by Diana Palmer
Deputy Sheriff Drake Stewart shook his head, grinning. “I knew it was you when I saw the fogged up windows,” he began.
Phoebe was flushed and breathless. Cortez let her go and sat up straight, his chest rising and falling on a bemused breath.
“Don’t you work?” he asked Drake.
Drake grinned. “Now, here I was just about to ask you that same question,” he remarked. “We had a call from your crime unit. They were worried about you because you said you’d be right back.”
Phoebe straightened her denim jacket, glanced at Drake’s amused expression, and cleared her throat. “I fainted and he was reviving me,” she said deadpan, using the explanation he’d suggested to her the other time they got caught in the car in a compromising situation.
Cortez burst out laughing. “Phoebe, you can’t faint when you’re sitting down,” he explained.
“Turncoat!” she exclaimed. She pointed at Drake. “He was buying it!”
“No, he wasn’t,” Drake said, chuckling. “Listen, you guys had better get going. It’s blowing snow,” he added, holding out a gloved hand palm-up to demonstrate the precipitation. It wasn’t really surprising to have snow in the last week of November in the North Carolina mountains.
“We’re already gone,” Cortez replied. He hesitated. “We’ve got an assault victim in the hospital—Walks Far from Bennett Construction,” he added. “If this stash we’re investigating is what I think it is, Phoebe’s life is going to be at risk even more than before. How about doubling the patrols near the motel where we’re staying and the museum?”
“I already have,” Drake assured him, sobering. “I heard about the assault on my police radio. You watch your back,” he added.
“You do the same,” Cortez replied.
He pulled out of the parking lot, glancing at Phoebe with indulgent amusement. “No need to look so embarrassed,” he told her. “Drake’s human.”
She cleared her throat. “Of course.”
“Unless you were embarrassed for another reason than the one that came to my mind,” he added slowly, frowning. “Did you have anything going with him before I showed up?”
“Yes,” she agreed at once. “Salads, three days a week. He came by the museum and brought lunch.”
He held her eyes. “Nothing else?”
She could have lied. She was even tempted. But she wasn’t very good at it. She grimaced and folded her hands in her lap. She looked out the window. “I think he was attracted to me,” she confessed with a sigh. “But it wasn’t mutual.” She glanced at him bitterly. “As if I wanted to get involved with a man, ever again.”
He felt bad about that, but elated just the same. He turned the car onto the road that led to Bennett’s building site. “He’s a good man.”
She smiled. “Tina thinks so.”
“She was dating a policeman in Asheville,” he said. “I don’t know that he’ll ever forgive me for dragging her here to baby-sit.”
“She’s old enough to make up her own mind about men,” she told him.
“I know that.” He smiled. “She’s special.”
“She said that your father went to college.”
“That surprised you?” he asked amusedly. “Did you expect him to live in a teepee and walk around in full battle regalia?”
She laughed at her own notions. “Even if I did, I’d be ashamed to admit it.”
He shook his head. “You’d be amazed how many people see us like that,” he told her. “Movies and fictional stories haven’t helped.”
“We’re all guilty of stereotyping, to a degree,” she replied. “But I should know better.”
He reached out and curled her hand into his big one. “You’re doing okay.”
She held on tight. “I’ll remind you that you said that.”
The crime unit, led by Alice Jones, was marking time when Cortez and Phoebe walked carefully around the small wooden stakes and string that marked the limits of evidence-gathering, and into the cave where Jones indicated.
“Good Lord!” Phoebe exclaimed as she looked at the skeleton. Blind to the people around her, she moved toward it, careful to step on hard ground where there was no disturbed dirt. She knelt by the skull. “May I pick it up?” she asked.
Alice waved a hand. “We’ve already gone over it for prints and trace evidence,” she said. “We’ve had a lot of time for that,” she added pointedly, noting Phoebe’s swollen mouth and disheveled hair…and Cortez’s guilty expression. “I’ve already got plaster casts of the tire tracks, we’ve bagged all the trace evidence, and the photographer’s come and gone, both at the trailer and here.” She held up a gloved hand to catch snow. “Isn’t it lucky that we didn’t get covered up like living snowmen and women or eaten by black bears while we were stuck here in the cold?”
Cortez apologized, but Phoebe wasn’t listening. She was examining the ridge above the brow. “Male,” she murmured to herself. She turned the skull, noting the high cheekbones and large sinus cavities. She checked the dentition of the upper jaw—the only one with the remains since the lower jaw was missing—and checked the pattern of tooth wear. She went on to assess the double-arched brow ridge, the backward slope of the cheekbones, and the high, rounded orbit of the eye sockets. The low forehead, added to the other points, was more than enough for a decision even before she painstakingly examined the rest of the skeleton with its large shoulder, hip, elbow and ankle joints and its short, thick-walled tibia.
“These remains are Neanderthal,” she said finally, looking at Cortez as she examined the skull one more time. “I’d stake my professional reputation on it.”
“Neanderthal?” Alice Jones muttered, scowling. “That would make them…”
“I know,” Phoebe replied. “Between forty thousand and two hundred thousand years old, depending on their location. They come from Europe, Africa and the Middle East primarily. There’s never been a Neanderthal skeleton identified in the Americas. And this one isn’t indigenous, either,” she added firmly. “You’ll need to do tests to prove that, however.”
“You can tell that from a skeleton?” one of the police officers asked, fascinated.
“You can,” Alice Jones answered before Phoebe could, smiling at Phoebe’s surprise. “I did courses in physical anthropology long before I decided on a career in forensics. I’ve been on digs. In fact, I remember you from one forensic course I took at the University of Tennessee. You’re Phoebe Keller. You were in my class!”
Phoebe laughed as she recognized the other woman. “Yes! You were! Nice to see you again, Alice!”
“What about the other artifacts?” Cortez prompted.
Phoebe grimaced, hating to put the skull down. It was speaking to her. From the bones alone she could tell the age, sex, physical health, and perhaps even the manner of death. From the dentition she could garner race and eating habits and age. She didn’t want to stop. But he was right, it was a crime scene, not a lab.
She picked up a piece of pottery and turned it in her hands, noting the media and the pattern. “Late Southeast Woodland Period, two thousand years old,” she said to herself. She put it down and went over the projectile points. “Folsom spear points,” she murmured. “They could be Paleo-Indian, dating back around twelve thousand years, or they could even be Mousterian.” She smiled at their blank stares. “That’s Neanderthal lithic technology. Handmade stone tools.” She frowned as she studied the other artifacts. There were pipes made of red pipestone, very old, but difficult to date without her lithic textbooks. There were two effigy figurines, funerary ones, very old and very expensive. She lifted the first with great care, turning it around in her hands to note the workmanship and the media. “Hopewell period,” she mused. The other figure was the same period. The two pipes, very rare and valuable, also dated from the Hopewell period. She put it down gently and stood up, still frowning.
“What is it?” Cortez asked.
“These artifacts are a mixed bag,” she said. “The skeletal rema
ins are Neanderthal. As for the pottery, it’s Swift Creek pattern. It dates from the Woodland period—that means it’s from one thousand to just under two thousand years old. But the projectile points are Folsom—that dates them to before 12,000 BCE. They could be much older, even possibly Neanderthal, although I won’t believe that without corroboration. On the other hand, the platform pipes and the effigy figures are from the Middle Woodland Period, the Ohio Valley Hopewell Culture of the first and second centuries CE that was prevalent in the Southeastern United States and denotes the mound builders,” she added. “I’ve seen museum exhibits of funerary effigy figures almost identical to these in New York City. In fact, our effigy figure that we purchased just over a month ago looks similar to these.” She turned to the technicians. “It’s impossible all these artifacts came from one single site. Just impossible.”
“I agree,” Alice Jones added.
“What did you say about that effigy figure your museum bought last month?” Cortez asked her.
“It looks like a match for these two,” she said flatly. “I think this is the loot that was stolen from the museum in New York City. That would explain finding it all in one place. With no regard for its age, either. This is a sloppy job of stashing for artifacts so precious.”
“There’s something else here that doesn’t add up,” Alice broke in. “Remember that sample of matter I took from the victim’s shirt? I won’t know until I can get it to a lab, but I’m pretty sure that it’s brain matter. And it’s not the victim’s.”
Cortez whistled through his teeth. That could very easily mean there was another victim, a dead one, somewhere in the area. “This is not adding up.”
“Tell me about it,” Alice said.
“Let’s get those tests underway,” Cortez told Alice. “I need answers fast.”
“You can count on me, boss,” she replied, grinning.
“I’ll check out that museum robbery with our computer, and feed that description and the information Phoebe gave me about the art dealer who sold her the effigy figure into the computer as well and see if it rings any bells in our databank,” Cortez said, referring to a national databank of known criminals. “Let’s put a twenty-four-hour guard on this site.”
“Great, who do we really dislike?” one of the local policemen mused, staring pointedly at his blond colleague who’d gone to the site with Cortez.
“You can draw straws,” Cortez said, “but I don’t want anyone wandering around here after we leave. Furthermore, I want you in hiding. If anybody does show up, you cuff him and bring him in. Got that?”
“I got it,” the blond policeman said smugly.
“I’ll take you back, Phoebe,” he told her, taking her arm. “See you guys later.”
DAWN WAS BREAKING against the mountains. Phoebe wasn’t even sleepy. “Do you think you could stop by my house on the way to the motel?” she asked him. “I really need a change of clothes, and I’d love a shower.”
“You could do that at the motel,” he pointed out.
“Yes, but I don’t have my soap or my shampoo or my bath powder,” she reminded him.
He glanced at his watch. “I suppose we’ve got time. It’s a little late to go to bed now.”
“I’ll be quick,” she promised. “I have to be in my office at eight-thirty.”
Leaving Cortez in the kitchen making coffee, she made a dash for the bathroom. She undressed quickly and wrapped a bath towel around her while she adjusted the showerhead. She was just undoing the towel when the door behind her swung open.
She gasped audibly, staring straight into Cortez’s dark eyes.
He couldn’t look away. “I was going to ask if you wanted a biscuit to go with your coffee,” he murmured, only half aware of what he was saying.
His dark eyes slid down her body, over the wealth of bare skin unhidden by the towel, which barely covered her breasts and hips. She looked beautiful like that, with her hair wavy and mussed.
He felt his whole body clench. He ached to rip that towel off her and throw her down on the floor. His teeth ground together as he struggled with temptation.
She looked back at him with wide, soft eyes. He was so handsome. The stuff of dreams. He’d never been out of her thoughts for longer than ten minutes in the last three years. She’d dreamed of loving him in the darkness, of growing big with his child. The desire was much worse since she’d shared a room with him and Joseph. She’d gone hungry for him. But he had a child and a career, and he was only here temporarily, looking for a murderer. He’d solve the case, and he’d go away again. If only she could go with him, and they could have children of their own…
The light went out of her eyes as she met his.
“What were you thinking about just then?” he asked suddenly.
“Ba…babies,” she faltered.
His face contorted. Then his gaze fell to her waistline and began to glitter with feeling. Three years ago, if he hadn’t been so inflexible about taking her virginity, he could have taken her to bed and had memories to live on. But he’d gone away, rejected her, hurt her so badly that she’d ended up in another man’s bed out of anguish. Her first time had been with a stranger, in a drunken encounter. Because of him. Because of him!
Yet, if she’d become sexually active, there was no reason on earth he couldn’t have her now. He’d ached for her ever since she let him take off the T-shirt and look at her. The need had grown by the minute until it was unmanageable and stark.
With cold deliberation, his hands went to his jacket. He stripped it off and tossed it onto the clothes hamper by the door. His shirt followed it while Phoebe gaped at him with parted lips and pulsing heart.
He took his hair down before he reached for the fastening of his slacks. Everything came off except the black satin boxers he was wearing under his clothing. He went to the bedroom door, closed it, and locked the door behind him.
Then he went back into the bathroom and walked toward Phoebe with intent.
She opened her mouth to protest, but it was already too late. He ripped her out of the towel and riveted her to his powerful body even as his mouth pushed down against hers and knocked any thought of resistance right out of her mind.
“I left you at your hotel three years ago and never looked back,” he groaned against her parting lips. “A bigger fool was never born. I’m not walking away this time, Phoebe. And neither are you.”
His mouth bit into hers again as he stripped off his boxers and let them fall to the floor. He stepped out of them, and Phoebe felt him against her with awe and faint fear, absorbing the strength of his warm body and the urgent threat of his masculinity pressing against her bare flesh.
She should tell him, she thought dizzily. It might hurt. Could he tell? They said men couldn’t…
He groaned against her mouth and suddenly took her right under the shower with him. She felt the water at her back as his hands smoothed up and down her body, exploring her nudity with slow, tender motions that shocked as much as they aroused.
He soaped her body and then his, drawing her hands to him, coaxing her to explore him as he learned the exquisite contours of her own body. He shampooed her hair while his chest moved enticingly against the hard tips of her breasts, arousing her even more. While she rinsed her hair, he shampooed his own and then held his face under the spray to wash out the soap.
When they were through, he cut off the shower and helped her out of the tub, following to retrieve the bath towel she’d dropped and use it to mop away the moisture. He pulled another towel from the cupboard to dry himself before he retrieved a third to wipe away most of the water from their hair.
He plugged in the blow dryer and used it first on her short, blond hair and then on his own long black strands.
When he finished, he put the dryer aside and held her at arm’s length, looking blatantly at her nudity.
She was holding her breath, fascinated, shocked, delighted by the intensity of his scrutiny.
He caught her hand and
led her out of the bathroom and into her bedroom, where a quilt lay covering a double bed. He stripped back the covers, exposing a neat floral fitted sheet. He eased her down on it, noticing that she accepted the action without a single protest. He could see the whip of her pulse at the hollow of her throat, the hardness of her nipples, the tense shiver of her limbs as she waited for him to ease down alongside her in the bed.
He smoothed back her soft hair and bent to kiss her, softly, his lips barely touching hers. He nibbled her upper lip and then the lower one, easing his tongue under the moist softness in a silence that only magnified the roughness of their breathing.
One long leg inserted itself slowly between both of hers, spreading them apart. He looked into her eyes deliberately as his hand slid down, tracing maddening patterns on the inside of her thigh, just at the top.
She gasped and her body shivered.
“Let me,” he whispered, ignoring the sudden urgent protest of her fingers.
She was nervous and trying not to show it. Involuntarily, her eyes moved down his body to his masculinity.
He saw her blatant curiosity and lifted away from her, to give her a better view. The look on her face aroused him even more and his breath became unsteady.
His hand moved again, boldly, against her, feeling the soft dampness under his fingers. She jerked helplessly and a soft cry escaped her tight throat.
It must have been a long time for her, he thought hungrily. Her reactions were those of a novice.
He touched her deliberately, with a gentle rhythm that made her hips arch off the bed to push closer to his touch. She couldn’t help it. She ached for the pleasure he was teaching her to feel. Her eyes closed and she shivered.
“I didn’t know it would…feel like that,” she whispered brokenly.
The words didn’t quite register. He was throbbing with pleasure as she moved against him. Her body was almost liquid, melting into him, pleading for more.
She shivered again and again as his touch began to intrude, to penetrate. She opened her legs on a shudder.
