by Amy Olle
She shoved to her feet. “Shall we go have a closer look?”
She scrambled down the stairwell without waiting for his reply. Back on the first floor, she inhaled a deep, steadying breath, her first since ascending to the highest stair of the widow’s walk.
Outside, the passing storm forced out the stifling heat, and a breeze licked her skin and teased the ends of her hair. The treetops rustled in the wind. He pulled a crumpled baseball hat from his back pocket and tugged it over his head.
They headed north toward the outcropping that jutted into Lake Michigan. The terrain sloped upward, the grade growing steeper the farther away they moved from the house.
Noah’s pace quickened the higher they climbed while she huffed along behind him, dragging oxygen into her lungs and pushing on despite the burning in her thighs as she tried to keep up with him. At last, she achieved the top. A blast of wind skipped off the lake to greet her.
She shielded her eyes to the brilliant shards of sunlight reflecting off the water. She gulped large lungfuls of air.
As he stood poised at the edge of the cliff, Noah’s hungry gaze devoured the landscape. He turned, taking in the view from every direction. “They’d have been hidden and yet could keep an eye on everything for miles.”
She pulled her hair into one hand, securing it against the wind, and squinted up at him. “They?”
He stooped, gathered a fistful of dirt in his hand, and let it fall between his fingers. “It’s genius. The perfect location.”
“The perfect location for what?”
He stood and brushed his hand on his shorts. “A fort, or maybe a trading outpost.”
He walked the perimeter of the area of upturned earth, squatting on occasion to study something a moment and then move on.
She grew a little lost in watching him and the way the little commas of his curls stuck out from under his hat and bobbed with each gust of wind.
So when he abruptly looked up and right at her, she jolted.
“Check this out.”
She forced her eyes to the ground where he pointed. “What is it?”
“Another arrowhead.”
She leaned closer, but all she saw was dirt and mud.
“The Potomac Indians are known to have lived in this part of Michigan. Maybe it’s one of theirs.” He reached out and filched something from the earth.
“Another arrowhead?”
He shook his head and held up a chipped cylinder-shaped object. “A bullet casing, I think. Thief Island had a bit of a reputation as a pirate hideout at one point, if I recall.”
“Didn’t you hear? My five-times-great-grandfather drove the thieves and ruffians off the island when he settled here.”
“I’m sure he did,” he deadpanned.
“My family’s entire political legacy is based on that story, so it must be true.”
He laughed, and her heart took notice of the sound. His focus returned to the ground and left her bereft. Head bent, he prowled the area.
Just then, he crouched, reached out, and pulled another small thing from the earth. With the pad of his thumb, he brushed aside dirt and debris to reveal the long-obscured thing. He cradled the object in his strong, tanned hands, turning it with a gentleness that snatched the breath from her lungs. She couldn’t fathom what it was... a piece of metal or a broken garden tool? He held the object up, a small, fascinated smile curving his mouth.
Everything inside her stilled. She stood immobile, caught in the web spun by the expression on his face. One of rapture and reverence.
Seagulls screeched overhead, but she didn’t hear them over the hammering of her heart. Why did he care so much about something lost so many years ago? Something tossed aside and forgotten? Junk, nothing more. Nothing for him to bother with.
She wanted to tell him to leave it alone. Whatever it was, it was dirty and ugly and better left buried below ground. Yet he gazed upon that pathetic thing as though it were worth uncovering, worth bringing forth for the world to see.
As though, despite its irreparable flaws, it was precious, and knowing and protecting it were vitally important to him. Almost as if his life depended on it. Or his livelihood.
Jagged breaths rattled in her lungs. Concrete blocks cemented her feet to the ground, and a rapid-fire assault of disturbing thoughts pelted her brain.
The truth slammed into her.
“You’re the rock star.”
Chapter Five
Noah’s head came up, the smile lingering on his face. “What?”
“You’re an archaeologist.” She made it sound like an accusation of murder.
He straightened to his full height.
“A good one. You’ve written b-books, and-and you taught at Cambridge. You found a k-king.” She pointed a condemning finger at his chest. “You were on the BBC.”
He held his hands out at his sides. “What do you want me to say?”
“Am I right?”
“He was a prince, not a king.”
She gasped her horror. “You stole my job.”
Noah stilled. “What did you say?”
“They fired me to hire you.”
Dread curled through his gut. “I didn’t know.”
He took a step toward her and she stumbled back.
He froze midstride. “I swear to you, if I’d realized they were going to fire anyone, I never would’ve accepted the position.”
She turned blindly, only to whirl on him a split second later. “You work for ESU now?”
“I do.”
“And you’re here because of this?” One of her small hands cut through the air.
He inclined his head. “I am.”
“Do you also work for the state?”
“No, but they’ll accept my professional opinion.”
Her fists bunched at her sides, and she wrapped her arms over her stomach, as if she might contain all the pieces of herself. “What is your professional opinion?”
“I think an exploratory dig is necessary to determine whether the site is archaeologically significant.”
“What are you saying?” Panic crept into her voice.
“I’m saying we need to excavate.”
Her brow puckered. “Who does excavations?”
“A trained archaeologist.”
“Is that what you are?”
“Yes.” He wiped the dirt from his hands. “And if you ask me quickly, I just might agree to take on your project.”
Her nose scrunched up. “Do you want to do an archaeological excavation in my backyard?”
Noah inclined his head. “Yes, I do, but you’re not obligated to use me if you don’t want to.”
Cobalt-blue eyes glittered while she searched his face. Then a bitter smile twisted her lips. “Ah. So that’s why you were so curious about the house.”
“You’re wrong.” The denial shot from him with enough force to startle her.
She buried her surprise beneath a frown. “How long would an excavation take?”
He scanned the area, assessing the project size and likely scope. “Depends what we find.”
“You’re the expert.” Sarcasm dripped from her words. “What do you think we’ll find?”
“More arrowheads. Other evidence of a dwelling or an outpost. Give me a couple of months and I’ll be able to tell you more.”
“A couple of months...?” Her mouth opened and closed with frustrated impotence. “I just need a well.”
“Can you put the well somewhere else? That way, you get your well and the history isn’t harmed.”
“Apparently not.” She snuck a peek at him. “It’d be a whole lot easier to skip the excavation.”
“I know it would, but as the property owner, it’s your responsibility to protect the site.”
“What if there’s nothing here worth saving?” Desperation clung to her words.
“Any site is considered significant until proven otherwise.” Wishing to smooth the worry from her face, he offered up a smile. �
��I’m used to working with time and budget limitations. I’ll dig until the money runs out.”
Her brow puckered. “What money?”
His smile vanished. “The money to pay for the cost of an excavation.”
“Does the state pay for it, or will ESU?”
Noah stifled a groan. “ESU has set aside a small sum, a grand or so, but that will only scratch the surface. Literally. I’ll apply for grants for the rest.”
“That will take months.”
He conceded her point with a nod. “Maybe there’s some internal money at the university I can secure...”
Mina rubbed her temples. “Don’t bet on it. What else you got?”
Noah hedged. “There are private investors, but I don’t like to take them on unless it’s the only option.”
“How come?”
“Their agendas often don’t include preserving history. Some are straight-up treasure hunters.”
She worried her bottom lip a moment. “Isn’t there any other way to fund the work?”
“You could pay for it.”
She grew still. “How much are we talking?”
“It’s a small site. Equipment, permits, lab fees—”
“How much?”
“You’re looking at around ten thousand. If everything goes according to the plan—”
A strangled noise, sounding suspiciously like a sob, escaped her. “When do things ever go according to the plan?” Her voice pitched toward hysteria.
Noah didn’t understand her distress. She was a Winslow. She had access to more money, and friends with money, than she could likely spend in her lifetime. Hell, she had enough money to buy a dilapidated mansion to renovate, and to purchase the sleek BMW parked in her driveway.
He shoved his hands into his pockets. “Is that a problem for you?”
It was the wrong thing to say. The cloud of panic gathering around her evaporated, and she turned those big blue eyes on him, assessing.
In the end, she found him lacking.
He’d disappointed her, and knowing that displeased him. More than it should.
“A problem?” Her tone dropped to a dangerous level. “No, no, it’s no problem. Let me go grab my magical Winslow checkbook.”
She whirled and scrambled down the hill.
“Mina, wait—”
“Shall I make it thirty thousand? No, wait, let’s do fifty. That’s a good round number.”
He yanked his baseball hat from his head on a curse.
She gasped and spun to face him.
Noah froze, one hand buried in his hair. “What?”
“Did you... did you just call me a bitch?”
“What? No! Jesus Christ.” He threw the hat down and paced away from her.
“Then, what did you say?”
He jerked around. “‘Son of a bitch.’ I said ‘son of a bitch.’”
“Oh.”
He stalked toward her with long strides and pressed into her space. “Do not assume the worst about me. I don’t deserve that, and whether or not you believe me, I regret if anything I did caused you to lose your job. That’s not what I wanted. I’m sorry if my being here complicates your life. If it makes you feel any better, you’re one hell of a complication for me, too.”
She sniffed. “Is that what we’re calling each other now? A complication?”
Noah clenched his teeth and leaned close, so close he caught the hitch in her breath and saw the way her pulse fluttered at the base of her throat.
So, she wasn’t as composed as she’d like him to believe.
Her hand flitted to her neck.
Smug satisfaction flowed through him. “So, this is about us. About our past.”
She snorted. “I don’t think what we have counts as a past.”
“It counts.”
“Well, it has no bearing on the present situation.”
“You sure about that?” He brushed aside her trembling fingers to reveal her thrumming pulse point. “The best sex of your life, I mean, something like that would stay with you, like, forever, wouldn’t it?”
She flung a frustrated sigh into the air. “As much fun as this is, it’s pointless.”
“Sex is never pointless. Meaningless, maybe, but there’s always a point to it.”
“Focus,” she snapped.
All he could focus on was her over-plump mouth. The color had returned to her cheeks, and she glared up at him with bright eyes.
His voice dropped to a low timbre. “I’ve gotten better.”
She tilted her head to one side, and her critical gaze traveled the length of his body. “I should hope so.”
“Sounds like a challenge.”
“Sorry, I don’t... consort with academics.”
A bark of laughter erupted from him. “Oh? And why not?”
She shrugged her small shoulders. “Huge but fragile egos. I don’t have the time or inclination to deal with so much drama.”
He ate his smile. “Too bad. Might’ve been fun. I mean, I’m the best you’ve ever had—”
An exasperated sound burst from her. “You were the first guy I ever had sex with. You might’ve been awful for all I know.”
His brain tripped. He was her first? Had he known that? How had he not known that?
Still absorbing that little detail, his next words slipped out, poorly considered. “Is that why you refused to talk to me afterwards?”
She gave her head a small shake, her confusion evident. “What are you talking about?”
“After that night, you acted like I didn’t exist.”
“I... I...” Her mouth moved wordlessly.
He stared dumbly back at her. Was it possible she didn’t remember?
“No, that’s not true. You left.”
He struggled to hear her above the drone of the wind. “Not right away. I was here another month, at least.”
The color leached from her face, but she only gaped at him.
“The week after Halloween, we were on midterm break, and when we came back, you wouldn’t talk to me.” He searched her face for signs of comprehension but saw none. “You wouldn’t even acknowledge me.”
Her pupils dilated to swallow all the light, until her eyes appeared enormous, almost black.
Noah grew still. “Mina? What is it? What’s wrong?”
He reached for her and she jerked back, only to stumble over the uneven terrain. He cursed and caught her arm.
“Please,” she whispered. “I’ve got to go.”
He eased his grip and she spun, stumbling down the hillside.
“This isn’t settled,” Noah called after her.
“You can d-do the excavation,” she said over her shoulder. “I’ll... I’ll find the money.”
“That’s not what I—”
Her feet slipped but she caught herself in time. Noah’s muscles bunched, but he forced himself to remain on the hill. As she picked her way across the rutted ground, an odd prickle raced up his spine, and he rubbed the back of his neck.
The sensation wasn’t that odd, he supposed. He felt it almost every day—at work. He’d come to associate it with the chase. The quest of discovery. Of the story yet untold.
A mystery lured him every time, but he’d never felt the prickle when he looked at a woman.
Until now.
Chapter Six
She needed to get rid of Noah Nolan.
Soon after she’d deserted him on the hillside three days ago, she’d realized she’d been too rash in hiring him to do the excavation. Too eager to get the stupid thing underway and over with so she might regain control of her renovation. Too desperate to get off that hill and out from under his damning gaze.
Her online research found most of what he told her about excavations to be true and accurate. Except his estimated timeline undercut every other estimate she could find by a month or more.
So she’d resolved to let Noah poke around in her backyard.
Now she needed to make sure she could come up with
money to pay for his excavation, and the sooner the better if she wanted to prevent it from taking even a single second longer than was absolutely necessary.
She donned black slacks, a neat ivory twinset, and the diamond stud earrings her ex-fiancé had given her less than a month before he’d slept with another woman.
As her grandmother had once explained, the rich got rich by persuading other rich people to give them money, and the way to persuade these other rich people to give you money was to convince them you didn’t need it.
Mina decided to test Rose’s theory. She secured her wavy hair in a tidy bun, hoping she’d make it through her meeting with Mr. Renshaw, her family’s long-standing personal banker, before the heat and humidity coaxed free the curlicues at her nape and temples.
She ignored the icky feeling it gave her to rely on her Winslow connections. She was nearing desperation. Besides, she might as well benefit from the perks that came with belonging to a powerful, well-connected family.
Lord knew she’d paid the price tenfold.
Next, she rummaged through her closest for the Coach purse her mom had given her last Christmas. A robust hunt turned up the designer bag on the floor in the far back corner, underneath the disheveled pile of size-four secondhand designer clothing. Another “gift” from her mom, ignorant to the fact Mina hadn’t been able to wear a size four since that one week in fifth grade following a bout of the flu.
She crammed her feet into a pair of overpriced heels—thank you, Mom—and fastened a string of Rose’s pearls around her neck. She surveyed herself in the mirror.
A spoiled rich girl stared back at her. Just as planned.
But within moments of entering the bank, Mina’s plan backfired with a concussion blast loud enough to shatter her one remaining eardrum.
“Mr. Renshaw sends his apologies, but he isn’t available to meet with you today,” the receptionist at the front desk explained. “He’s given your application to another loan officer. She’ll be right with you.”
An office door opened, and Mina turned as Phoebe Taylor floated on a cloud through the bank lobby, her long legs and slender figure clad in a sexy-secretary skirt suit. Her dark hair cascaded down her back in lush waves.
Mina swallowed back bile.
In grade school, the other kids had teased Phoebe mercilessly because she’d often come to school dressed in their donated clothing, and because her mother had had a penchant for sleeping with their fathers. Appalled by the vicious attacks, once or twice Mina had found the courage to defend Phoebe against their cruel taunts.
