* * *
Shadows and Ruins
By
Denise A. Agnew
* * *
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Epilogue
* * *
An Ellora's Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Copyright© 2006
Edited by Sue-Ellen Gower.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication: March 2006
This book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written
permission from the publisher, Ellora's Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502
.
This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales
is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors' imagination and used fictitiously.
Warning:
The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. This story has been
rated S-ensuous by a minimum of three independent reviewers.
Ellora's Cave Publishing offers three levels of RomanticaTM reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).
S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.
E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall
word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find
objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated
titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as
"fucking", "cock", "pussy", and such within their work of literature.
X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles,
stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the
following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
Ford Explorer: Ford Motor Company
Glock: Glock, Inc.
SPECIAL INVESTIGATIONS AGENCY: SHADOWS AND RUINS
Denise A. Agnew
Chapter One
On a high ridge obscured by scrub brush and a few scrawny trees, Shane O'Donnell
knelt in the sandy soil, tilted up his cowboy hat and raised his binoculars. He could
easily observe the young woman in the canyon below without her seeing him.
Skills honed from years of training made this covert situation a piece of cake.
Visions of what came before—the reason why he was here and not in his old job—
streaked through his mind and brought him up short. He didn't want to remember his
former life.
Son of a fuckin' bitch. He sucked in a breath and the sharp reminder disappeared
almost as if it never existed. Good. Right now he had other problems more pressing and
interesting.
Competing feelings charged around inside him. The woman shouldn't be on his
land. Yet, as he watched her lithe figure move, his throat dried up and his heart started
pumping a little too hard. Instantly, his body acknowledged what he could see of the
female below had resurrected needs ignored for too long. His cock went spike-hard.
"Fuck, Shane. You need to get out more." He muttered the words in disdain, pissed
that his body reacted with a lack of control.
He frowned. "Damn it. What the hell is she doing there?"
From the progress she'd made at the site, she'd obviously been digging on his land
for more than a day.
Anger built in his muscles until his grip on the binoculars tightened and he felt an
increasing pressure in his chest. Easy. Get a grip. He took a deep breath and the tension
eased from his muscles.
Shane had warned his Uncle Clement that if archaeologists dug on his ranch land,
they'd soon nose around where they didn't belong. Obviously, his uncle had hired the
archaeological firm anyway and now the woman in the canyon had strayed from Uncle
Clement's land onto Shane's adjoining property. He sighed. Shit. He couldn't tell his
uncle why it was so important she stay far away from Sadie Cutley's old cabin and the
mines nearby.
He watched the woman for several minutes, noting the way she knelt by the half-
meter-deep test pit and carefully removed soil with her trowel. Degree by degree she
lifted the dirt and deposited it into a large plastic bucket by her side.
He should drive down there this minute and order her off his land. Instead his
attention riveted in place. Something about the way she moved made him want to
watch for a helluva lot longer than necessary. She looked tall, slim, but without the
boyish hips associated with a model-thin type.
A single thick blonde braid poked through the open back of her dark baseball cap,
and she wore a long-sleeved navy shirt and faded, dirt-smudged jeans that curved over
her hips and legs. Whenever she bent over, he enjoyed a clear view of her world-class
ass. He'd never considered himself a voyeur, but damn it, what he could view of her
body more than stirred his interest. No man could ignore her curves, unless he was
elected to sainthood. And if there was anything Shane knew about himself, he sure as
hell wasn't one.
"Come on, turn around."
As soon as the words came out, he wondered if he'd lost his mind. He'd be down
there in a few minutes and he could see what this pain in the neck archaeologist looked
like for certain. Without hesitation, Shane lowered the binoculars and headed for his
truck.
* * * * *
Hot wind blew dirt from the pit into Emma's sunglasses, stinging her face.
Impatiently, she moved back from the pit and sat down. Pulling off her gloves, she
tossed them aside and removed her sunglasses. As perspiration cooled her forehead,
she wished she'd remembered to use one of those cool pack things for around her neck.
She glanced at her watch. Not too much longer and she'd quit for the day. The sun
flame-baked the southwest Colorado landscape like a torch, searing the earth and
scorching her in the process.
She sighed and rolled her shoulders in an attempt to ease the ache throbbing
between her shoulder blades. She'd worked in the test pit since seven that morning.
After a few soft months in the lab she'd forgotten that excavation could be strenuous
work. Sweat trickled down the back of her neck, and she wished she'd taken the plunge
and chopped off some of her hair for the
summer.
Emma glanced at her watch again. Already nine o'clock and she'd barely scratched
the surface of what her boss Grant Wilder had accomplished in the last three days. Too
bad about his stomach bothering him. They would have this test pit completed in no
time today if he'd worked alongside her.
A screech from high above startled her. She pushed her baseball cap back further on
her head and glanced into sky, squinting as the sun obscured her view. A hawk circled
above, soaring as it called.
Suddenly Emma knew someone watched her.
With the extra sense of prey targeted by a carnivore, her flesh prickled as if the
hawk waited for her to expire in the rapidly rising heat. Yeah, Emma. It's a hawk, not a
buzzard.
After putting her sunglasses back on, she looked around the area and scanned both
sides of the canyon. She stared at the brush and the ponderosa pines that lined either
side of the mountain ridges and spotted nothing suspicious.
She shrugged. Work, don't worry. Her father's strident voice entered her memory,
urging her to get the lead out. She frowned and sighed. Her father's arduous work ethic
dictated that no matter how hard she toiled it would never be enough. Nothing was
ever good enough for Harmon Baker.
Resolutely she shoved thoughts of her father to the back of her mind. Absorbing the
clean scent of mountain air invigorated her and, notwithstanding the intense heat, she
enjoyed herself. Everything on this dig would go well.
Unless, of course, that rancher got his underwear in a twist and told her to get the
hell out of Dodge.
Clement O'Donnell had warned her that his nephew wasn't exactly the friendly
type. She envisioned a tobacco-chewing, slang-using, swearing and animal-smelling
man who rode a big horse and used expressions like `darlin' or `honey'.
"Darlin', my butt," she said. She may have grown up in the city but she refused to
feel intimidated by men with backward ideas.
Emma reached for her canteen and unscrewed the cap for a long swig of cool water.
Somewhat revived, she decided to tackle the pit once again and stepped into it, settling
down with her legs crossed.
She groaned and shifted her legs, wishing for once she'd been born short. The
sample trench was narrow and her uncomfortable position almost precluded her from
leaning forward to use the trowel. What I wouldn't do for a couple of knee pads right now.
The sound of a vehicle approaching caught her attention. A truck barreled down
the dirt road, kicking up dust. Whoever was behind the wheel of the rapidly
approaching piece of metal drove too damn fast.
The rusted and dented lime-green truck roared to a stop. Choking dust floated into
the air. Emma grimaced, waving her hand in front of her face and squinting to keep the
dirt out of her eyes. Filthy windows obscured her view of all but a shadowy man. The
driver's side door swung open, rusty hinges creaking in agony.
Out stepped one very tall, very large, very angry hombre.
Emma's mouth dropped open slightly as she took her first good look at the man
striding toward her. His steps ate up the ground rapidly as he moved.
She waved and smiled, hoping to defuse whatever had lit this guy's fire. "Hi."
When he didn't answer, a tingle of worry and annoyance combined in her psyche.
Was this Clement O'Donnell's cowboy nephew? What was his name again? Steve?
Shannon?
She squinted, but she couldn't see his face clearly as the sun blazed down on her.
Cowboys. They were all lean, mean, with silly drawls and skinny butts. But, on
closer inspection, Emma realized this man could never be described as skinny. Nope.
Powerful, yes. Strong, absolutely.
Emma cataloged his attributes into convenient compartments, using her
archaeologist's analytical mind to decide that gorgeous would not slip into her
vocabulary describing this man. Animal magnetism, maybe. Mesmerizing, perhaps. No
way would she say gorgeous.
He stopped at the edge of the trench, and for a second, she thought he would step
right in. Instead he planted his feet slightly apart and rested his big hands on his hips.
She could now see him clearly.
He didn't wear one of those western shirts with the bolo tie. He sported a cropped,
royal blue muscle shirt of fine mesh with the number ten boldly emblazoned in white.
The shirt showed to advantage the powerful sinew in his arms and emphasized his
broad shoulders and the lean, washboard ripple of stomach muscles sprinkled with
dark hair. Obviously, he worked out or performed other physical exertion on a regular
if not daily basis. Her gaze traveled past that impressive display of masculinity and
noted faded jeans molded his lean hips with a wicked fit.
Her breath caught in her throat and she coughed as she took in dust. Lord, his body
was made for sin. With that muscle shirt, long dark hair pulled back, and attitude to
match, he didn't appear anything like a stereotypical cowboy. No cowboy hat, no
cowboy boots. His brown utility boots screamed lumberjack or construction worker.
Under those dusty jeans, his legs showed hard musculature. His hair shone almost
blue-black under the blazing sun. Though he was tanned, it wasn't the leathery skin so
many men acquired from baking in the sun. His chiseled jaw rough with a five o'clock
shadow belonged in the movies. His shimmering teal eyes burned under dark, thick
brows with an intensity that pierced her with fiery attention. She'd never seen such
mesmerizing, striking eyes. An uncanny feeling swept over her. She wondered if he
could read her mind.
She shivered despite the heat. Intimidating or not, blatantly physical or not, he
tugged at long-buried female needs.
His nicely carved mouth thinned and his eyes narrowed. The bottom dropped out
of her stomach.
Okay, on second thought, gorgeous might apply.
"What the hell do you think you're doing here?" His voice held a deep, husky
quality that reminded her of something smoky, sexy and sinful. Unfortunately his tone
was overlaid by unmistakable anger.
"Watch out, Mel Gibson," she said softly.
"What?" he asked, the sound quiet and tinged with danger.
He scowled and then she realized what she'd said out loud. Maybe if she was lucky
she could claim temporary insanity or heat stroke. If she were really lucky he'd mistake
the red in her cheeks for sunburn.
She wondered if he had a skinny butt.
Emma stood slowly, afraid if she moved quickly he'd pounce, like a mountain lion
or a bear. She stepped out of the pit. No need for him to have the extra height
advantage over her. As she stood next to him, however, even her five-ten frame was
small in comparison to this man's body. Smiling as she looked up at him, she extended
her hand. He had to be six-four or -five at least.
"Hi, I'm Emma Baker of Grant Wilder Archaeology."
He ignored her hand. His eyes targeted her with laser intensity and the darkness of
thick lashes barely softened clear irritation. "I know who you are."
She lowered her hand and exasperation flared in her gut. He might not look like a
stereotypical cowboy, but he was rude.
"Are you Clement O'Donnell's nephew?" she asked, kee
ping her voice modulated
so he wouldn't detect that he'd hit a nerve.
"It doesn't matter who I am, Miss Baker. You're on my land and you're
trespassing."
He crossed his arms and she noted the ripple in his biceps with his movement, the
interplay of muscles intriguing her despite her annoyance. Deliberately she shoved
away her physical reaction to him.
"As I understand it, I have every right to be here. If you want to see the papers for
the contract, I have them right here in my backpack," she said.
Emma dared to look into his eyes. His gaze surveyed her with a concentration she'd
never experienced before, as if he wanted to understand everything about her in a
millisecond. Suddenly her vulnerability made her stiffen with apprehension. A woman
alone in this canyon, with no other people within a couple of miles, had to be cautious.
"That won't be necessary," he said, the soft tone barely gentling the stiffness in his
posture, and the ready-to-spring look in his tightly coiled muscles. "My uncle might
have okay'd your presence on his land, but that piece of paper doesn't apply to my
property."
She wished she'd borrowed Grant's gun. He usually carried the weapon when they
worked in rattlesnake areas. But she never thought she'd need the weapon because
rattlesnakes didn't frequent this mountainous area.
At least not the type with legs.
It's okay, Emma. Don't make every man you meet the bad guy. O'Donnell isn't a serial
killer. He's just an arrogant, slightly pissed rancher who may have had a bad day.
As if sensing her discomfort and wanting to take advantage of it, he stepped
forward slightly and glared. "My uncle's property ends at those rocks over there." He
pointed back to a few yards away from her test pit and she noted the small foot-high
rock pile. "Your dig should have started back there and stayed there. My uncle gave
specific instructions."
Shadows and Ruins Page 1
