What secret did the Gotobeds share that she and Royce lacked? The Rise-All accounted for Willie’s amorous behavior to a point. However, Willie and Violet had always acted affectionate with each other. If the old fellow had endured some difficulty in the bedroom, Nikki had never witnessed evidence that the problem had debilitated their marriage.
Like her grandparents had, the Gotobeds delighted in a love that was strong and true. A love that could slay dragons and pulverize slabs of granite into rubble.
Was that kind of love lost to Nikki’s generation?
She risked a glance at Alex. He cradled Rusty in his arms, his brown hair mussed by their search. Her mutinous heart pit-a-patted. My knight in plaid flannel.
A smiled tugged her mouth. In that moment, she scarcely noticed the snake or the randy Gotobeds. The sky, trees, lake—all faded away.
All she saw was Alex.
His gaze linked with hers, and the ground shifted beneath her feet. Her bones melted as surely as if they were molded from jelly.
Panic led a parade out of her heart. Cupid, help me.
She couldn’t name what she was feeling, or maybe she didn’t dare to. She only knew that succumbing to this soul-deep yearning would prove her engagement—and perhaps her entire life—a lie.
Seated at the cabin table, Alex glanced through the printed research notes he’d retrieved from his computer case after lunch. Trying not to be obvious about it, he kept one eye on Nikki. Sitting on the chair to his left with her legs crossed, she carefully handled the small garter snake they’d rescued from Willie Gotobed four hours earlier. A sudden downpour had sequestered them in the cabin with her thankfully napping pets, but not before she’d recruited Alex’s help digging earthworms for the snake’s dinner.
They’d cleaned the worms and placed them in a jar lid, which Nikki had set into a terrarium she’d located in the shed. A mixture of washed sand, potting soil, and tiny pieces of bark layered the bottom of the glass tank. With a couple of flat rocks for sunning and a shallow bowl of water for bathing, the vivarium, as Nikki called it, featured the finest in garter snake style and comfort.
Under her direction, Alex had placed the mesh-roofed unit on a heating pad on a decorative wall shelf—beyond Rusty’s reach. However, Nikki, expressing concern for the traumatized snake’s welfare, continued bringing the reptile out of the enclosure for checkups.
Her compassion for the creature fascinated Alex. He’d never encountered a less squeamish woman. Granted, not many kooky animal lovers frequented PU’s stodgy history department, where he spent most of his time, and lately he’d been so focused on achieving tenure that it hadn’t dawned on him to date a non-colleague. However, never in his dreary existence had he imagined meeting a woman as loving, down to earth, and full of life as Nikki St. James.
He allowed his gaze to slide over her slim body, and his pulse kicked. Battling his attraction to her grew more difficult with each passing minute. Thinking of her as Royce Carmichael’s fiancée no longer helped, just made him want to beat the shit out of the jerk. Finally, he’d attempted envisioning her as the kid sister of a steroid-ridden Goliath who rode his Harley over intellectuals for sport and drank gasoline in triumph. However, even that rather imaginative effort had proven useless.
He returned his gaze to his notes.
“Alex?” she asked a moment later. “What should we name her?”
“Huh?” He feigned absorption in his research.
“The snake.” She nudged his arm. “We rescued her. Therefore, she needs a name. Any ideas?”
He looked at her again—in the eyes this time. The garter, apparently no longer traumatized, slipped between her fingers.
“That depends.” He set down his papers. “How do you know it’s a she?”
“I don’t. But Rusty, Bernie, and Santos are all boys, so it stands to reason that the snake’s a girl. That way, I’m not as outnumbered.”
Alex grinned. It stood to her refreshingly quirky brand of reasoning, maybe. But he wasn’t about to point out her lack of logic. All day, between periods of caring for the snake, she’d practically glued her eyeballs to her watch, monitoring the time. Royce’s continued absence clearly bothered her. Occupying herself with the garter snake provided a necessary diversion.
“Sounds good to me,” he said. “She’s a girl.”
“Then she needs a girl’s name.” Nikki caressed her reptilian ward. The cold-blooded creature was enjoying more action than he had these last few months. “Would you like to do the honors?”
“Not a chance. You’re much more creative. If it were up to me, I’d call her Snake.”
She knocked his leg with her foot. “Alex, that’s boring.”
Yup, that was him. Boring. Dull. Ho-hum as week-old bran.
He hadn’t always been so beige. At one time, he’d happily indulged in interests outside of PU—squash, boxing, restoring his vintage car to collector status, trips to Idaho to visit his family. Even his early academic career had excited him more than his current path in life.
As a teaching assistant, he’d thrived on interaction with his students. He’d enjoyed debating points of history, had experienced intense satisfaction and a strong measure of pride when a young mind grappling with a difficult concept broke through and produced an A paper.
When had he grown so disconnected and out of touch? The research notes for his submission to a top history journal read dry, dry, dry. The resulting article would no doubt read every bit as uninspiring even while publishing the piece would bring him another step closer to realizing his full potential by achieving tenure.
Yawn. Snore. Ho-hum.
“That’s why you should name the snake,” he said. “My muse hasn’t just deserted me, she never set up camp to begin with.”
Nikki’s nose scrunched. “That’s bull.”
“But true.”
“I don’t believe it.”
Leaning closer, she thrust the snake beneath his nose. Her breasts plumped beneath her top, the scooped neckline exposing her slight cleavage.
“Think, Alex.” Her melodic voice sounded airy. “What does she remind you of?”
Sin. Temptation. Apples. Fornication.
Inhaling, he lifted his gaze from her top. The garter snake slithered in her hands. Its bullet head turned and the slit of a mouth popped open.
“Uh, Lucifer’s grandson?”
Nikki laughed. “Perfect! That’s what Willie called her! At first, I thought he was talking about Rusty, but—” her gaze drifted over the snake “—she’s a girl, we’ve already established that, so she’s Lucifer’s granddaughter. Lucy for short.”
“Sheer genius.”
For a second, they grinned idiotically at each other.
Crash! Boom!
“Woof!” Santos’s deep bark echoed in the confined space.
Nikki jumped up, the snake bouncing in her grasp as they turned toward the noise. Santos had awoken from his nap among the storage boxes and now stretched while his big tail repeatedly thumped a collapsed tower. The dog sniffed the spilled contents.
“Duty calls, Luce,” Nikki said to the snake. “What have you found, boy?” she directed toward Santos.
Holding Lucy, she climbed onto her chair and stretched to reach the wall shelf that housed the vivarium. Alex got up and placed a hand on her hip—to steady her, no other reason. Just being a gentleman.
He snorted.
“What?” Nikki glanced down.
“Nothing.” He really, really wanted to move his hand. Mold it to her perky rear or caress her waist. Lick her belly-button ring, eat her up.
He did none of those things. Palm on fire, he maintained a semblance of noble intention while she returned Lucy to the vivarium. Face composed, he grasped her hand and steadied her as she climbed back down.
Earlier, the mosquito-dog otherwise known as Bernie had staked out his snoozing territory on Alex’s bed. Now, the Chihuahua bounded off, joining Alex and Nikki as they crossed the room to examine
Santos’s clutter. Even Rusty emerged from his vampire cave beneath Nikki’s bed, meowing drowsily.
“Oh!” A bright smile lighting her features, Nikki knelt near Santos. She smoothed her hands over the slim hardcover books strewn on the blue-painted wood floor.
“What are they?” Crouching between her and the dog, Alex selected a volume. With its worn, dusty cover and narrow spine, it resembled an ancient office record book. His historian’s antennae tingled.
“My grandfather’s collection of farming journals.” Wonder brimmed Nikki’s voice. “I thought my mother threw them away.”
Alex flipped over the thin volume in his hand. “Why would she do that?”
“Who knows? Lack of interest? Farming bores her.” She picked up a journal and skimmed her fingers over the dark cover. “I thought she chucked them out when she packed up the Poulsbo place. I didn’t even know they were here.”
“Maybe she stored them for safekeeping.” The drafty lake cabin would wreak havoc on the old paper, but the grieving process often took precedence over historical preservation. And rightly so. Losing a parent must be rough.
“Hmm... nah,” Nikki murmured. “More likely Gramps brought them. Gram passed away three years before he did, but he spent his summers at Lake Eden until he died... two springs ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Thanks. And it’s okay. He was eighty-nine.”
Alex nodded. “So... Lake Eden. That’s where we are?”
“Olympic Peninsula, off 101,” she confirmed. She eyed him. “You won’t try leaving again now that you know our location, will you?”
And cut short his time with her? “No way.”
She graced him with another smile. “I didn’t think so. You had your chance when we ran into the Gotobeds. If you’d wanted to leave, you would have said something to them.”
The thought hadn’t occurred. Man, he’d tumbled deep into the rabbit hole.
“You question my sincerity?” he teased. “Nikki, I’m crushed.”
“No doubts. I trust you, Alex.” A light blush dusted her cheeks. Gaze flitting away, she traced the chafed corners of the dark-covered record book with her fingertips. “Maybe Gramps brought the journals here because they helped him feel closer to Gram.” She caressed the volume. “Most of these journals are from her side of the family. Her great-uncle began farming in 1912, and then her dad joined him. However, some of the diaries might originate from outside the family. Gramps once showed me a farm record from 1895, written in Norwegian. He’d find a journal in some country antique shop and buy it. He adored history, Alex.” She glanced up. “Like you.”
Her smile widened until it reached her sparkling blue eyes. A current arced, electrifying the inches between them.
Alex’s blood pumped. Hell. Royce Carmichael was nuts. How could the moron not see what was so plain to Alex? Nikki offered the idiot a lifetime of soft smiles and crazy happiness. Trust, constancy, a deep, abiding love.
The chance to build something real together.
What Alex wouldn’t give to have her look at him the way she was looking at him right now—the way she probably always looked at Royce—every day for the rest of his life.
What he wouldn’t give to be in Royce Carmichael’s position.
Rusty slipped out from between two boxes. The cat padded across the strewn journals and rubbed his neck against the leg of Nikki’s jeans. Rusty’s spine curved, seeking her touch. No, more likely craving it.
Alex empathized.
You and me both, pal.
He petted the cat. You and me both.
Chapter 8
The Jig’s Up
COME TUESDAY EVENING, Nikki had reached the sobering conclusion that Operation Fool-A-Fiancé was falling apart at the seams. That was, if it had ever had seams.
For one thing, the fiancé in question had yet to show. For another, she doubted he ever would, for whatever reason.
Worse, she didn’t feel anywhere near as devastated by Royce’s continued absence as she suspected a woman deeply in love and desperate to have her fiancé prove his love in return should feel.
She should feel frantic or frenzied or at least hopping mad—but she wasn’t. Instead, she felt vaguely disgruntled and... oddly relieved. Because the longer it took Royce to arrive, the more time she had with Alex.
She squirmed on the battered sofa. For the last half-hour, she’d lounged against a cushion with her yoga pants wrinkled at her bent knees. Rusty purred on her lap while she pretended to read one of her grandmother’s old medical romances discovered in a box of worn magazines and paperbacks.
Not far away, Alex sat in his usual chair at the table, engrossed in Gramps’s collection of farming journals. Both Santos and Bernie snoozed as close to the poor guy’s chair as possible without squashing his toes. Alex’s feet sported the same type of thick wool socks currently toasting Nikki’s tootsies. She’d found him a clean work shirt—blue, this time—and faded tan pants to wear. The pants, although hemmed as short as the brown ones and the gray polyesters, hailed from her grandfather’s less-rotund years. In place of suspenders, Alex had cinched the baggy trousers with his belt.
As for underneath the shabby slacks... well... Alex’s recently washed boxers hung drying in the bathroom for the third time since they’d arrived. Unless he stored a reserve pair in his computer case, which she would have noticed by this point, it appeared the man she’d written off as a stick-in-the-mud history professor was... ahem... letting things fall where they may.
Her tummy warmed, and she bit her lip.
She did not appreciate these involuntary physical responses! She’d indulged in far too many fantasies about Alex and his damn things lately. Thirty hours of pouring rain would render a desert dweller delusional, but Nikki had been born and bred in damp Seattle. Normally, she could handle a little torrential downpour. However, the coziness of the rain pattering the cabin roof these last two nights had conspired against her. As had the velvet darkness blanketing the windows. The cabin cocooned them from the elements, but exposed her to Alex’s sexy earthiness.
His magic touch with her animals had lowered her defenses to a dangerous level. Santos had taken a shine to the man almost immediately. However, now Rusty and even Bernie—the lovable traitors—were developing soft spots for him.
Rusty had sheathed his claws ever since Alex had rescued the cat from Willie Gotobed’s shovel. Then, last night, after Alex had fallen asleep with his newfound Siamese buddy curled beside him, Bernie had vaulted onto the bed, observed the snoozing duo, and flopped at Alex’s feet.
Oh, how Nikki’s heart had melted. And the fickle organ didn’t seem in any hurry to re-solidify as she and Alex approached their fifth night together.
Sweet saints above, she didn’t have a clue how to fight the effect the man had on her.
Did she want to?
Her jaw stiffened. More subversive thoughts! Unappreciated!
This morning, while Alex had showered, she’d whipped through a dozen relationship quizzes in the stack of tattered magazines she must have left here at some time or another. The attempt to rationalize or downplay her emotions had resulted in absurdly skewed quiz scores: a cock-eyed mixture of lust, love, and camaraderie for Alex, and a confusing blur of loyalty and a blah fondness for Royce.
What did it all mean?
She glared at Alex. It’s his fault.
A moment later, the flannel-plaided professor reached for his steaming mug of coffee, and her pulse skipped.
His fault!
Gritting her teeth, she resumed reading her novel. She skimmed two pages of doctor-nurse interaction before her gaze lifted again—of its own damn accord, like in the book.
Alex had set down the mug and was flipping a journal page. He read something that inspired a chuckle, and his broad shoulders bunched beneath the work shirt. Nikki’s breathing quickened.
That ugly flannel shirt must feel incredibly soft and warm beneath a woman’s fingers. If she got up and wen
t to him, placed her hands on his sides and curved them around to his chest, would he turn, look up, and welcome her? Would he gather her into his arms and then... oh yes... would he ravish her?
Or maybe she would ravish him...
Heat buzzed between her thighs, beneath Rusty’s weight. Pleasurable goose bumps pebbled her legs and arms as delicious spirals teased her nipples. Wow. Her whole body was coming alive for him. And only for him.
For Alex.
She shook her head. Crap! Not again! Her hormones were working overtime. She must be ovulating.
The only remedy was for Royce to barge in right now and save her from her womanly ruin.
Surely, if she saw her fiancé soon—if she touched him, kissed him, held him—her attraction to Alex Hart would disappear. Then she could forget all this holed-up-in-a-cabin lust nonsense and return to the society life her parents had mapped out for her.
Correction, the life she’d chosen. No one had forced her to say yes to Royce. Her parents’ expectations had exuded a definite pressure, but she’d decided to marry Royce on her own.
A weird sensation wiggled up her spine. Did she still want to marry him?
Well, of course she did.
Um... didn’t she?
The next morning, Alex whistled as he tinkered beneath the raised van hood, replacing the distributor cap and inspecting the damage Nikki had inflicted on the old vehicle. Meanwhile, she’d remained indoors to care for Lucy. Now that the rain had stopped, she wanted the battered van running so she could putter to the nearest town and phone her cousin, Karin—a.k.a. Mugger Number Two. Supposedly, Karin could provide insight into whatever had delayed Royce.
Alex wiped a greasy palm on his pants. What if Karin’s information hurt Nikki? He couldn’t imagine Royce possessed a plausible excuse for his absence. Even if the schlep no longer wanted his fiancée, wouldn’t male pride spur him to travel to Lake Eden and beat up Alex regardless?
Try to beat on him, at any rate. Alex would clobber the son of a bitch. Just give me a reason.
Borrowing Alex Page 11
