to do was kiss her, convention be damned. The next, he squirmed over taking advantage of her. Forcing her, instead of letting her adjust to his pace.

  Like last night. She’d been ready for his kiss. He’d felt it in the way her body arched toward his, her breasts straining against the flimsy material of that damn short nightie. He’d wanted to shove his hands beneath it, feel the electric fire of her soft flesh and the smooth curves of her trembling body. But that was lust, and Reagan deserved better.

  His last relationship had been with a thirty-eight-year-old attorney who liked her music slow and her sexual partners young. Their affair had been about self-gratification and indulgence. He didn’t want that with Reagan. At twenty-five, he’d already had enough meaningless flings to last a lifetime. As hard as it was going to be, he’d decided, standing in that bathroom last night with her lips tipped invitingly to his, he would take it slow. If he had to crawl at a freaking snail’s pace, he wouldn’t blow his chance with her.

  Breakfast wound to a close and Pellar arrived, apologizing for Sothern yet again. Called away on business, the persnickety staff manager told them. There was general grumbling, but no one seemed overly put out. They all simply wanted the treasure hunt underway. Pellar summoned Clarice, who wheeled in a cart bearing a large crystal bowl. Five envelopes lay within the cut glass sphere, each sealed with gold foil.