by Noelle Adams
He’d heard it many times before, although it only happened when the wind was blowing in a particular direction.
They’d started walking again—Philip following from a distance—when Lucy glanced back and saw him.
“Philip,” she said, gesturing toward him, “Make yourself useful. What is that mournful sound?”
“The ghosts of lost warriors, bemoaning the loss of their lives and their home.”
Lucy completely ignored his sarcasm. “I assume it’s from the wind, but I can’t find what’s causing it.”
She looked so genuinely interested and excited—even without the prospect of a paranormal cause—that Philip nodded toward the barrow. “It is the wind. It’s over there.”
“Show me.” She gestured toward Sawyer to keep filming as she started walking in the direction Philip had indicated.
He put his hand on her back as they walked. He told himself it was just to get her going in the right direction, but he felt a weird possessive urge as he did so.
He dropped his hand when he recognized it.
They walked to the east entrance of the barrow. It was dark inside, so Lucy took a flashlight from Dana and shined it into the darkness of the tomb.
“We don’t have to go too far in,” Philip told her.
She sucked in an indignant breath at the implications. “I’m not scared. You have no idea how many ancient tombs I've entered.”
To prove her point, she started to walk in, but she missed a step as the ground descended slightly.
Philip reached out instinctively to stabilize her, and he tried to ignore the fact that one his hands ended up on her very fine ass.
Only a few steps in, he showed her the narrow opening between the stones where the wind whistled when it blew in a particular direction.
She was fascinated by it, and she made sure Sawyer filmed it from various perspectives.
Then she did a short segment where she explained with a vivid smile how this might explain a lot of the legends of haunting that had built up around the site.
Despite himself, Philip was impressed. Not just with how charming and articulate she was, but also with how she wasn't trying to make something supernatural out of a very natural occurrence.
It wasn't what he’d expected from her show.
She thanked him afterwards in a tone that made it clear he was dismissed.
It was late, and he really should get a couple of hours of sleep—since he had to get up early the following day—so he didn't object to her obvious attempt to get rid of him.
He only stopped when he heard her say, as he was walking away, “Sawyer, just make sure we edit out the part where he was groping my ass.”
***
Several hours later, Lucy returned to the trailer, pleased with a good night of filming.
She was exhausted, but she’d have a chance to sleep some this morning before Michael McPherson arrived in the afternoon for an on-camera interview on Orkney lore.
She let out a long breath, starting to relax, as she walked into her bedroom. Arthur ran in too and immediately curled up on his blanket, evidently exhausted from the long day.
Lucy jerked to a stop with a choked sound of surprise when she saw someone was already in the room.
It was Philip, she recognized immediately. His golden-brown head was unmistakable, even though his back was to her, kneeling down on the floor looking in one of the built-in drawers under the bed.
His back was very fine—with broad shoulders and smooth lines tapering down to his waist. She could see it very clearly, since he wasn't wearing a shirt.
He stood up abruptly and turned around when he heard her.
He had a shirt in his hand.
“Sorry. I hadn't taken enough clothes out before you arrived.”
She blinked at the sight of his bare chest. As she’d noticed the other night, it was a gorgeous chest. Masculine, with firm abs and pleasing musculature but nothing bulky or ungainly.
“It’s fine,” she managed to say. “I guess you’re getting up as I’m going to bed.”
“Yeah. We start early.”
“I know.”
They stared at each other for a minute. Their brief encounter that night hadn't been awkward, since Sawyer and Dana had been in attendance and the topic had been professional.
But now Lucy couldn't help but think about kissing him the night before. It hadn't even gone very far—just a little tongue—but it had still managed to take her breath away.
“Did you get the filming done you were hoping?” he asked, his voice sounding slightly hoarse, which surprised her, since he was usually so controlled.
“Yeah. We got some good stuff. I’m thinking we’ll do inside the barrow either tonight or tomorrow night.”
“Sounds good.”
They both stood motionless, although this should be the time when he should leave. She really needed some sleep.
But she wanted him. Viscerally. She wanted his lean, strong body, and his intelligent blue eyes, and his skillful, calloused hands, and the coiled tension she could sense in his stance.
She wanted him.
“Philip,” she began, telling herself she needed to say something to get him out of this room. Quickly.
He took a step closer to her. “I wasn’t groping your ass earlier.” He blinked, as if he was surprised he’d said that.
She frowned. “That was a definite grope.”
“I was trying to keep you from falling.”
“Very convenient that your hand happened to land there.”
Now he frowned too. “I assure you—if I wanted to touch a woman, it wouldn't be under the pretense of a random grope.”
It was an absolutely ridiculous conversation, but it made her heart beat wildly just the same. Her cheeks had flushed, and she was breathing unevenly. And Philip had somehow ended up even closer to her. “I know a grope when I feel one.”
Despite her growing excitement, she couldn't help but snicker when she realized how foolish her words had been.
Philip let out a huff of amusement too, his mouth softening and his eyes warming.
And she couldn't resist anymore. She reached out and pulled his head down toward hers.
He responded to the kiss immediately, reaching one hand up to cup her face and sliding the other hand down to the small of her back, pressing her against him.
His lips were passionate, demanding. Her body softened against his, and her mouth opened to the advance of his tongue. Pleasure and need rushed through her, overwhelming her senses.
Soon, she was clawing at the bare skin of his back, and he was palming the curve of her bottom. Their tongues tangled together eagerly, and arousal had tightened between her legs.
There was a bed just a few feet away from them, and Lucy desperately wanted to make use of it. But one last lingering glimmer of sense stopped her from pushing him in that direction.
She pulled her mouth away from his and then took an awkward step backwards.
Her whole body throbbed shamelessly, but she made herself ignore it.
Philip’s features twisted, as if objecting to the abrupt end to their embrace. But he didn't argue or make another move.
Lucy had no idea what to say. She was the one who had kissed him, and she desperately wanted to do it again.
“I suppose,” she said at last, “That you’ll say you weren't groping my ass just then either.”
“Oh no,” he said, shaking his head with a tiny twitch of his mouth. “That was definitely a grope.”
Her own lips wobbled in response, but she cleared her throat in an attempt to clear her mind. “Well, I should get some sleep.”
“Okay. I need to get to work.” He just stood there, though, still staring at her like he might swallow her whole.
“I guess you need to get out of the room if you’re going to get to work,” she said at last.
“Right." He gave his head a firm shake. “Right.”
He finally left the room, and Lu
cy began to change out of her pretty suit.
She hoped—she desperately hoped—she’d be able to go to sleep without resorting to the predictable method of relieving the aching tension his kiss had left her with.
She didn't even like him. He had no right to turn her on so much.
Five
Philip was tired, miserable, and sopping wet.
He didn’t appreciate feeling that way.
Lucy and her crew had been filming for almost two hours, having started at around ten that evening. It had been drizzling when they began, which Lucy was happy about because it gave an effective ambiance to the shoot. But the rain kept getting harder as the minutes passed, and now it was pouring.
The shoot was in the barrow that evening, so at least that provided a roof over their heads. Barrows, however, were always damp, and they were not built to withstand rain storms.
The ground was a mud pit at the moment, and rain poured in through the many cracks in the walls and ceiling.
Lucy, evidently oblivious to these conditions, was giving a perky monologue on Neolithic burial practices. Her hair—which she’d originally styled in an elegant updo—was now falling over her shoulders and plastered to the sides of her face. Her ruffled blouse and tight skirt were also damp, clinging to her body in a very distracting way.
She was getting the details right, though, occasionally using the exact words he’d used over the last few days as she provided a simple, accessible background on how the original peoples of this island had treated their dead.
Philip already knew how they treated their dead. He didn’t have to be out here tonight, since they weren’t filming an interview segment with him. He should just go back to the trailer. He was mostly in the way, and he was getting more and more grumpy and uncomfortable.
But something kept him here. The last time Lucy had suggested he go to bed, about a half-hour ago, she had called it stubbornness. Philip didn’t think stubbornness was the right term, however.
He didn’t know what the right term was.
As Lucy wrapped up her spiel, pushing her wet hair out of her eyes and never losing her beaming smile, a sudden of burst of wind rushed through the barrow.
Arthur, who had been sitting at Lucy’s feet—looking every bit as bedraggled as a wet dog could look—jumped up at the sudden noise and burst into raucous barking.
Lucy gestured to Sawyer, who had been wiping the lens of his camera of excess water. The young man pointed the camera at Arthur as he barked and then slowly stalked toward the entrance chamber, from where the wind had come.
Despite his bad mood, Philip couldn’t quite suppress his amusement at the utter seriousness of the dog, pacing and stopping and sniffing and peeking around the corner for an approaching monster.
“Sometimes,” Lucy said, walking over to where the dog had halted, “a girl has just got to step into the gap for her dog.” She was speaking to the camera, and it was impossible to miss the clever irony in her tone and expression.
She peeked around the corner, in almost exactly the same pose as the Bichon Frise and groomed just as impractically for the mud and rain in her stiletto heels and pearls.
Philip had to turn away to stifle his laughter, since he didn’t want to mess up the shoot.
When Sawyer said, “Got it,” Lucy relaxed and wiped streams of water off her face.
“We better stop for the night,” Dana interjected. She’d been grinning, clearly as amused as Philip was. When Lucy looked like she might object, Dana went on, “Your clothes are so wet they’re getting transparent. We don’t want to accidentally step into R-rated territory.”
Philip was glad he wasn’t the only one who’d noticed how much of Lucy’s lush body was visible through her wet clothes.
Passionately kissing Lucy twice in the last two days had not been good for his state of mind. Since she’d pulled back after each time, he’d been left unfulfilled and frustrated.
The kiss that morning had gotten to him so much that he’d had to take care of his arousal discreetly when he returned to the office to finish getting dressed, no small feat since the walls were paper thin.
His frustration and desire had been compounded by continuing to hear Lucy move around the bedroom and then actually get into the bed.
He’d heard the bed squeaking slightly, the way it did when one rolled over or adjusted position, and he couldn’t help but picture her as aroused as he was and taking care of it in the same way.
She probably had just been getting more comfortable, but even the vague notion fed his fantasies so intensely he had come from it.
He dreaded what his fantasies would be like later tonight, lying on the couch—one thin wall away from Lucy—and picturing her in her clingy, transparent clothes.
He hadn’t been so assaulted by physical desire since he’d been in his early twenties, and he tried resolutely to talk himself down from it.
“Philip?” Lucy prompted, as if she’d asked him something he hadn’t heard.
“What?”
“We’re going back. Did you want to stay out here in a wet tomb to brood with the spirits?”
He rolled his eyes and followed her out of the barrow, trying unsuccessfully not to leer at the rich curve of her ass in her wet skirt.
Arthur kept looking back at him, as if ascertaining that he wasn’t up to trouble. Evidently, the dog was still suspicious of him.
Sawyer and Dana walked ahead of them, Dana laughing at something he’d said. So, when Lucy’s heel got stuck in the mud and she almost fell, Philip was the only one there to catch her.
His breath caught as he grabbed her and she leaned against him for balance for a moment. Even as drenched as they were, with rain streaming down their faces, Philip was hit with the irresistible urge to kiss her.
He managed to resist the impulse and then prided himself on his iron control.
Arthur, his suspicions verified by this assault on his owner’s person, launched himself at Philip’s ankle.
“Down,” Philip said with curt authority.
“Arthur,” Lucy said, in much the same tone at exactly the same time.
The dog, thus doubly chided, shrunk to his belly on the long, wet grass.
Lucy’s face softened, and she reached down to scoop the dog up. “He doesn’t trust you,” she said, slanting a look over at Philip as they started to walk again.
“That’s quite clear, although he must be picking up on your vibes since I’ve never done anything to him.”
“Here. You carry him so he’ll get to know you more.” Without waiting for his agreement, she thrust the muddy dog at Philip, who had no choice but to take him.
He tucked the squirming dog under his arm so the animal couldn’t wriggle away.
“And what do you mean by my vibes?” Lucy continued.
“Well, if he senses you’re always on the verge of snapping my head off, then he’ll think there’s good reason for it—not knowing I’m an innocent victim of an irrational woman.” He hadn’t intended to tease her that way, and he certainly hadn’t intended for his voice to be so warm and fond.
He wasn’t even sure where it came from.
He could see her suppress an answering smile before she gave him an exaggerated, outraged look. “Irrational, am I? I’m not the one who was so stubborn and proud that he stood in the rain glowering for hours tonight rather than go to bed like a sane person.”
“I wasn’t glowering.” They’d reached the trailer, and Philip walked into the bedroom after Lucy, since he was still carrying her dog.
“You certainly were glowering. As if you thought I was going to desecrate your sacred island by making up supernatural phenomena.”
“I didn’t think that.”
Lucy had picked up a towel to dry her hands and face, but she paused to shoot him a significant look.
“I might have at first,” Philip amended. “But I don’t now.”
“You don’t?” For some reason, her question was almost uncertain, as i
f she really cared what he thought.
“No. I don’t think you’d make something up just to appeal to your fans.” He should be leaving, since this was her bedroom for the moment, and he was standing in the middle of it and dripping all over the floor. He didn’t leave. “Do you really believe in the supernatural?”
She shrugged and glanced away. “I do. Don’t you?”
“No. Whatever looks that way always has a reasonable explanation.”
“I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of the events I investigate. It’s just that science isn’t the explanation for all of them.”
Philip thought about that for a moment, trying to focus on the intellectual question instead of the way Lucy’s tight nipples were poking out through her wet blouse.
“You’ve always been a kind of investigator,” she continued. “You dig up answers to ancient questions. That means you believe there’s more in this world than we’re aware of right now. Why shouldn’t the mysteries—the unexplainable—go deeper than you can excavate with your tools?”
She was utterly serious, and he responded in kind. “What have you seen?”
She shook her head. “I’ve seen things that terrified me. Not often, but occasionally. And maybe there were explanations, but they weren’t explanations any scientific method could uncover.”
She leaned down to dry off Arthur with the towel, since the dog wouldn’t stop flapping and shaking. “You know,” she murmured, almost diffident, “for most of human history, people knew the world was far bigger than science can explain. Why would we assume we have all the answers now?”
Philip stared down at her, hearing her, knowing her.
She stood up with the wet towel, letting Arthur go scratch up a spot on his blanket. “I’m not a crazy person, Philip.”
“I know you aren’t,” he said softly. She was clever and deep and insightful and glowing with vibrant life.
He cleared his throat, trying to pull himself together. “But I don’t think there’s anything supernatural on this island.”
