Another Man's Treasure

by Renee Roszel

  “Composition ‘R.’” He mumbled it like a curse as he wrote it down.

  She pulled out a plastic cup. “056—”

  “And you, for God’s sake!” He slammed down the pencil. “You’re a babe in the woods if I’ve ever seen one. Anybody—a hit man, for that matter—could walk up to you on the street, feed you some sob story, and you’d rush off with him—probably get yourself wasted in the bargain. Lord, Raine, whatever you do, don’t go wandering around Portland alone while you’re involved in this. And for heaven’s sake, don’t tell anyone what you’re doing!”

  “You really do think I’m a fool, don’t you!” She slammed the cup down as vehemently as he’d slammed down the pencil. “Well, you ought to know! Reigning king of sob stories! But, don’t despair, you’ve taught me a great lesson. Believe me! I’ll think twice before I’m taken in by a sad story again. I hope your influence on me has made you very happy!”

  He stared at her in stony silence, his jaw working furiously. Then, after a long moment, he turned away from the table. “Hell, I didn’t mean for us to get into an argument when I came out here.” He turned back to face her, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Just be careful, will you?” He lowered his gaze to the table, his features drawn, almost sad. “What did you say the code is for the paper cup, anyway?”

  She felt her throat constrict slightly, a reaction to his unexpected softening, and she nervously shifted her eyes to the smashed cup. For a moment, her mind fumbled with code numbers. And then all she could see in her mind’s eye were his long, warm fingers resting near her skin and the half-smiling—almost caring—look he had just passed over her. She stuttered, “Uh—the c-code?”

  He lowered his hand and picked up the pencil. “Never mind. I remember. 056. Right?”

  She couldn’t be sure if he’d said “056” or “2001: A Space Odyssey.” Nevertheless, she nodded. It was all she could think of to do.

  RAINE WAS ENJOYING her leisure time on the beach, under the pretext of digging for clams. “Uh-oh,” she said, sighing, as she spied a small hole and a tiny spurt of water that told her a clam had detected her approach and pulled in its head. “Go away!” she whispered, sidestepping the spot and heading in the opposite direction, a clam bucket sloshing half full of clean seawater in one hand and a flat-tined clam digger in the other. She had no intention of facing any more creatures of the deep, dinner or no dinner. Even so, she’d sat patiently through Nordie’s detailed lecture on everything she ever wanted to know about digging clams. She breathed a sigh of relief when she learned that hot dogs would also be served; at least she wouldn’t starve.

  “Hey, you’ve missed three since I’ve been watching. What are you thinking about?”

  Raine spun around, the right leg of her slacks drooping back to her ankle from its rolled-up position. “I—I.” She shrugged, giving up on trying to make up a story. Cotter was standing there, a well-dressed clam digger in a black-and-white-striped pullover knit shirt and black corduroy shorts. He, too, was carrying a bucket and digger. She wondered if he’d been more diligent in his efforts than she. Of course, anyone not unconscious would have been more diligent than she. She simply wasn’t trying at all. Shrugging, she dropped her digger and bucket with a muted “clunk” in the wet sand. “I’ve decided to have hot dogs for dinner.”

  Cotter laughed. “I thought so. You’re afraid of clams, too.”

  Even though she knew he’d see the truth in her strained face, she bent over to roll up her slacks and lied, “I’m not afraid of clams. I just don’t like the taste of them.”

  “Really?” He didn’t sound convinced. “What do they taste like?”

  She swallowed, her cheeks warming. She had no idea what they tasted like. But it wouldn’t do to let him know that. She felt panic rush up her spine, but she decided to try to bluff, anyway. “Come now.” She straightened, eyeing him suspiciously. “Haven’t you ever tried clams?”

  “Sure.”

  She secured her glasses against her nose. “Then you ought to know what they taste like. Why ask me?”

  His smile was exceedingly slow to bloom, beginning with a twitch at the corners of his mouth and then curving upward to reveal his straight, even teeth. His smile was as dazzling as white sand at noon—and curiously friendly. He walked toward her with athletic grace, and as he reached her side, he put down his bucket, already half full of soaking clams, she noted with displeasure. He nodded toward their feet. “See there?”

  She saw the tiny spurt he meant but pretended not to. “Uh-huh, your feet are bigger than mine. So what?”

  “Maybe if you took off your glasses…”

  “If I took off my glasses, I couldn’t even be sure if we had feet,” she retorted testily, squinting back up at his face. He was still slanting that smile at her. She wished he’d relent; her tolerance was beginning to wane.

  “You’re being a coward again, professor. The sea and its creatures are not that deadly. Here—” he handed her his clam digger “—try it.” The wooden handle was shoved into her hand, and she clasped it tightly. “Holding on is a good start.” He put his hand on her shoulder and pointed in front of her right foot. “Dig there.”

  She stared at the spot as though it were a dead fly.

  “Dig.”

  With a sigh, she dropped to her knees and pressed the prongs into the sand A few energetic thrusts fueled by tension and a fear of the unknown pulled her shelled treasure to the surface, hitting her on the thigh. A scream welled up in her throat but she stifled most of it. “I didn’t know they attacked!” she said tentatively, her thumb and forefinger poised a safe twelve inches above it.

  “They rarely do. Now pick it up and put it in the bucket.”

  She cast him a pinched look. “Rarely?”

  His chuckle was deep and rich. “If it wounds you in any way, I promise, you’ll end up in the Guinness Book of World Records as the first victim of a clam attack.”

  His exceeding good humor irritated her. She looked down at the clam and, with a resolve of steel, clamped it between her fingers and flung it madly toward her bucket.

  “You missed,” Cotter reported the obvious as the clam rolled two feet on the other side of the bucket.

  “Oh, shut up.” She scrambled to her feet and scurried after it. This time, she deposited it deliberately into the water. One clam. “Well…” She wiped her hands together. “That’s that. I’m going back.”

  “Back?” He picked up his bucket. “There’s no reason to go back that way. Nordie and her crew have it pretty well covered. We might as well head on down around the point.”

  “We?” She started at the word, quickly making an excuse. “I don’t intend to go through that again.”

  He shook his head incredulously. “For a woman who has her hands in garbage all day, I’m surprised you’re so squeamish about clams.”

  He had a point, but it wasn’t the important one. The real issue was that she was squeamish about Cotter. He’d been giving her double messages since the beginning. And for the life of her she couldn’t understand why he was there. She decided to try another tack. “I think I’ll find Carl and help him dig clams.”

  The slight lift of Cotter’s chin, as though it had been clipped by a small fist, told Raine that he’d gotten the message. “Carl had an appointment with his doctor this afternoon. He’s still in Portland. He’ll be back for the clambake, though. I’m sure he’d appreciate it if you dug him some clams.” Cotter’s dark gaze drifted slowly away, toward the point. “So would Nordie.”

  “I gather you would, too, since you’re out here pressuring me to dig them.”

  He shrugged easily. “I didn’t figure you cared what mattered to me. But, yes.”

  “You’re right. I don’t care.” She looked down. A squirt caught her eye and she knelt. “Okay, then. Here’s one for Carl.” She forked the sand away and extracted another clam. This time she felt an unexpected exhilaration with the successful find as she tossed it into her bucket. “That’
s two.”

  “Don’t you really like the taste of steamed clams dipped in melted butter?”

  “Never tasted ’em.” She was not watching Cotter now; her eyes were glued to any movement in the sand. When she heard him chuckle, she directed a stern look at him. “What’s so funny?”

  He lowered his bucket to the sand and took her by the elbow, drawing her into a slow stride. “Did I catch the professor in a lie?”

  She pulled out of his grasp. “Okay, I lied. But, I don’t think that exactly makes us even—if that’s what you’re trying to suggest.” A bubble of water caught her eye, and she dipped to one knee and began clawing at the wet sand with abandon, her nerves on edge.

  When she had tossed number three into her bucket, Cotter took her arm again, helping her to her feet. “You don’t have to maul the poor things, you know.”

  “You don’t have to stay here and watch.” She pushed away a strand of hair in a familiar gesture and looked up at him. “You getting squeamish, now?”

  “Touché.” He nodded, dropping to his knees and digging up one clam and then another in practically the same hole.

  “Two! How did you know?”

  He tossed one of them into her bucket, and one into his, before standing up. “I could hear her passionate moaning.”

  His unexpectedly suggestive remark shocked Raine into silence, and she could only stare up at his half smile.

  “You have a very attractive blush, professor,” he murmured barely above a whisper, as he stepped closer. “That’s a rare thing these days.”

  She took a step away, protesting, “I wish I didn’t—”

  “Don’t say that,” he whispered, touching her cheek. “It’s nice.”

  His hand felt damp and sandy against her skin. She couldn’t draw away, even when he ran his fingers back through her hair. “It’s also nice how you fight your timidity,” he murmured softly, tucking a finger beneath her chin. “I like that about you.”

  She dropped her eyes, feeling embarrassed and uncomfortable, unused to male flattery. She needed to escape, but she also needed to be in his presence a while longer.

  “Hey,” he breathed against her ear, “it’s the truth.”

  She stiffened at the word that had become a call to battle between them. But he was ready for her resistance, pulling her possessively against his chest, his lips taking hers quickly and solemnly. After the first kiss, his movements changed, becoming more insistent, warming, vitalizing her to her core. Her cheek felt hot against his, and the cool roughness of his jaw was a pleasing texture.

  His lips moved pliantly against hers, draining them of all stiffness, all reserve. Her mouth sought the intimacy he was offering as her arms caressed his broad back. She sighed against his lips. It was a soft, purring sound that she could not have imagined coming from her throat. It seemed almost exactly like the sensuous, feminine moan that Anona had breathed the night Raine had seen them on the cliff, wrapped in each other’s arms….

  Anona! Raine’s eyes flew open with the memory. Beautiful, sexy Anona, entwined in Cotter’s arms. With a painful rush, it all came back to her, his unbounded conceit and unexplained deceptions.

  What in the world was she doing, allowing him to kiss her? She pulled her lips into a tight line and stepped back quickly. It was harder than she imagined it would be, and anger raced through her like fire in a parched forest. Pulling away completely, she pushed him away from her.

  He pulled her back, but she was prepared to flee. The look he leveled at her was enigmatic. She swooped down to grasp her bucket handle, and set off, jogging, in the direction of the point.

  “Raine,” he called after her.

  She didn’t turn or hesitate, but followed the shoreline at a quickened pace.

  Her arm aching from the weight of the clam bucket, Raine trudged back along the beach. Swiftly, she rounded the rocky point, surprised at her almost casual leap across the watery obstacle. The tide was coming in, and as she jumped across, the waves splashed up nearly to her hips. But the sea didn’t frighten her anymore. She’d gotten the knees and the seat of her sky-blue slacks so caked with sand that now the ocean water didn’t matter.

  Her nose was sunburned and tender where her glasses rested. Even so, her mood was fairly light, considering everything. She had to admit that digging for clams had become fun—like hunting for treasure and finding it. All in all, in the hour or so since she’d left Cotter, she’d had a good time. She looked across the beach, up toward the house. The setting sun had become a magenta backdrop, making the house appear dark in silhouette. Only a few lights glowed golden from inside tall, first-floor windows.

  She heard the sound of youthful laughter, and turned back toward the sandy stretch ahead of her, her eyes drawn to a roaring bonfire with shadowed figures milling around it.

  “Professor Webber! Professor Webber!” She heard Nordie calling long before she could make out her slender figure. The girl was clad in a white terry robe, and her curly hair was wet and glistening in the fire’s glow. “We were about to send out a search party. You okay?”

  Raine smiled tiredly as two of the students rushed up to unburden her, taking her bucket and digger. She sighed with relief, thanking them. “I’m fine. Just pooped.”

  “No kidding. You’ve got quite a batch, there.” Nordie motioned to a row of deck chairs that had been brought down to the beach. “Grab a seat and a glass of cider or some white wine while the guys get these babies ready for the steam kettle.”

  A long table was set up behind the chairs. It held plates, glasses and a variety of utensils. There was a gallon bottle of sweet apple cider at one end. Underneath the table was a tub filled with ice where several bottles of white wine and more jugs of cider cooled. Raine scanned the scene, looking for Carl. But when she located him, sitting quietly, staring blankly into the fire, she did not immediately walk over to sit beside him. Her eyes continued to wander among the moving human shapes in the flickering darkness. A little surprised, she realized she was looking for Cotter.

  “Wine?” Anona Witlong stepped into her view with a stemmed glass and pressed it into Raine’s hand. Her smile was bright and beautiful. “Cotter thought you’d like some.” Without pausing, she went on, in conversational patter, “I offered to bring it to you. I wanted to speak to you alone for a minute. And apologize for that little joke the other night.” She shifted uncomfortably, and Raine noticed her fashionably short, kimono-style beach robe. “It’s just that some members of the Hunt family are incurable pranksters. I hope you’ll forgive me. But, you understand, there wasn’t much else I could do.”

  Trying to hide her surprise at finding Anona there, Raine wet her lips with the wine, pretending a nonchalance she didn’t feel. Then, with a small, unreproachful shake of her head, she assured Anona, “Don’t worry. I don’t blame you.”

  Anona’s eyes sparkled. “Thanks. You’re being a good sport, I must say. Of course, you know I’m no psychiatrist. I have a store in Portland—sell lingerie. It’s called Lace and Things. I hope you’ll drop by before you leave. I give a ten percent discount to friends. Oh, Cotter.” She extended an arm and Raine followed the movement of the long, slender fingers until a larger, familiar hand took the mauve fingertips in a light grasp. “Darling, I was just telling Raine about my place downtown.” She turned back to Raine. “Anyway, Raine, I’m glad the truth is out. I’d just about given up hope of seeing Cotter until after the project was over—then this afternoon, out of the blue, he calls and tells me you know everything, and invites me to dinner.” She laughed. “I tell you, that Nordie—”

  “Yes, Nordie is motioning to us,” Cotter interrupted, putting a firm hand at Raine’s elbow. “I think she wants you to know your batch is going on to steam.” As he spoke, he steered both women closer to the fire. “If we were going to go all out, we’d have dug a hole, filled the bottom with hot rocks, covered them with wet seaweed and then put the clams on top in wire-bottomed boxes. Then, we’d have covered the whole thing with
a tarp. But that’s really best for big groups—a hundred or so people. We usually put a couple of big kettles on the fire, fill the bottom half with seaweed, and dump the clams on top. It’s easier, and the clams taste just as good.”

  Raine was only getting the barest details of Cotter’s explanation as her eyes focused on a pitchfork full of seaweed being tossed into a huge kettle. Her mind was trying to pull her back—back to this afternoon when she’d silently thought of Cotter with Anona. She grimaced inwardly. He had been thinking of her—and he hadn’t wasted any time acting on his thoughts.

  “Okay,” Nordie was directing. “That’s enough rockweed. Now for Miss Webber’s clam contribution. Careful, Billy boy. These are the professor’s.”

  A delicious whiff of steamy air wafted over them, and Raine realized how hungry she was. “They smell wonderful,” she murmured to no one in particular.

  “I can’t wait to see your face when you have your first taste.” Cotter’s low remark sounded strangely sensual, startling her, and she cast a questioning, sidelong look up at him.

  “I see you called Anona.” Before she had any idea that she was going to say it, the wayward remark had escaped her tongue. Surprised at herself, she winced inwardly.

  His gaze narrowed, his expression becoming meaningful as he murmured, “Anona and I think alike.”

  Raine couldn’t draw her eyes away from his, dark and deep, for they neither caught nor reflected any light from the wildly dancing flames.

  Chapter Seven

  Raine flung a frustrated arm to shield her eyes from the bothersome moonlight. She knew that it was well past two, for the party hadn’t broken up until after midnight. Her students, stuffed with steamed clams and exhausted, had exited hastily, knowing that the next day was a workday. Raine knew it, too, but still she tossed and turned, her mind swirling with images of Anona and Cotter, splashing around playfully in the surf. The memory gave her no peace.

  She had spent most of her evening sitting quietly beside Carl, helping him open and remove the meaty clams from their shells, and trying to keep conversation on things that might interest him—and distract her. It hadn’t worked. Her eyes and mind had continued to wander over the moonlit seascape for any glimpse of Cotter’s broad, supple shoulders, or his startlingly light hair. Many times she had located him by the sound of his deep laughter, usually mixed with the light, musical sound of Anona’s voice.