by Nora Roberts
“I can. But as you’ve just ordered me not to ask questions, I’m unable to ask which document you might like me to open, out of which program.”
He snarled again, then leaned over her and started hitting keys himself. His nose ended up nearly buried in her hair—which annoyed him. It was soft, shiny, fragrant. Female enough to have the juices churning instinctively. He beetled his eyebrows and concentrated on bringing up the document he wanted.
Without thinking, she turned her head. Her mouth all but brushed his, shocking them both into jerking back. He shot her a fulminating, frustrated glare and stuck his good hand into his pocket.
“That’s the one. There.”
“Oh.” She had to swallow, hard, and fight the urge to clear her throat. She took quiet, calming breaths instead. His eyes were so green, she thought.
“You have to page down to the end.” He’d nearly stepped forward again to do it himself before he remembered he’d be on top of her again. “I need to pick it up there.”
She did so with a casual efficiency that satisfied him. Cautious now, he circled around her for his reading glasses, then plucked from the disordered pile the precise notes he needed.
His eyes, she thought, looked even more green, even more intense, when he wore those horn-rims.
“Interred with the remains are plant materials,” he began, then scowled at her. “Are you going to sit there or hit the damn keys?”
She bit back an angry remark—she would not sink to his level, and started to type.
“It’s probable the plants, such as the intact prickly pear pad which was retrieved, were food offerings buried with the dead. A number of seeds were found in the stomach areas of articulated skeletons.”
She typed quickly, falling into the rhythm of his voice. A very nice voice, she thought, when it wasn’t snarling and snapping. Almost melodious. He spoke of gourds recovered in another burial, theorizing that the plant specimen may have been grown locally from seeds brought from Central or South America.
He made her see it, she realized. That was his gift. She began to form a picture in her mind of these people who had traveled to the riverbank and made a home. Tended their children, cared for their sick and buried their dead with respect and ceremony in the rich peaty soil.
“Chestnut trees?” She stopped, turned to him, breaking his rhythm with her enthusiasm. “You can tell from pollen samples that there were chestnut trees there nine thousand years ago? But how can you—”
“Look, I’m not teaching a class here.” He saw the spark in her eyes wink out, turning them cool and blank. And felt like a total jerk. “Jeez. Okay, there’s a good twelve feet of peat, it took eleven thousand years since the last ice age to build up to that point.”
He dug through his papers again and came up with photos and sketches. “You take samples—different depths, different samples, and you run tests. It shows the types of plants in the area. Changes in climate.”
“How does it show changes in climate?”
“By the types of plants. Cold, warm, cold, warm.” He tapped the sketches. “We’re talking eons here, so we’re talking a lot of climatic variations. Leaves, seeds, pollen fall into the pond, the peat preserves them—it creates an anaerobic atmosphere—shuts out the oxygen,” he explained. “No oxygen, no bacterial or fungi growth, slows decay.”
“Why would they have buried their dead in a pond?”
“Could’ve been a religious thing. There’s swamp gas, and it’d cause the pond to glow at night. Methane bubbles up, it gives the illusion—if you’re into that stuff—that the water breathes. Death stops breath.”
Poetic, she thought. “So they might have chosen it to bring breath back to their dead. That’s lovely.”
“Yeah, or it could’ve been because without shovels for digging, it was easier to plug a hole in the muck.”
“I like the first explanation better.” And she smiled at him, beautifully.
“Yeah, well.” Since her smile tended to make his throat go dry, he turned away to pour coffee. And was momentarily baffled not to see the pot.
“It’s in the other room,” she said, reading his expression perfectly. “Would you like me to put on a fresh pot?”
“Yeah, great, fine.” He looked down at his watch, then remembered he wasn’t wearing one. “What’s the time?”
“It’s just after eleven.”
Alone, he paced the kitchen, then stopped to glance over what had been transcribed. He was forced to admit it was more—a great deal more—than he’d have managed on his own with his injuries.
A couple of weeks at this pace and he could have the articles done—the most irritating of his tasks—while still giving an adequate amount of attention to organizing lab reports and cataloging.
A couple of weeks, he thought, giving his shoulder a testing roll. The doctors had said it would take a couple more weeks for him to have his mobility back. The fact was, they’d said it would be more like four weeks before he’d be able to really pull his own weight again. But in his opinion doctors were always pessimistic.
He should hire a temp typist or something. Probably should. But jeez, he hated having some stranger in his hair. Better to invest in a voice-activated computer. He wondered how long it would take him to get one, set it up and get used to it.
“Coffee’ll take a few minutes.” Camilla sat back down, placed her fingers over the keys. “Where were we?”
Staring out the kitchen window, he picked up precisely where he left off. Within minutes, he’d forgotten she was there. The quiet click of the keys barely registered as he talked of cabbage palms and cattail roots.
He’d segued into fish and game when the sound of tires interrupted. Puzzled, he pulled off his glasses and frowned at the red tow truck that drove up his lane.
What the hell was Carl doing here?
“Is that the garage?”
He blinked, turned. His mind shifted back, and with it a vague irritation. “Right. Yeah.”
Carl was fat as a hippo and wheezed as he levered himself out of the cab of the wrecker. He took off his cap, scratched his widening bald spot, nodded as Del came outside.
“Del.”
“Carl.”
“How’s the folks?”
“Good, last I heard.”
“Good.” Carl’s eyes squinted behind the lenses of amber lensed sunglasses when he spotted Camilla. “That your car down the road a piece, miss?”
“Yes. Were you able to get it out?”
“Not as yet. Took a look at it for you. Got a busted headlight. Wrecked your oil pan. Left front tire’s flat as a pancake. Looks to me like you bent the wheel some, too. Gonna have to replace all that before you’re back on the road.”
“I see. Will you be able to fix it?”
“Yep. Send for the parts once I get it in the shop. Shouldn’t take more’n a couple days.”
A couple of days! She readjusted her plans to drive on by evening. “Oh. All right.”
“Towing, parts, labor, gonna run you about three hundred.”
Distress flickered over her face before she could stop it, though she did manage to swallow the sound of it that rose up in her throat. Three hundred was twenty more than she had left in cash.
The interlude, she realized as she gnawed over it, was going to leave her flat broke. She couldn’t call the car rental company as she wasn’t on their records and that left her no option but to call home for funds. The idea of it made her feel like a failure.
Her silence, and the worried look in her eyes had Carl shifting his feet. “Ah … I can do with a hundred down. You can pay the balance when the work’s done.”
“I’ll just go get the money.”
She’d work something out, Camilla promised herself as she went back inside, and upstairs for her wallet. There had to be a way she could sell the watch—or something—within the next day or two. She had enough for a motel, for food until the car was repaired. As long as she was careful.
She’d figure someth
ing out in the meantime. She was good at solving problems.
But her stomach was busy sinking as she counted out the hundred dollars. It was, she discovered, lowering to need money. An experience she’d never had before—and, she acknowledged, likely one that was good for her.
A hundred-eighty and some change left, she mused, tucked into a wallet that had cost more than twice that. Let that be a lesson to you, she ordered herself, and went back downstairs.
Del was in the kitchen again, going through more notes.
“I thought I’d ask the tow-truck operator to give me a lift into town.”
“He’s gone.”
“Gone?” She rushed to the window, stared out. “Where?”
“To deal with your car.”
“But I haven’t paid him yet.”
“He put it on my account. Are you going to get that coffee?”
“On your account.” Embarrassed pride stiffened her spine. “No. I have the money.”
“Good, you can pay me when your car’s up and running. I want some damn coffee.”
He grabbed a mug and strode off. She marched right after him. “Here, take this.”
He ignored her and the money she held out, instead going through the process of taking the pot off the fire, carrying it to the table so he could pour it into the mug, carrying it back again, then picking up the mug.
The woman was quivering with temper, he noted. Which was pretty interesting. He gave her points for being pissed. She wasn’t used to being obligated, he decided. Or being in financial straights. There was money somewhere—she was wearing a few grand in that slim, Swiss efficiency on her wrist. But, at the moment, it wasn’t in her wallet.
That was a puzzle, but he wasn’t going to make it his business to solve it.
He’d felt sorry for her—not a usual reaction in him—when he’d seen all that worry cross her face. And he’d admired her quick control of it. She hadn’t fluttered or whined, or used her looks to soften Carl up and cut a better deal.
She’d sucked it up. That he respected.
And it had occurred to him he could give her a hand, and solve one of his own problems without making either of them feel uptight about it.
“I figure you earned about twenty this morning,” he told her. “Figuring ten bucks an hour for the work. I’ll give you that for the keyboarding, and you can earn off the bed and meals by cleaning this place up, doing the cooking. If Carl says a couple days, you figure four. In four days, you’ll have a place to stay and pay off the repair bill.”
She stared at him, let it sink in. “You want me to work for you. To … do your housekeeping?”
“Been doing it anyway, haven’t you? You get a bunk for four days, I don’t lose time with my work, and we part square at the end of it.”
She turned away, in what he assumed was embarrassment. He’d have been surprised, and confused, to see she had a huge grin and was fighting off laughter.
Oh, what the media would do with it, Camilla thought as she bit back chuckles. Camilla of Cordina paying for a roof over her head by scrubbing floors, heating up cans of soup and typing up notes on bones and elderberry seeds.
“How the princess spent her summer vacation.” She could see the headline now.
She had to squeeze her eyes shut and bite her lip to keep the laughter from tumbling out.
She should refuse, of course. Give him the hundred dollars, beg a ride to town where she could contact her parents for a small loan or pawn the watch.
But, Lord, it was so delicious. And so wonderfully out of character. Wasn’t that precisely the purpose of this quest?
No televisions, no newspapers with her image on them. Interesting work in a beautiful part of the country she’d never spent time in. Learning things she found far more compelling than anything she’d studied in school and knowing she was making a positive impact solely on her own skills. Not because of who she was, or any obligations or favors—but most importantly because it was her choice.
No, she couldn’t possibly walk away from the opportunity that had just fallen into her lap.
“I’m very grateful.” Her voice trembled a bit with suppressed humor—which he mistook for the onset of tears.
Nothing could have frightened him more.
“It’s a fair deal, that’s all. Don’t get all sloppy about it.”
“A very fair deal.” She turned back, eyes shining, and struggled to keep her tone casual and brisk. “Accepted,” she added, and held out a hand.
He ignored the hand because he’d added a personal stipulation to the deal. He would not, in any way, shape or form, touch her.
“I’m going to get the generator started, in case we don’t get the power back. Clean something up. Just don’t touch my stuff.”
Camilla waited until she heard the rear doors slam behind him before she sat down and let the gales of laughter roll.
Chapter 4
An hour later, thoroughly appalled with the state of the cabin now that she had given it a thorough assessment, Camilla sailed into the shed. She was armed with a long list.
“You need supplies.”
“Hand me that damn wrench.”
She picked up the tool and considered herself beyond civilized for not simply bashing him over the head with it. “Your home is an abomination. I’ll require cleaning supplies—preferably industrial strength. And if you want a decent meal, I’ll need some food to stock the kitchen. You have to go into town.”
He battled the bolt into submission, shoved the switch on. And got nothing but a wheezy chuckle out of the generator. “I don’t have time to go into town.”
“If you want food for your belly and clean sheets on which to sleep, you’ll make time.”
He used the wrench to beat viciously at the generator, then gave it three solid kicks. Much too accustomed to the male response to irritating inanimate objects to be surprised, Camilla simply stood where she was, list in hand.
When he’d finished cursing, she angled her head. “I’ve always wondered why men refer to uncooperative machines with crude female euphemisms.”
“Because they fit like a glove.” He leaned over, slapped on the switch and grunted with satisfaction as the generator let out a loud belch and began to run.
“Now that you’ve accomplished that amazing feat, you’ll want to clean up before you go fill this list.”
Eyes narrowed on her face, he picked up the wrench again, weighed it consideringly in his hand.
The implication wasn’t lost on her. She simply stuck out her chin.
He tossed the wrench aside, snatched the list and smeared it with the motor oil on his fingers. “I hate bossy women.”
“I can’t stand crude men. We’ll both just have to live with it, since I’m currently washing your underwear.”
The faintest glint of humor flicked into his eyes. “You’ve got plenty of starch. Just don’t use any on my shorts.”
They started for the door at the same time, and ended up jammed together. Her hand went automatically to his chest where she felt the surprised kick of his heart match hers.
“You’re going to have to keep out of my way,” he told her.
“You’ll have to watch where you’re going, then.” She saw, with reluctant excitement, his gaze lower, and linger on her mouth. In response, her lips parted on one quiet and catchy breath.
“You got that right, sister,” he muttered, and squeezed out of the door.
“Well.” She breathed out, rubbing her finger experimentally over lips that felt just a little too warm. “Well, well.”
She was angry, exhausted and energized—in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time. Alive, whole, healthy and, she realized, interested. It was something to think about.
* * *
Del discovered, very quickly, he didn’t care to be an errand boy. Shopping cut deeply into his day, and half the items on her list had him scratching his head in frustration.
What the hell was chervil, and why did i
t have to be fresh?
What the devil did she need with two dozen eggs?
And three gallons of bleach.
Maybe she was going to poison him with it, he mused as he drove back to the cabin. She’d looked mad enough to, behind that cool, queen-to-peasant stare she tended to aim at him.
That was some face she had, he reflected. The kind that kicked a man right in the gut. Then you added on the voice, those legs that seemed to go straight up to her ears, and you had one dangerous female.
He was starting to regret that he’d felt sorry for her.
Still, he knew how to be careful around dangerous packages. And she was, after all, no more than a handy tool for the next few days. So he’d give her a wide berth when they weren’t actively working, keep his hands to himself at all times and do his best to think of her as a nonsexual entity.
Then when he pulled up behind the cabin and she came running out, his heart all but stopped. Nonsexual? A tool? The woman was a weapon—and a lethal one at that, he decided.
She was laughing, her face flushed with it as she pulled open the door and began to haul out grocery bags. “The power came back on. I never thought I’d be so delighted with something as basic as a working light switch. Still no phone service, but I’m sure that’s next.”
He snagged a bag and followed her inside. She walked across the dirt and gravel, he thought, as if she were gliding across the polished marble floor of a ballroom. He decided it had something to do with all that leg. Which he wasn’t, of course, paying any attention to. Whatsoever.
“How many people are you planning to feed for the next few days?”
“Oh, don’t be cranky.” She waved him off and began to unload supplies. “I’ll make you a sandwich as soon as these are put away.”
* * *
She knew how to make a sandwich, he had to give her that. He ate, and ate well, in his now spotless kitchen, his mood improving as he scanned the next batch of notes. His ribs ached a bit, but the discomfort had eased to tolerable with just aspirin.
When he was done, he dictated for another three hours while she transcribed. She interrupted now and then, but her questions didn’t bother him as much.
