by Neesa Hart
“It’s not unusual,” Cora said carefully, “for a scientist to single out a certain project for attention. Lots of researchers have a quest—a Holy Grail, so to speak.”
“I know, but with Rafael it’s different. There’s something about the whole del Flores legend that gets to him. I don’t understand it, but I’ve seen the fire in his eyes when he talks about it.”
“So have I,” Cora admitted.
Elena set the spoon down and pressed both her hands on the table. “And until I talked to him after the press conference, I’d never seen that fire for any other reason.”
“No?” Cora asked.
“Absolutely no.” Elena leaned closer. “I’m telling you, Cora, he had that same look in his eyes the other day.”
“Naturally. Finding Abigail Conrad’s diaries is a major discovery. We have no idea what we might learn about del Flores.”
Elena shook her head. “He wasn’t talking about del Flores, Cora.” She paused. “He was talking about you.”
LATE THAT AFTERNOON Cora let herself into the house. Melody strolled in from the living room, tail wagging, and greeted Cora with a customary nudge to her hand. “Hi, sweetie,” she said, stopping to scratch the collie’s chin. “Got the place to yourself?”
Melody’s tail thumped the floor. The lack of noise in her home took Cora off guard. Not since Lauren had brought Kaitlin, Molly and Liza to her, she realized, had she found herself home alone. Rafael must still be out with the girls. He hadn’t told her when to expect their return.
Semidarkness amplified the silence. An afternoon thunderstorm, so typical of the summer months, was rolling in off the sea. Dark clouds had masked the sun, so the old house stood in shadow. Cora could almost picture Abigail creeping along the upstairs hallway toward the back stairs, using the dimness as camouflage. She would have sneaked down the stairs and thrown the lock on the back entrance so her lover could enter later that night.
Abigail had written long and sometimes graphic descriptions of what went on in that third-floor room of the house. A woman of great passion, she had lavished it on her lover.
Cora set her briefcase down, closed her eyes and simply absorbed the feel of her home while she absently stroked Melody’s silken head. “Abigail,” she said softly, “what are you going to tell me tonight?”
The rising storm brought strong winds, which whistled through the shutters and eaves. She’d probably tell me, Cora thought, not to lock my bedroom door just in case a pirate finds his way to my room.
If she tried very hard, Cora was certain she could hear the sound of Abigail crying for her lover—a man of the sea. There were anguished passages in the diaries where Abigail described the summer thunderstorms and begged God to spare ‘Dearest,’ whose ship could so easily be caught in the gale and dashed on the rocks.
A thunderclap broke the spell, and Cora headed for the stairs, intent on changing clothes and settling down with Abigail’s diaries. She’d made little progress since her initial foray into the work, her time consumed with more pressing matters. This afternoon’s respite held the promise of an uninterrupted glimpse into Abigail’s life.
Three hours later, she sat at the kitchen table, deeply absorbed in Abigail’s writing. The three candles she’d lit when the storm had knocked out the power, cast a golden light across the carefully preserved pages. Melody lay at her feet in blissful lassitude. The thunder had finally stopped, but rain still beat steadily down. A kink in her neck reminded her that she’d been bent over the books too long without stretching.
Cora pulled off her glasses to rub her eyes when she heard the laughter and the sound of keys jingling at the front door. With a rush of damp air, giggles, a rumbling laugh and Melody’s resulting bark, Rafael, Kaitlin, Molly and Liza flooded into the room. Cora leaned back in her chair and studied the small group. Even Kaitlin, she noted, appeared to be in a decent mood.
“Aunt Cora, Aunt Cora!” Molly hurried forward clutching a lopsided ceramic mug. “Look what I made for you.” She thrust the object at Cora. “We went to this place where you get to make your own stuff.” She pointed a finger at the artwork on the outside of the cup. “See, I put the handle on, and painted it for you and everything. That’s Melody, and that’s the house.”
Cora stroked her thumb over the glazed surface, the asymmetrical lines of the drawing and the blob that represented Melody. “It’s beautiful, Molly.”
Molly took the cup and set it on the table. “It doesn’t exactly stand up straight.” She rotated it a little. “But it doesn’t wobble.”
“Which is the most important thing,” Cora assured her, and wrapped an arm around her slim waist. She pressed a kiss to the child’s forehead and found the skin damp from the rain. “Thank you.”
Rafael held Liza, who was squirming to get down. “I made you something, too, Aunt Cora. Lookit.” She held out an amorphous lump.
Rafael met Cora’s gaze as she crossed the small space to accept the gift. “It’s a paperweight,” he supplied.
Cora took the heavy object and ruffled Liza’s hair. “Of course it’s a paperweight,” she said.
Liza nodded vigorously. “It’s for all that stuff you got on your desk.”
“Thanks.” Cora hefted it in her hand. “It’ll do a great job.”
She glanced at Kaitlin, who stood slightly to the side, lurking in the shadows. “Did you have a good day?”
The girl shrugged, her expression unreadable. Molly pulled at the hem of Cora’s T-shirt. “How come there’s no lights on?”
Rafael set Liza down. “Power must be out,” he said, and shot Cora a questioning look.
She nodded. “For about two hours.”
“Hmm.” The candle flame reflected in his eye as he looked at her. With the tiniest stretch of her imagination, she could picture del Flores looking at Abigail with that precise, hungry expression. “Dinner by candlelight,” he drawled. “How charming.”
She gave him a wry look. “Especially since it’ll have to be pizza or cold sandwiches.”
“Pizza,” Liza cried. “I want pizza. Just cheese.”
“I like pepperoni,” Molly countered.
Rafael held Cora’s gaze as he said, “Kaitlin gets to pick.”
“Why?” Liza demanded.
“Because,” he said, turning to look at the older girl, “she let you and Molly ride in the front seat all day today without complaining.”
Kaitlin’s face, Cora noted, registered a moment of surprise before she finally moved away from the door and into the fragile circle of light cast by the candles. “Half and half is okay,” she said.
Cora smiled at her. “Did you make something today, too?”
Kaitlin showed her the bowl she held. The artwork, Cora noted, was outstanding. A band of vaguely Celtic-looking designs circled the rim, and bright swatches of color melded on the inside, giving it a Matisse look. “The place where we went,” Kaitlin explained, “had lots of stuff to pick from. You could either make your own thing or pick one of theirs and just paint it.”
“Kaitlin’s very talented,” Rafael said.
Cora nodded. “I can tell.” She held out a hand. “May I see it?”
“It’s for Mama,” Kaitlin warned, but placed the bowl in Cora’s hand.
“I’m sure she’ll love it.” She held the bowl closer to the light and studied the artwork. “Kaitlin, this is really good.”
“Thanks.”
“Have you taken art lessons?”
“No.”
Cora tipped the bowl to look at the outer design. Rings of geometric shapes decorated the surface. “Would you like to?”
“I don’t know. I guess.”
Cora glanced at Rafael. “We’ll see if we can find something around here this summer if you want,” she said as she looked at Kaitlin. “It could be fun.”
Kaitlin reached for the bowl. “Okay. Can I go change now?”
Cora nodded. “Everyone should.” Their clothes were wet from the rain, and dusty and st
ained from the pottery excursion. “When you get back, we’ll order pizza.”
The girls left the kitchen with Melody trailing behind. As the door swung shut, leaving the room in relative quiet, Rafael gave Cora a look that curled her toes. Having spent the past few hours immersed in Abigail’s world, she could easily picture the woman, standing in this kitchen in her bare feet and nightdress, unlatching the door for her lover.
“What did you make at the pottery place?” she asked him blandly.
His smile was enigmatic. “It’s for later. Ask me after the girls are in bed and I’ll show you.”
She decided she’d rather not know. “I’ll try to remember to.”
He sauntered farther into the room. “Do you think Abigail greeted her lover by candlelight like this?” he asked.
He didn’t stop until he stood inches from her.
“Probably,” Cora retorted, her voice raspy. Lord, she thought, the man was almost breathtaking. His dark hair, glossy and damp from the rain, was slicked away from his face. A roomy white shirt, wet enough to cling to his muscular torso, opened at the throat exposing a V of bronzed skin. Snug black jeans hugged his hips and strong legs.
For most of the afternoon, she’d been trying to dismiss Elena’s assertion as a sister’s wishful thinking. Elena had insisted that Rafael somehow wanted Cora with the same single-minded passion that he wanted the Isabela.
Cora had verbally and mentally rebuffed the idea. He wanted a physical relationship with her, yes, but Cora stubbornly reminded herself to stay focused on the fact that he’d come into her sphere because of Abigail’s diaries. Soon enough, he’d be gone—no matter what his sister said. Both of them would be better off if she remembered that. Keep your head, Cora, she warned herself as he bore down on her.
“Have a good day?” he asked as he snaked an arm around her waist.
She placed one hand on his chest, perhaps to stop his progress, maybe just to feel the steady drum of his heart beneath his warm skin. “I did,” she answered. “I saw your sister.”
His eyebrow lifted. “Really?” The word was the softest of whispers as he placed his other hand on her hip and fitted her tightly against his body. Her hips slipped into the hard cradle of his with breath-stealing ease.
“Yes. We had lunch.”
Rafael bent his head to nuzzle her neck. “What’d you talk about?”
Cora managed a slight laugh. Her hand was now trapped between them. The other rested lightly on his forearm. “What do you think we talked about?”
She felt his smile against her skin. “I was afraid I’d sound arrogant.”
“Like that’s ever—” she gasped when he nipped her earlobe “—stopped you.”
He raised his head to grin at her. “I’m a swashbuckler. It’s part of my charm.”
A warning note sounded in her head. There was something—something important—she was supposed to remember about all this, about why it couldn’t and shouldn’t be, but the thought eluded her. Worry seemed very far away somehow, with the heated scent of the candles filling the room and the reassuring press of his warm body on hers. “I think we should—”
“Oh, I do, too,” he murmured. “I definitely think we should.” His gaze was fixed on her mouth.
“Rafael—”
He covered her lips with his thumb. “I wonder what Abigail would do at a time like this.” He tilted his head to indicate the diaries on the table.
Cora shuddered. Trust him to know she’d been lost in Abigail’s world and was having trouble finding her balance. “She’d probably have smacked del Flores’s face and told him not to paw her in her father’s kitchen.”
His laugh, low and mellow, fluttered her eyelashes. “And then summarily dragged him up the back stairs.” A light kiss to the bridge of her nose. “Where—” another kiss to her eyebrow “—she could have her wicked way with him.” He said the final word with his lips pressed to her ear.
“I don’t think Abigail had any wicked ways.”
“Didn’t she?” He nipped her earlobe. “Do you?”
The hiss of his breath sent shivers spiraling down her spine. Her hand crept around his neck as her world continued to spin into a heady, dizzying passion. “The girls—”
“Are upstairs.” He pressed her closer with an insistent pressure at the small of her back.
“We can’t.” She shook her head.
“We have to.” He wet his lips with the tip of his tongue.
“Rafael—”
“I’m mad for you, Cora.”
She moaned softly and surrendered.
The kiss robbed her breath, her balance, her common sense. His lips moved over hers in a leisurely exploration that lacked all of yesterday’s urgency and none of its heat. He bewitched her as he led the way to unknown heights. Distantly she registered the sound of a moan, wondered if it could be hers. His hands wove a spell as they trailed down her back, learning her shape, molding her against him until they were so close their heartbeats melded.
It was too much and not enough. Simultaneously untamed and gentle. Cora clung to him. She threaded her fingers into his damp hair while her other hand made the journey up his arm, over his broad shoulder and behind his neck. Trailing her fingers along the hard edge of his jaw, she returned his kiss with an ardor that some unreachable part of her mind told her she should find shocking.
She was not a woman given to great passions, mocked an inner voice. But that voice had never experienced the power of an onslaught by Rafael Adriano. Wanting more, she moved a fraction of an inch closer—close enough to feel every imprint of his hard body against her own. He growled low in his throat and deepened the kiss. It went on and on, making him spiral in and out of control until she was sure she felt the room spin. When he finally lifted his head, she experienced a jolt of longing. With a slight groan, she dropped her head to his shoulder. His hands continued to glide up and down her back as he sucked in air. “Cora,” he said, his voice a husky and incredibly arousing rasp, “I want you. You have no idea how much I want you.”
Her hand glided back to his chest and she wedged it between them. Her fingers, she noted, were trembling. “Actually,” she said, “I think I have a very good idea.”
He let her ease away from him, his gaze still intense. “Do you?”
“Mmm.” She retreated a few more steps. Dignity, Cora, she mentally chided herself when she had a brief temptation to simply toss caution to the wind and throw herself against him. She schooled her expression to a casual curiosity. “Does it feel something like an inferno—like it’s simultaneously burning and purifying your gut?”
His mouth kicked into a smile. “Something like that.”
“Do you wonder if maybe you’ve gotten a fever or something, because there’s no other explanation for the sudden sensitivity of your skin?”
That made him nod. “I’m absolutely sure I have a fever.”
“And the hunger? It makes your stomach ache?”
“My stomach—” he paused “—and a few other things.”
She nodded. “Then I know just what it feels like.” She drew a hand through her hair. “I had rubella once, and I—”
He laughed, a full, sensuous laugh that eased some of the tension in the room. “God, I adore you.”
Cora glanced away. “You might not,” she said, reaching for her briefcase, “after you see what I have in here.”
Propping his elbow on the counter, he regarded her with a lazy smile. “It’s not a piece of sexy lingerie, is it?”
“You wish.” She snapped open the case.
“Like how.”
She ignored that, but felt a blush race up her face and bury itself in the roots of her hair. She retrieved the copy of the weekly scandal sheet from the folder of clippings and handed it to him. “I’m afraid that whatever your public-relations people are doing to keep the Isabela out of this story isn’t working. I’ve got a two-inch stack of stuff like this. That one’s the most, er, dramatic.”
&nbs
p; He took the paper and studied the picture, a serious look on his face. Cora watched him closely, trying to discern his reaction. He stared intently at the paper, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. Was he angry? At the paper? At his public-relations firm? At her?
Gently she placed her hand on his forearm. “What do you think?”
He lifted his head and gave her a searing look. “Do you think this picture makes my butt look big?”
She spent a full second in shock before she saw the sparkle in his eye. Snatching the paper from him with an outraged curse, she swatted him across the shoulder with it. “Would you take this seriously?” she demanded, and brought the paper down against his now upraised hands. He was laughing. She smacked him again for good measure.
“Calm down,” he said, lunging for the paper.
She swept it out of his reach and swung it against the flat of his belly. “I can’t believe you. Do you have any idea what this means?”
He laughed harder as he fended her off. “Okay, uncle,” he finally said. “Uncle.”
She stopped. “I’m not kidding.” Pique laced her tone.
“I know,” he said, his eye still sparkling, but his expression softening. “I know, I’m sorry.”
“You think this is funny, don’t you.”
“I think the headline is hilarious,” he admitted.
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.” She wasn’t ready to give in, though his apparent unconcern was doing wonders to calm her fears.
“Honey, nobody takes this stuff seriously.”
Still skeptical, she pointed to the folder. “Those are from other sources. No one’s going to believe that you aren’t here to find that ship.”
His expression turned serious and he touched her cheek. “I’m not going to let anything happen to you, Cora. Not to you, or the girls. I promise.”
She looked at him, still worried, and wanted to push for details, but the sound of footsteps broke the spell.
Liza and Molly rushed into the kitchen. “We’re ready,” Molly announced. She and Liza both wore their pajamas.
