Cordina's Royal Family Collection

by Nora Roberts

  Minutes later she heard the creak overhead that told her he was up and about. She had to wipe suddenly damp palms on her slacks before she turned to heat the griddle for his breakfast.

  * * *

  Because Del was also replaying the scene in his head, he was in the foulest of moods as he showered. Part of him was furious with the woman for putting him in such an impossible position. The other stood back in amazed disgust at his reaction.

  He’d had a beautiful woman come on to him in a staggeringly open and avid way. A gorgeous, sexy, unattached woman had grabbed him in the middle of the night and kissed his brains out.

  And he’d stormed out of the house in a huff.

  What was he, crazy?

  Careful, he corrected, annoyed with the internal debate. He had no problem with casual, healthy sex between consenting adults. But if there was a casual bone in Camilla’s body, he’d dance a jig naked in the middle of the road to town.

  The woman breathed complications.

  Besides the fact, he reminded himself as he dressed, he didn’t have time for fun and games. He had work to do. And when he did have time, he made the damn moves.

  Not that it hadn’t been … interesting to have that step taken out of his hands, momentarily.

  The woman had a mouth like a goddess, he thought. Hot, persuasive and potent.

  Better not to think about it. Much better to decide what the hell to do about it. As far as he could see, there were two choices. He could pretend it never happened, or he could fire her, drive her into town and dump her.

  The latter, it seemed to him, was the safest bet all around.

  He was halfway down the stairs when he smelled coffee. The siren’s scent of it weakened his resolve. He could count on the fingers of one hand the number of times in his adult life he’d woken to the aroma of fresh coffee.

  Then he caught the scent of grilling meat.

  Plays dirty, he noted. Just like a female.

  The minute he stepped into the kitchen, she turned, coffee mug in hand. Rather than hand it to him, she set it on the table. She didn’t smile, but her eyes met his and stayed level.

  “I want to apologize for my behavior.”

  The tone, judge-sober, threw him off stride. He figured the best move was to keep his mouth shut—and drink the coffee.

  “It was,” she continued, “completely indefensible. I took advantage of the situation and abused your hospitality. I couldn’t be more sorry for it. You’d be perfectly justified in throwing me out. I hope you won’t, but I won’t argue if that’s what you’ve decided to do.”

  Did he think she played dirty? he mused, eyeing her over the rim of his cup as she stood, solemn and patient with ham sizzling at her back. A heavyweight champ wouldn’t last a full round with her.

  “Let’s just forget it.”

  Relief trickled through her, but she couldn’t relax until she’d finished. “That’s very generous of you.” She shifted to pick up the kitchen fork and turn the meat. “I’d like to tell you I’ve never done anything like that before.”

  He thought of the kiss, the smoldering punch of it. “Like what before?”

  “Pushed myself on a man.” The memory of it had hot color washing into her cheeks, but she continued to cook with a steady hand. “It occurred to me afterward that if the situation had been reversed—if you had pushed yourself on me, particularly when I was incapacitated—”

  “I’m not incapacitated.” Irritated, he swallowed coffee, then went for more.

  “Well … in any case, it occurred to me that it would’ve been contemptible, perhaps even criminal, so—”

  “We locked lips. Beginning and end,” he snapped out, growing more and more uncomfortable. “It’s not a big damn deal.”

  She slid her gaze toward him, then away again. The deal, big or otherwise, had kept him out of his own house most of the night. So she would finish groveling. “A sexual act of any kind must be mutual or it’s harassment. Worst, molestation.”

  “The day some skinny-assed woman can molest me is the day pigs go into orbit.”

  “I’m not skinny, assed or otherwise, but to finish. I was angry and I’m attracted to you—God knows why—and both those reactions, as well as the simple curiosity I felt, are my responsibility to control. I appreciate your acceptance of my apology. Now if you’d like to sit down, I’m going to make crêpes.”

  She stabbed the ham, dumped it on a plate. Before she could turn to the crêpe batter, he spun her around, clamped his hand over her throat. And lifting her to her toes closed his mouth over hers.

  The fork she still held clattered to the counter. Her arms fell helplessly to her sides. It was an assault, a glorious one that made her weak-kneed, light-headed and hot-blooded all at once. Even as she started to sway toward him, he gave her a light shove. Stepped back.

  “There, that clears the slate,” he said, then picking up his coffee again, sat. “What kind of crêpes?”

  Chapter 5

  The beard irritated him. So did the woman. His ribs were a constant dull ache. As was his libido.

  Work helped such nagging and unwelcome distractions. He’d always been able to lose himself in work—in fact he figured anyone who couldn’t just wasn’t in the right field.

  He had to admit she didn’t annoy him when she was helping transcribe and organize his notes. The fact was, she was such an enormous help he wondered how the devil he would get anything done when she was gone.

  He considered playing on her gratitude and wheedling another couple of weeks out of her.

  Then he’d be distracted by something as ridiculous as the way the light hit her hair as she sat at the keyboard. Or the way her eyes took on a glint when she looked over at him with a question or comment.

  Then he’d start thinking about her. Who she was, where she was from. Why the hell she was sitting in his kitchen in the first place. She spoke French like a native, cooked like a gift from God. And over it all was a glossy sheen of class.

  He hated asking people questions about themselves. Because they invariably answered them, at length. But he had a lot of questions about Camilla.

  He began to calculate how he could get some information without seeming to ask the questions.

  She was smart, too, he thought as she painstakingly filed and labeled on-site photographs while he pretended to study more notes. Not just educated, but there was plenty of that. If he had to guess, he’d say private schools all the way—and with that whiff of France in her voice, he’d put money on some kind of Swiss finishing school.

  In any case, wherever she’d been educated, she was smart enough to let the whole matter of that little sexual snap drop.

  She’d simply nodded when he’d said they were even, and had made her fancy breakfast crêpes.

  He admired that, the way she’d accepted the tit for tat and had gone back to business as usual.

  There was money—or there had been money. Pricey Swiss watch, silk robe. And it had been silk. He could still feel the way it had floated and slithered over his bare skin when she’d wrapped herself around him.

  Damn it.

  Still, she was no stranger to work. She actually seemed to like cooking. It was almost beyond his comprehension. Plus she’d sit at the keyboard for hours without complaint. Her typing was neat and quick, her posture perfect. And her hands as elegant as a queen’s.

  Breeding, he thought. The woman had breeding. The kind that gave you spine as well as a sense of fair play.

  And she had the most incredible mouth.

  So how did it all add up?

  He caught himself scratching at the beard again, and was struck with inspiration.

  “Could use a shave.”

  He said it casually, waited for her to glance his way. “I’m sorry?”

  “A shave,” he repeated. “I could use one.”

  Because she considered it a friendly overture, she smiled. “Can you manage it, or do you want help?”

  He frowned a little
, to show he was reluctant. “You ever shave a man?”

  “No.” She pursed her lips, angled her head. “But I’ve seen my father and my brothers shave. How hard can it be?”

  “Brothers?”

  “Yes, two.” Thoughtful, she stepped to him, bending a bit to study the terrain of his face. A lot of angles, she mused. Dips and planes. There certainly wasn’t anything smooth or simple about it, but that only made it challenging. “I don’t see why I couldn’t do it.”

  “It’s my flesh and blood on the line, sister.” Still he lifted a hand, rubbed irritably. “Let’s do it.”

  * * *

  She took the job seriously. After some debate, she decided the best spot for the event was the front porch. They’d get a little fresh air, and she’d be able to maneuver a full three hundred and sixty degrees around his chair as she couldn’t in the tiny upstairs bathroom.

  She dragged out a small table, and set up her tools. The wide, shallow bowl filled with hot water. The can of shaving cream, the towels, the razor.

  Part of her wished it was a straight rather than a safety razor. It would’ve been fun to strop it sharp.

  When he sat, she tied a towel around his neck. “I could trim your hair while I’m at it.”

  “Leave the hair alone.”

  She couldn’t blame him. It was a marvelous head of hair, wonderfully streaky and tumbled. In any case her one attempt at cutting hair—her own—had proved she had no hidden talent for it.

  “All right, just relax.” She covered his face with a warm, damp towel. “I’ve seen this in movies. I believe it softens the beard.”

  When he gave a muffled grunt and relaxed, she looked out at the woods. They were so green, so thick, dappled with light and shadows. She could hear birdsong, and caught the quick flash of a cardinal—a red bullet into a green target.

  No one was huddled in those shadows waiting for her to make some move that would earn them a fee for a new photograph. There were no stoic guards standing by to protect her.

  The peace of it was like a balm.

  “It’s beautiful out today.” Absently she laid a hand on his shoulder. She wanted to share this lovely feeling of freedom with someone. “All blue and green with summer. Hot, but not oppressive. In Virginia, we’d be drenched in humidity by now.”

  Aha! He knew he’d tagged a touch of the South in her voice. “What’s in Virginia?”

  “Oh, my family.” Some of them, she thought. “Our farm.”

  As she took the towel away, his eyes—sharp and full of doubt—met hers. “You’re telling me you’re a farmer’s daughter? Give me a break.”

  “We have a farm.” Vaguely irritated, she picked up the shaving cream. Two farms, she thought. One in each of her countries. “My father grows soy beans, corn and so on. And raises both cattle and horses.”

  “You never hoed a row with those hands, kid.”

  She lifted a brow as she smoothed on the shaving cream. “There’s been a marvelous new invention called a tractor. And yes, I can drive one,” she added with some asperity.

  “Hard to picture you out on the back forty.”

  “I don’t spend much time with the crops, but I know a turnip from a potato.” Brows knitted, she lifted his chin and took the first careful swipe with the razor. “My parents expected their children to be productive and useful, to make a contribution to the world. My sister works with underprivileged children.”

  “You said you had brothers.”

  “One sister, two brothers. We are four.” She rinsed the razor in the bowl, meticulously scraped off more cream and stubble.

  “What do you do, back on the farm?”

  “A great many things,” she muttered, calculating the angle from jaw to throat.

  “Is that what you’re running away from? Hey!”

  As the nick welled blood, she dabbed at it. “It’s just a scratch—which I wouldn’t have made if you’d just stop talking. You say nothing for hours at a time, and now you don’t shut up.”

  Amused, and intrigued that he’d apparently hit a nerve—he shrugged his shoulder. “Maybe I’m nervous. I’ve never had a woman come at me with a sharp implement.”

  “That is surprising, considering your personality.”

  “Tagging you as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm’s surprising, considering yours. If you grew up in Virginia, where’s the French pastry part come from?”

  Her brows lifted above eyes lit with humor. “French pastry, is it? My mother,” she said, ignoring the little twist of guilt that came from not being completely honest. Because of it, she gave him more truth—if not specifics. “We spend part of our time in Europe—and have a small farm there as well. Do this.” She drew her top lip over her teeth.

  He couldn’t stop the grin. “Show me how to do that again?”

  “Now he’s full of jokes.” But she laughed, then stepped between his legs, bent down and slowly shaved the area between his nose and mouth.

  He wanted to touch her, to run his hand over some part of her. Any part of her. He wanted, he realized, to kiss her again. Whoever the hell she was.

  Her thumb brushed his mouth, held his lip in place, then slid away. But her gaze lingered there before it tracked up to his.

  And she saw desire, the dangerous burn of it in his eyes. Felt it stab inside her like the fired edge of blade.

  “Why is this, do you think?” she murmured.

  He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He didn’t believe in pretense. “I haven’t got a clue—other than, you being a tasty treat for the eyes.”

  She nearly smiled at that, and turned to rinse the razor again. “Even attraction should have more. I’m not sure we even like each other very much.”

  “I don’t have anything against you, particularly.”

  “Why, Delaney, you’re so smooth.” She laughed because it eased some of the tension inside her. “A woman hasn’t a prayer against such poetry, such charm.”

  “You want poetry, read a book.”

  “I think I do like you.” She considered as she came back to finish the shave. “On some odd level, I enjoy your irascibility.”

  “Old men are irascible. I’m young yet, so I’m just rude.”

  “Precisely. But you also have an interesting mind, and I find it attractive. I’m intrigued by your work.” She turned his face to the side, eased in close again. “And your passion for it. I came looking for passion—not the sexual sort, but for some emotional—some intellectual passion. How strange that I should find it here, and in old bones and broken pots.”

  “My field takes more than passion and intellect.”

  “Yes. Hard work, sacrifice, sweat, perhaps some blood.” She angled her head. “If you think I’m a stranger to such things, you’re wrong.”

  “You’re not a slacker.”

  She smiled again. “There now, you’ve flattered me. My heart pounds.”

  “And you’ve got a smart mouth, sister. Maybe, on some odd level, I enjoy your sarcasm.”

  “That’s handy. Why don’t you ever use my name?” She stepped back to pick up a fresh towel and wipe the smears of shaving cream left on his face. “It is my name,” she said quietly. “Camilla. My mother enjoys flowers, and there were camellias on my father’s farm when he took her there for the first time.”

  “So, you only lied about the last name.”

  “Yes.” Testingly she ran her fingers over his cheeks. “I think I did a fine job, and you have a nice, if complicated face. Better, by far, without the scraggly beard.”

  She walked to the table, wiped her hands. “I only want a few weeks for myself,” she murmured. “A few weeks to be myself without restrictions, responsibilities, demands, expectations. Haven’t you ever just needed to breathe?”

  “Yeah.” And something in her tone, something in her eyes—both haunted—told him that, at least, was perfect truth. “Well, there’s plenty of air around here.” He touched his face, rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved chin. “Your car’ll be ready
in a couple days. Probably. You can take off then, or you can stay a week or two, and we’ll keep things the way they are.”

  Tears stung her eyes, though she had no idea why. “Maybe a few days longer. Thank you. I’d like to know more about your project. I’d like to know more about you.”

  “Let’s just keep things the way they are. Until they change. Nice shave … Camilla.”

  She smiled to herself as the screen door slammed behind him.

  * * *

  To demonstrate her gratitude, Camilla did her best not to annoy him. For an entire day and a half. She had the cabin scrubbed to a gleam, his photographs and sketches labeled and filed. The neatly typed pages from his notes and dictation now comprised two thick stacks.

  It was time, she decided, for a change in routine.

  “You need fresh supplies,” she told him.

  “I just bought supplies.”

  “Days ago, and the key word is fresh. You’re out of fruit, low on vegetables. And I want lemons. I’ll make lemonade. You drink entirely too much coffee.”

  “Without coffee: coma.”

  “And you’re nearly out of that as well, so unless you’d like to be comatose, we have to go into town for supplies.”

  For the first time, he spared her a look, taking off his reading glasses to frown at her. “We?”

  “Yes. I can check on the status of my car as your Carl only makes mumbling noises over the phone when I call to ask about it.” She was already checking the contents of her purse, taking out her sunglasses. “So. We’ll go to town.”

  “I want to finish this section.”

  “We can finish when we get back. I’m happy to drive if your shoulder’s troubling you too much.”

  In point of fact, his shoulder barely troubled him at all now. He’d put the hours he spent restless and awake in his room at night to good use by carefully exercising it. His ribs were still miserable, but he was about ready to ditch the sling.

  “Sure, I’ll just let you behind the wheel of my truck since you’ve proven what a good driver you are.”

  “I’m a perfectly good driver. If the deer hadn’t—”