by Neesa Hart
Cora shot her a dry look. “You mean you don’t recognize him?”
“Nope. Believe me, if I’d seen that face and that body together in the same place at the same time, I’d remember.”
“You don’t get out much, do you, Becky.”
“Are you kidding? I’m in the last year of my masters program. Of course I don’t get out much. I work for you. I study. I write parts of my thesis. I go to class. I obsess. Sometimes I manage to sleep a little. There’s no time for out in that syllabus.”
Cora laughed. “I guess not. I almost forgot what that was like. I think when I was working on my Ph.D., I slept about nine hours a month.” The can of diet soda Becky handed her was coated in tiny shards of ice. Cora wiped it clean with a napkin before setting the can on her neatly organized desk. “The gentleman—and believe me, I apply the term loosely—is Rafael Adriano.”
Becky choked on a sip of her soda. “The Rafael Adriano?”
“I thought you didn’t get out much.”
“Jeez, I’d have to live in a hole not to know that name. I do read, you know. He’s, like, the hottest thing to hit the ocean since Jacques Cousteau.”
“Dr. Adriano is a bit flamboyant.”
“And sexy. Now that you mention it, I think I did see a picture of him in some magazine. I remember thinking that if I had time for hormones, I’d really be into this guy.” She tipped her head to one side. “What’s he in town for, anyway?”
Cora leaned back in her chair. “He wants to conduct some research. He’s looking for the site of the USS Isabela, and he thinks he can find it here.”
“Isabela?”
“It’s a ship from the Civil War—one of the fastest ever built. Juan Rodriguez del Flores captained it during the early years of the war. There’s some evidence to suggest he was a privateer who ran contraband for the Confederate and Union armies.”
“Both?”
“Whoever paid cash,” Cora assured her. “And when no one paid, he kept the booty for himself and his crew. If Adriano can find his ship and if it’s in any kind of decent condition, it might provide some invaluable information to Civil War historians.”
“So what’s he doing conducting your seminar on women’s fiction?”
A tiny smile played at the corner of her mouth. “Floundering, I hope.”
“I don’t think so.” Becky dropped into the chair across from Cora’s desk. “He’s drawing a crowd. Word is spreading across campus like wildfire, and your class is about to spill into the hall.”
“Great. I can’t get eighty-percent attendance for a scheduled session, and all he has to do is walk down the hall to have the masses falling at his feet.” A clamoring noise from the corridor captured her attention.
“Good grief.” Becky glanced over her shoulder. “What’s going on out there?”
“I think Blackbeard the archeologist is inciting the natives to riot.”
The door of her office was flung open. Rafael, followed by a large group of young women, edged his way in, then shut the door on the din. He gave Cora a disgruntled look. “Nicely played, Professor.”
Her only response was a slight inclination of her head. “I thought so.” She glanced at Becky. “Becky Painter, meet Rafael Adriano, world-famous archeologist and guest lecturer for women’s studies.”
Becky stuck out her hand. “Wow. You look taller.” Characteristically blunt, Becky glanced at his large frame. “And wider. The picture I saw of you was kind of small.”
He looked distinctly amused. He was accustomed, Cora supposed, to having women assess him. He enfolded Becky’s hand in his. “I’m delighted to meet you, Ms. Painter.”
Her students definitely had a point, Cora mused. That voice ought to be registered as a lethal weapon. He had the slightest hint of a foreign accent that made it just short of devastating. She’d read somewhere that English was his second language. The faint roll of his r’s gave his voice a purring quality that was pure sensuality. Cynically she wondered if he practiced that. Becky looked as if she might faint. “Becky, why don’t you see what you can do about the crowd in the hallway?”
Without looking at Cora, Becky slowly extracted her hand from his. “I, um, sure. Do you want anything, Dr. Adriano? A drink, maybe?”
That damnable smile played at the corner of his mouth again. He slanted Cora a look, then slowly shook his head. “No. I’m fine, Ms. Painter. All I need is some time alone with Dr. Prescott.”
Surprise flickered briefly on Becky’s expressive features, which then slipped into a mask of blatant curiosity. “Oh.”
Cora almost groaned out loud. If he stayed much longer, he’d create so much havoc she’d have to spend the next ten years digging her way out of it. “The hall, Becky. See what you can do about the noise.”
Becky blinked twice, then gave Cora a look that said she’d pursue the subject later. “Okay—” she reached for the door handle “—but let me know if you need anything.” With a final glance at Rafael, she eased past him. “Anything at all.”
When the door clicked shut behind her, an uneasy quiet settled on the tiny room. Suddenly the four walls were too confining. Cora turned abruptly to push open the window. “Why don’t you sit down? I can see you obviously didn’t read my last letter or you wouldn’t be here to—” With a final groan, the window popped open. A flood of humid air tumbled into the room. She dropped back into her chair. “You wouldn’t be here to harass me.”
His full lips curved into a slight smile. That, coupled with his black eye patch, made him look every inch the rake he was purported to be. “Is that what you call it?” he asked.
Cora placed her hands on her desk and drew a sense of calm from the cool wood surface. “What would you call it?”
“I’m persistent.” His broad shoulders moved in a casual shrug. “It makes me good at what I do.” He paused. “At everything I do.”
She chose to ignore that. “Then I’m sorry you came all this way, but I meant what I said in my last letter. I don’t have time for you to be digging about in my house this summer. I’ve got two classes to conduct each session, and my three nieces are here for an extended stay. You needn’t have wasted your valuable time making the trip. The answer is still no.”
His chuckle lingered in the warm air. “Very impressive, Professor. No wonder your colleagues have such respect for you.”
She frowned at him. “I’d appreciate it if you’d at least take this seriously.”
“I assure you, I’m very serious,” he retorted. “All I meant was that the professor who deftly stuck me with her class full of young women knows how to play a room.” He tilted his head to study her. “Jerry didn’t prepare me for you.”
“Jerry.” Inwardly she groaned. Jerry Heath was her department head. He was notorious for stirring up trouble. “You went over my head on this?”
He held up a hand. “It wasn’t like that. I’ve known Jerry professionally for some time. He lent his expertise to a research project for me several years ago. When you denied my request, I called Jerry to find out if a personal visit would further my chances of getting you to change your mind.”
“And he told you it would?”
“He told me I should meet you face-to-face.” His gaze rested on her mouth. It stayed there long enough to make her aware of dry lips. When he finally met her gaze again, there was an unmistakable sparkle in his dark eye. “I think his exact words were, ‘A head-on confrontation with Cora Prescott is an unforgettable experience.”’
“Jerry has a gift for exaggeration.”
The look he gave her could have melted glass. “I don’t think so. I’m certainly finding it unforgettable.”
Cora resisted the urge to loosen the collar of her blouse. A sliver of perspiration trickled down her spine. “Only because I stuck you in a room with a group of hungry college women.”
“You think so?”
“Don’t kid yourself. I’m fully aware that you are used to having the world at your feet. The way I see i
t, this will be an educational experience for you.”
“You know how much I want to find the Isabela.”
“It’s good to want things. Builds character.”
That damnable smile played at the corner of his mouth again. “I’m very used to getting my own way.”
“I can see that.”
“And I want this. A lot.”
“Disappointment is the key to personal growth.”
Something dangerously seductive flared in his gaze—something that reminded her why women reportedly went wild over him. With his looks and his charisma, it was no wonder he had a pirate’s reputation. He had a way of looking at a woman that virtually smoldered. “You know—” his expression turned devilish “—I’ve always admired women with quick tongues.”
Cora rolled her eyes. “Does that line usually work for you?”
“Sometimes.”
“Well, surprise, Dr. Adriano. This time you’ve met your match.”
“You mean you’re not overwhelmed by my persona?”
Was he mocking her? His expression was so serious she couldn’t tell. “I will admit that I find the eye patch a bit over the top.”
“It’s medically necessary,” he said. “I lost my eye in a fistfight when I was sixteen.”
“I’m not questioning that,” she hastened to explain. “I simply think that the, er, look—” she indicated his long hair, the gold hoop in his ear and the patch with a wave of her hand “—is a bit melodramatic.”
He laughed, showing a straight line of white teeth. “I like you,” he said. “I was hoping I would.”
Cora gritted her teeth. “Dr. Adriano—”
“No, really. I feel better about this already.”
“I can’t tell you how that comforts me,” she drawled.
He crossed his long legs so that his ankle rested on his thigh. “A worthy opponent makes any battle more satisfying.”
Cora frowned. “Am I supposed to call you a scurvy dog now or something? I left my pirate/English dictionary in my other briefcase.”
His lips twitched. “A sharp-tongued woman.”
“And an odious egomaniac. What a delightful way to spend an afternoon.”
“You know,” he said, and she couldn’t shake the feeling that he was mocking her, “you might make a good pirate. You’ve got the wits for it.”
“What a relief,” Cora said, and took a sip of her soda.
“But I’m not sure you have the guts.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hmm.” He traced the edge of his patch with a long tanned finger. “’Tis not enough,” he said, dropping his voice to a gravelly rumble that she could easily picture coming from Blackbeard himself, “just to wear a patch over yer eye, lassie.” He leaned closer. “Ye have tae pick yer teeth with the ribs of a Spanish captain ye knocked off yerself.”
Cora stared at him wide-eyed. “I beg your pardon.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Captain Pigleg Torstenson wrote that to his grand-daughter in 1783.”
“How charming.”
His smile was lazy and seductive. “I like to think he was making a general statement about life. It’s not enough to simply look the part. You have to have the stomach for it, as well.”
He was mocking her, she realized. He thought she was an intellectual, unadventurous, narrow-minded snob and she’d turned down his request because she lacked vision and foresight. She saw the condemnation and condescension clearly written in his smug expression. “While this little philosophical dissertation is quite charming, Dr. Adriano, I think you should know that I’ve never liked arrogant men—especially not self-impressed scientists whose only goal is career advancement and public recognition.”
That effectively knocked the smile off his lips, but instead of the angry retort she’d expected, she saw his eyebrows lift with marked curiosity. “I’m not arrogant, Professor. I’m simply flagrantly dedicated to my research and cognizant of my considerable talent.”
Obnoxious, she told herself. Except that it happened to be true. “Aren’t you the man who said you were the most impressive voice in ocean research today?”
His mouth twitched again. Why in hell, she wondered, couldn’t she manage to keep her gaze from the firm contours of that mouth? “I might have,” he conceded.
“You did. I saw the interview.”
“You’ve been watching my interviews? Should I be flattered?”
“Ha. You’ve been on every major network for the last few weeks. I’d have to hide in a cave to have missed the sight of you. It seems the whole world is fascinated by the pirate archeologist from the Underwater Archeology Unit.”
He sprang his trap by laughing. The sound did funny things to her insides. It was a low, mellow kind of laugh. The kind that said it was used often and well. The kind that ensnared every nerve ending in her body in a web of awareness.
Awareness, she had learned, that was not to be trusted. He’d make her want things if she wasn’t careful. He was danger—in huge capital letters. If she had an ounce of intelligence left in her brain, she’d throw him out on the street and make sure he stayed there.
But he tricked her with that laugh. It took the edge off his presence—made him approachable. And likable. Just what she needed—to like the man. She reminded herself that she found his ego insufferable and his love of public spectacle unbelievably annoying.
Amusement danced in his eye. “The match is yours, Professor,” he conceded as he leaned forward. His faint scent of fresh air, sea salt and testosterone tickled her nose. “I can see why Jerry is so enchanted with you.”
She didn’t take the bait. “You are not getting unrestricted access to my house. I’ve got a life to run.”
“That house is more than just your private property.” As if his energy for the project physically drove him, he levered himself out of his seat and began pacing her office. “Don’t you see? There’s no doubt in my mind that if I can find the rest of Abigail Conrad’s diaries, I’ll have a vital clue to the location of del Flores’s ship.”
“There may not be any more,” Cora pointed out.
He slanted her a telling look. “Didn’t you say there are gaps of several months between the volumes you found?” She didn’t respond. “Has it been your experience,” he pressed, “that journal writers allow months to pass between writings?”
Cora had no answer so she shrugged.
“I’m this close—” his thumb and index finger measured the inch “—are you really going to deny me?”
The sight of him in passionate discourse twisted her stomach. Forcibly she dismissed the thought. Nothing good would come of picturing him in passionate anything. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Adriano,” she said softly, “but my answer is still no.”
His face registered his frustration. He planted his hands on her desk and loomed over her. The sunlight glinted off the tiny hoop in his left ear, and in that moment he looked truly barbarous. Cora tested the description, then rejected it. No, not barbarous. Glorious, perhaps. Her gaze dropped to his long-fingered, bronzed hands. Large. He had large, beautiful hands. Damn him.
“I’m not giving up so easily,” he warned her. “You should know that.”
She looked at his face. A mistake, that. He was too close, his hard-angled features at eye level with hers and mere inches away. She clenched the edge of her chair and hoped he wouldn’t notice. “I’ll consider myself warned. But whatever Jerry told you, I seriously doubt you can change my mind. I have to consider—”
She broke off when the door of her office slammed open. Leslie, Cora’s baby-sitter of less than six hours, rushed into the office with a harried look in her eyes. Cora abruptly stood, filled with the oddest sensation that she’d been discovered and compromised. “Leslie—” she started.
Leslie frantically shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Prescott. I can’t. I thought I could take it, but I can’t.” Without sparing Rafael a glance, she dropped a wad of keys on Cora’s desk. “I jus
t can’t take care of them for you.”
Cora held out a beseeching hand. “Leslie, I’m sure if we—”
A loud crash sounded from the outer office. High-pitched voices mingled with the distinct sound of a barking dog. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I quit.” The girl fled the room.
Rafael stepped back a scant second before Melody, Cora’s large but exuberant collie, vaulted into the room and onto her desk.
“Melody,” she chided. “Get down.”
“Aunt Cora, Aunt Cora. Don’t let her get away.” Kaitlin rushed into the room holding a leash. “We chased her all the way from the parking lot.”
“Kaitlin,” Cora looked at the nine-year-old as she struggled to get the dog off the desk. “What happened? What are you doing here?”
Before the glowering Kaitlin could answer, Jerry Heath ushered six-year-old Molly and four-year-old Liza into the room. Each had liberal splashes of black ink staining their hair, faces and clothes. “They’re destroying the copy machine,” Jerry announced. “That’s what they’re doing.”
Melody barked in affirmation. With a frustrated oath, Cora pulled on the dog’s collar. “Down, Melody. Get down.”
She wouldn’t budge. Rafael chuckled, then held out his hand to the dog. He whispered a few words, and Melody obediently leaped to the floor where she flopped at his feet. Cora gave him a disgruntled look. “How did you do that?”
“I’ve had a lot of experience with temperamental females,” he said, and sat back in his chair. Melody thumped her tail on the floor.
Exasperated, Cora rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She’d been right the first time. He was obnoxious. “Jerry,” she said, “what’s going on?”
Jerry guided the two girls toward Cora’s desk. “As far as I can tell, your nieces decided to help Becky make some copies. Somehow that led to an investigation of the toner cartridge.”
Cora’s nieces were high-energy kids. Since their arrival three weeks ago, they’d run off six different baby-sitters.
While Cora visibly searched for her patience, Rafael studied her tense expression.
