Full Circle

by Shannon Hollis

  Oh, God. The embarrassment of that moment flooded his memory—the snorting laughter of the supervising professor, the derision of the students for days afterward, and Cate’s red face as she suffered through the moment on his behalf.

  Back then, she had cared. Or so he’d thought.

  “Do you suppose anybody remembers that?” he asked softly. And more important, did she remember what had happened afterward?

  Later, when dinner was over and people were wandering back to their tents to moan over the no-alcohol rule, he had slipped away to the cliffs and found her sitting under a piñon pine, her back to the sandstone and her feet hanging over a hundred-foot cliff as if it were the deck of a swimming pool.

  That night, the moon had witnessed their first kiss.

  She was looking at him as though trying to see under the surface of his skin. “I doubt it,” she said at last. “They’ve probably all bought your book so they can brag about how they knew you when.”

  “Except you.”

  “I bought it. Tonight. For my friend Anne. And you made a mistake in the inscription.”

  No, he hadn’t. “I’ll give you another copy for your friend and sign it properly this time.” He stood and returned the chair to its place in front of the desk. “I was being an ass. Forgive me?”

  Every time he moved, she made sure the distance between them stayed the same. He wondered what she’d do if he crowded her up against the sliding glass door. Her room was on the second floor of the main lodge, and he had no doubt that she’d probably rappel over the balcony, bunny slippers and all, if he tried it.

  Instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Who are you now, really, Daniel?”

  He took refuge in flippancy. “The ‘real Indiana Jones,’ according to Newsweek.”

  “Yes, I read that, too. But I’m more interested in what you think, not what Newsweek thinks.”

  “I could ask you the same question. I could ask why a successful, attractive associate prof is still single. I could ask why you prefer pajamas to, say, Victoria’s Secret. And I could ask what I really want to know, which is why do your bunny slippers have teeth?”

  Waggling a foot, she pretended to admire one slipper the way a woman admires a huge diamond ring. “They’re a feminist reaction to male control of the sexual arena commonly known as the bedroom.”

  He stepped back, alarmed, and for the first time, her eyes warmed and her face lit with a grin. “You’re not a Monty Python fan, I take it.”

  He shook his head. “You know me. The Webslinger’s my man. Always has been.”

  “Some day I’ll explain it to you.”

  “How about tomorrow? Over breakfast, say? We can talk about why you like teeth and I like crime fighters.”

  “I’m going for a run first thing.”

  “I’ll wait. Some geology guy from San Jose State is talking about the mammoth bones he discovered in a riverbed. Not really my thing, so breakfast together would be a good alternative.”

  “Let’s see how it works out. Good night, Daniel.”

  And somehow—he wasn’t sure how—he found himself out in the hallway without even a kiss, while the door closed quietly between them.

  In the morning, Cate proved just as elusive. When she didn’t answer his seven o’clock knock at the door and she wasn’t in the common room swilling strong coffee with a lot of milk—was that still her drug of choice?—he decided to mosey on down to the beach. True, she could have decided that a run under the trees, where the road in to the conference center ran through five miles of thick Monterey pine and live oak, was a good idea, but he doubted it. The woman he remembered would have headed to where there was space and light. In the absence of hundred-foot cliffs, he’d bet she was already a mile down the beach.

  He’d have lost his bet, as it turned out. Big Sur was famous for plunging cliffs and crashing breakers, and the beach below the conference center was about fifty yards long and mostly submerged under high tide. A thin ribbon of sand was still left at the base of the cliffs, though. Enough to give a woman access to—aha.

  Cate Wells sat on a ledge about forty feet up, her legs dangling in empty space in exactly the way he remembered. The ledge wasn’t very wide, but she made it look as though she were draped on a chaise longue poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel.

  With a grin, he parked himself on a grassy patch at the side of the path down to the cove, and watched her. Did she do this at home in NewYork? Did she have days when she thought, Gee, I’d like some air—I think I’ll go climb out on one of the Woolworth building’s windowsills. Or did she do what normal people did, and go find a climbing wall at the nearest sporting-goods store? More important, did she have a climbing buddy who partnered her? And just who might that be? Some tight-assed stockbroker who thought everything revolved around him? Who only went out on windowsills when the market dipped?

  There must be a man in her life somewhere. A woman like Cate wouldn’t be alone. But if there was, how come he wasn’t with her? Was he some kind of stay-at-home guy who did all her cooking and let her boss him around in bed?

  A rock dug into his hip and Daniel got to his feet, feeling a little less cheerful than he had a few minutes ago. The movement attracted her attention. Cate’s gaze swung from the pale horizon to him, and he lifted one hand in a wave. She waved back, turned to the side and began climbing down.

  Watching Cate descend a cliff without equipment was like being six again and watching the trapeze artists at the circus. He knew she was capable. He knew it wasn’t a vertical slope and she had plenty of handholds. But still, he didn’t really breathe properly until she’d dropped lightly to the sand and begun the walk up to where he stood.

  “Good morning.” She loped up the slope and joined him where he once again lounged on the grassy patch overlooking the sea.

  “I thought I’d find you down here,” he said, “though I was thinking beach, not cliff. Have a seat.”

  “Couldn’t resist.” She flopped down next to him. “I feel as though I’ve been cooped up in my office for months.”

  “The academic year is almost over. Got any fieldwork scheduled for the summer?”

  She refashioned her ponytail and stretched out those long legs. The way she leaned back on both hands thrust her small breasts into prominence. She was a line of lean strength mixed with an elusive sense of vulnerability that made him want to pull her into his arms and find out what was wrong.

  For which she’d probably send him over the cliff.

  “I’ve been working pretty hard,” she said. “I was asked to assist on a site in New Mexico, but a friend of mine—Anne—” she shot him a sidelong glance “—wants to do a literary tour of England and asked if I’d be interested. I need to make up my mind soon.”

  “That sounds like a snooze. Here I thought you’d be dragging your boyfriend up El Capitan or something.” The granite dome in Yosemite National Park was a magnet for rock climbers. He’d heard you had to schedule your climb the way golfers had to schedule their tee times.

  “I’m between those at the moment.” Her tone was calm as she looked out over the ocean instead of at him, but her jaw was tight. “Besides, I’ve already done El Cap.”

  “I’m sure you have. Not to mention every other rock face on this continent. You’re going to have to widen your range to Europe at this rate.”

  With a smile, she said, “Maybe. I wonder if I can find Anne some literary sites in Switzerland.”

  “So what is it about climbing, anyway? Do you just like being on top?”

  Her expression didn’t change, but in the clear morning light it was hard to miss the hot color washing into her cheeks. “Does that threaten you?” she asked.

  “A woman on top? Not a bit. I’m a big fan of that, in fact.”

  “I didn’t know rock climbing interested you so much.”

  He grinned, that patented you-slay-me grin that studio audiences ate up. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about rocks.”


  This time she looked at him full in the face. “If you’re trying to embarrass me by making sexual innuendos, it isn’t working.”

  “Liar. Who’s blushing? Not me.”

  “I can’t help my physiological reactions.”

  “I love it when you talk geek, Cate.”

  Abruptly, she got up and dusted off the back of her khaki shorts. “Clearly it’s impossible to have a conversation with you that doesn’t revolve around your two favorite subjects—yourself and sex. It probably works very well with your groupies but I need a little more mental stimulation.”

  She was already five strides away by the time he got up, and he had to jog to catch her.

  “Cate.” He swung her around by one arm. “Hey. Don’t go.”

  “I want a cup of coffee.” She pulled away and kept walking.

  “Let me buy you one.”

  “I don’t think so, Daniel.”

  “Come on. You can’t avoid me all conference.”

  “I can do a fine impression of it.” Her pace didn’t slow one bit. They were leaving the cut through which the river ran and would soon be on the conference center’s lawn.

  “What about that consultation you wanted?”

  That got her. She slowed. “Right. The photographs.”

  “We can grab some breakfast and take it up to your room, if you want.”

  “I don’t think that’s—”

  “We need to be able to talk freely.” He threw down his trump card. “Don’t forget we’re surrounded. If these photos are something really extraordinary, we don’t want to give anyone the jump on it, so to speak, by overhearing our discussions.”

  Despite her reluctance, he could see her acknowledge the truth of that. “All right. Breakfast at my place.”

  Internally, he was grinning, though it didn’t show on his face. “Race you to the coffee,” was all he said.

  He let her win.

  For now.

  5

  I’LL HAVE MY COFFEE,SHOW HIMthe photos, and get out of here. I can be back in NewYork in time for The Late Show.

  It had been a mistake to come to the conference. Cate realized that now, standing in the breakfast line in front of tables heaped with freshly cut strawberries, melon and orange, along with trays of steaming eggs and plates artistically arranged with bagels and pastries. She chose fruit, carbs and protein with a careful eye to the food pyramid, and filled her tall travel mug with coffee and cream. That part wasn’t on the food pyramid, but we were talking the bare necessities for survival, here.

  Daniel took two of everything. How he hung on to that narrow-waisted frame feeding it things like that was a mystery.

  Back in her room, she cleared off the round worktable, pulled up two chairs and waved him into one.

  “Isn’t this cozy.” Fruit, eggs, sausage and biscuits disappeared with methodical rapidity. He glanced up. “Aren’t you eating?”

  “Yes, of course.” It had been a long time since she’d seen a man eat with such gusto. Did he do everything that way—charge into it with such focus and concentration? Maybe that was why he was so good at what he did. Maybe people like her stayed in the office and wrote the papers and people like him went out into the field and gave them something to write about.

  He gave the magazines something to write about, too. One of the things he also enjoyed with gusto was women, and as much as she’d determined not to think about it, it was hard not to with him right here in the room. He had that quality that made female heads turn. It wasn’t the dark eyes, or the sensual mouth or the stubbled jaw. It wasn’t the way his hair fell on his forehead or the long-fingered hands holding knife and fork.

  It was the way they all went together, creating a whole that was much more than the sum of its parts. She’d sensed that quality in him years ago—that sexual quality, that magnetic thing that tugged a woman deep inside and said, “Yum. Must have that for mate.”

  Maybe that was why she’d run. She’d been as green as a bean at a lot of things—sex, life, men, you name it. Maybe some instinct deep inside had perceived that she’d be engulfed in him and lose a self that wasn’t completely formed yet, and that had prodded her out of the cavern and out of his life.

  Was it that same instinct that was telling her now she’d better pack her bags—or else?

  Or else what, exactly?

  “So tell me what I’m going to be looking at,” he suggested as he finished the last of his breakfast. He took their empty plates and set them outside in the hall, though technically this wasn’t a hotel and she had every reason to believe the staff wouldn’t be impressed.

  But then, he’d probably charmed the support hose right off the staff and there was an entire fleet of them waiting in the nearest linen closet to take his dishes away.

  She took a fortifying slug of coffee and pulled the manila envelope out of her briefcase. “A woman named Morgan Shaw came to my office last week to ask if I could tell her anything about a wooden box she’d found in her antique shop in Connecticut. The only thing I could say for sure was that it was made of bubinga and it was possible the carvings are contemporary with Egypt’s Nineteenth Dynasty.”

  He spread the photos on the table and leaned on his elbows, studying them.

  “As you know,” she went on a little diffidently, “a number of desert cultures were engulfed by Egypt’s expansion during that period. I wondered if this was one of them.”

  For five silent minutes he turned the force of his concentration on the eight-by-ten color photographs, looking from one to the other, putting one or two side by side, then separating them and pairing different ones.

  Finally he sat back and reached for his coffee cup without looking at it, his gaze fixed on the pictures.

  “Wow,” he said.

  “Photos don’t do it justice,” she offered. “When you actually hold the box, you see just how the carved images re-form and flow into one another. Every angle gives you a different perspective. It’s eerie.”

  “What’s inside?”

  “That’s just it. There doesn’t seem to be a way to open it. But Morgan says there’s a compartment—she ran it through an X-ray machine.”

  “If there’s a compartment, there must be a key.” He glanced up. “You know how tricky the Egyptians were with secret entrances and doors in their pyramids and gravesites. It was a common practice that could have been part of this culture, too, though clearly it’s not Egyptian.”

  “Any guesses as to who might have made it?”

  “The symbology has elements of Egyptian art, so I’m thinking there might have been a bit of culture bleed before they were taken over completely. Which would mean a neighboring kingdom, and given the difficulty of agriculture deep in the desert away from the Nile, those are limited to the Manassites and the El Gibi.”

  “The Manassite symbology doesn’t include rivers or river animals, like this crocodile.” She pointed to a figure on the photo closest to her. “They were a herd-based culture.”

  “That leaves the El Gibi, about which we know hardly anything. Not even what they really called themselves. Kind of like the Navajo naming the Anasazi.”

  Cate nodded. “I’m sure they didn’t call themselves the Old Ones.” She picked up a photo and Daniel took the one beneath it, a shot of the box’s lid. “But what I’d like to know most is—”

  “Cate.”

  “What?” She looked up.

  “Look at this.”

  Obediently, she looked at the shot of the top of the box. There was a bird and some river symbols and the harp she’d seen before when—

  Wait a minute.

  “They lock together,” she said. “Like those Escher drawings, only more complicated.”

  “Look at the edges. They form the shape of a star.” His tanned finger traced the outline, an area about the size of a fifty-cent piece. “And the middle is hollow. Or maybe, given the cultural bleed, it’s a Ra symbol.”

  Cate remembered running her fingers along the channels
made by that awl all those centuries ago. Someone had held the awl with strong, powerful hands. Hands like Daniel’s.

  No, no. Do not think about that.

  “Who do you think the artist was?” She didn’t expect him to have an answer, but talking about the box kept her focused on work instead of…other things.

  “Impossible to say.” He tapped the photos together and handed them to her. “But he—or she—had an unusual talent. And the person was no stranger to geometry, the way those pictograms fit together to form the star. So, probably an educated person. More than that, I couldn’t tell you.”

  She slid the photos back into their envelope and replaced it in her briefcase. “Thanks for the help, Daniel. It’s not much to go on, but at least it’s something to give Morgan. She was pretty passionate about it.”

  “You know antique people. They get that way.”

  With a smile, she agreed. “At least she wasn’t the usual crackpot that shows up on my doorstep with some wonderful find that turns out to be a fifty-year-old fake.”

  “Don’t you hate that?” He pushed his chair back and stretched, the fabric of his shirt pulling taut over compact abs and the kind of chest that a woman could fall on in complete bliss. “With my work at the digs, I get the ones who are convinced the clay pot somebody’s kid made in the forties is an example of primitive art.”

  “Pre-Columbian, at that.”

  “At least. If not Precambrian.”

  To her surprise, Cate found herself laughing along with him.

  “I can’t blame people, though,” he said thoughtfully after a moment. “Isn’t buried treasure a fantasy we have as kids? Look at me. I’ve never lost that fascination.”