Cordina's Crown Jewel

by Nora Roberts

  “Del.”

  “Carl.”

  “How’s the folks?”

  “Good, last I heard.”

  “Good.” Carl’s eyes squinted behind the lenses of amber lensed sunglasses when he spotted Camilla. “That your car down the road a piece, miss?”

  “Yes. Were you able to get it out?”

  “Not as yet. Took a look at it for you. Got a busted headlight. Wrecked your oil pan. Left front tire’s flat as a pancake. Looks to me like you bent the wheel some, too. Gonna have to replace all that before you’re back on the road.”

  “I see. Will you be able to fix it?”

  “Yep. Send for the parts once I get it in the shop. Shouldn’t take more’n a couple days.”

  A couple of days! She readjusted her plans to drive on by evening. “Oh. All right.”

  “Towing, parts, labor, gonna run you about three hundred.”

  Distress flickered over her face before she could stop it, though she did manage to swallow the sound of it that rose up in her throat. Three hundred was twenty more than she had left in cash.

  The interlude, she realized as she gnawed over it, was going to leave her flat broke. She couldn’t call the car rental company as she wasn’t on their records and that left her no option but to call home for funds. The idea of it made her feel like a failure.

  Her silence, and the worried look in her eyes had Carl shifting his feet. “Ah … I can do with a hundred down. You can pay the balance when the work’s done.”

  “I’ll just go get the money.”

  She’d work something out, Camilla promised herself as she went back inside, and upstairs for her wallet. There had to be a way she could sell the watch—or something—within the next day or two. She had enough for a motel, for food until the car was repaired. As long as she was careful.

  She’d figure something out in the meantime. She was good at solving problems.

  But her stomach was busy sinking as she counted out the hundred dollars. It was, she discovered, lowering to need money. An experience she’d never had before—and, she acknowledged, likely one that was good for her.

  A hundred-eighty and some change left, she mused, tucked into a wallet that had cost more than twice that. Let that be a lesson to you, she ordered herself, and went back downstairs.

  Del was in the kitchen again, going through more notes.

  “I thought I’d ask the tow-truck operator to give me a lift into town.”

  “He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” She rushed to the window, stared out. “Where?”

  “To deal with your car.”

  “But I haven’t paid him yet.”

  “He put it on my account. Are you going to get that coffee?”

  “On your account.” Embarrassed pride stiffened her spine. “No. I have the money.”

  “Good, you can pay me when your car’s up and running. I want some damn coffee.”

  He grabbed a mug and strode off. She marched right after him. “Here, take this.”

  He ignored her and the money she held out, instead going through the process of taking the pot off the fire, carrying it to the table so he could pour it into the mug, carrying it back again, then picking up the mug.

  The woman was quivering with temper, he noted. Which was pretty interesting. He gave her points for being pissed. She wasn’t used to being obligated, he decided. Or being in financial straights. There was money somewhere—she was wearing a few grand in that slim, Swiss efficiency on her wrist. But, at the moment, it wasn’t in her wallet.

  That was a puzzle, but he wasn’t going to make it his business to solve it.

  He’d felt sorry for her—not a usual reaction in him—when he’d seen all that worry cross her face. And he’d admired her quick control of it. She hadn’t fluttered or whined, or used her looks to soften Carl up and cut a better deal.

  She’d sucked it up. That he respected.

  And it had occurred to him he could give her a hand, and solve one of his own problems without making either of them feel uptight about it.

  “I figure you earned about twenty this morning,” he told her. “Figuring ten bucks an hour for the work. I’ll give you that for the keyboarding, and you can earn off the bed and meals by cleaning this place up, doing the cooking. If Carl says a couple days, you figure four. In four days, you’ll have a place to stay and pay off the repair bill.”

  She stared at him, let it sink in. “You want me to work for you. To … do your housekeeping?”

  “Been doing it anyway, haven’t you? You get a bunk for four days, I don’t lose time with my work, and we part square at the end of it.”

  She turned away, in what he assumed was embarrassment. He’d have been surprised, and confused, to see she had a huge grin and was fighting off laughter.

  Oh, what the media would do with it, Camilla thought as she bit back chuckles. Camilla of Cordina paying for a roof over her head by scrubbing floors, heating up cans of soup and typing up notes on bones and elderberry seeds.

  “How the princess spent her summer vacation.” She could see the headline now.

  She had to squeeze her eyes shut and bite her lip to keep the laughter from tumbling out.

  She should refuse, of course. Give him the hundred dollars, beg a ride to town where she could contact her parents for a small loan or pawn the watch.

  But, Lord, it was so delicious. And so wonderfully out of character. Wasn’t that precisely the purpose of this quest?

  No televisions, no newspapers with her image on them. Interesting work in a beautiful part of the country she’d never spent time in. Learning things she found far more compelling than anything she’d studied in school and knowing she was making a positive impact solely on her own skills. Not because of who she was, or any obligations or favors—but most importantly because it was her choice.

  No, she couldn’t possibly walk away from the opportunity that had just fallen into her lap.

  “I’m very grateful.” Her voice trembled a bit with suppressed humor—which he mistook for the onset of tears.

  Nothing could have frightened him more.

  “It’s a fair deal, that’s all. Don’t get all sloppy about it.”

  “A very fair deal.” She turned back, eyes shining, and struggled to keep her tone casual and brisk. “Accepted,” she added, and held out a hand.

  He ignored the hand because he’d added a personal stipulation to the deal. He would not, in any way, shape or form, touch her.

  “I’m going to get the generator started, in case we don’t get the power back. Clean something up. Just don’t touch my stuff.”

  Camilla waited until she heard the rear doors slam behind him before she sat down and let the gales of laughter roll.

  Chapter 4

  An hour later, thoroughly appalled with the state of the cabin now that she had given it a thorough assessment, Camilla sailed into the shed. She was armed with a long list.

  “You need supplies.”

  “Hand me that damn wrench.”

  She picked up the tool and considered herself beyond civilized for not simply bashing him over the head with it. “Your home is an abomination. I’ll require cleaning supplies—preferably industrial strength. And if you want a decent meal, I’ll need some food to stock the kitchen. You have to go into town.”

  He battled the bolt into submission, shoved the switch on. And got nothing but a wheezy chuckle out of the generator. “I don’t have time to go into town.”

  “If you want food for your belly and clean sheets on which to sleep, you’ll make time.”

  He used the wrench to beat viciously at the generator, then gave it three solid kicks. Much too accustomed to the male response to irritating inanimate objects to be surprised, Camilla simply stood where she was, list in hand.

  When he’d finished cursing, she angled her head. “I’ve always wondered why men refer to uncooperative machines with crude female euphemisms.”

  “Because they fit like a g
love.” He leaned over, slapped on the switch and grunted with satisfaction as the generator let out a loud belch and began to run.

  “Now that you’ve accomplished that amazing feat, you’ll want to clean up before you go fill this list.”

  Eyes narrowed on her face, he picked up the wrench again, weighed it consideringly in his hand.

  The implication wasn’t lost on her. She simply stuck out her chin.

  He tossed the wrench aside, snatched the list and smeared it with the motor oil on his fingers. “I hate bossy women.”

  “I can’t stand crude men. We’ll both just have to live with it, since I’m currently washing your underwear.”

  The faintest glint of humor flicked into his eyes. “You’ve got plenty of starch. Just don’t use any on my shorts.”

  They started for the door at the same time, and ended up jammed together. Her hand went automatically to his chest where she felt the surprised kick of his heart match hers.

  “You’re going to have to keep out of my way,” he told her.

  “You’ll have to watch where you’re going, then.” She saw, with reluctant excitement, his gaze lower, and linger on her mouth. In response, her lips parted on one quiet and catchy breath.

  “You got that right, sister,” he muttered, and squeezed out of the door.

  “Well.” She breathed out, rubbing her finger experimentally over lips that felt just a little too warm. “Well, well.”

  She was angry, exhausted and energized—in a way she hadn’t been in a very long time. Alive, whole, healthy and, she realized, interested. It was something to think about.

  * * *

  Del discovered, very quickly, he didn’t care to be an errand boy. Shopping cut deeply into his day, and half the items on her list had him scratching his head in frustration.

  What the hell was chervil, and why did it have to be fresh?

  What the devil did she need with two dozen eggs?

  And three gallons of bleach.

  Maybe she was going to poison him with it, he mused as he drove back to the cabin. She’d looked mad enough to, behind that cool, queen-to-peasant stare she tended to aim at him.

  That was some face she had, he reflected. The kind that kicked a man right in the gut. Then you added on the voice, those legs that seemed to go straight up to her ears, and you had one dangerous female.

  He was starting to regret that he’d felt sorry for her.

  Still, he knew how to be careful around dangerous packages. And she was, after all, no more than a handy tool for the next few days. So he’d give her a wide berth when they weren’t actively working, keep his hands to himself at all times and do his best to think of her as a nonsexual entity.

  Then when he pulled up behind the cabin and she came running out, his heart all but stopped. Nonsexual? A tool? The woman was a weapon—and a lethal one at that, he decided.

  She was laughing, her face flushed with it as she pulled open the door and began to haul out grocery bags. “The power came back on. I never thought I’d be so delighted with something as basic as a working light switch. Still no phone service, but I’m sure that’s next.”

  He snagged a bag and followed her inside. She walked across the dirt and gravel, he thought, as if she were gliding across the polished marble floor of a ballroom. He decided it had something to do with all that leg. Which he wasn’t, of course, paying any attention to. Whatsoever.

  “How many people are you planning to feed for the next few days?”

  “Oh, don’t be cranky.” She waved him off and began to unload supplies. “I’ll make you a sandwich as soon as these are put away.”

  * * *

  She knew how to make a sandwich, he had to give her that. He ate, and ate well, in his now spotless kitchen, his mood improving as he scanned the next batch of notes. His ribs ached a bit, but the discomfort had eased to tolerable with just aspirin.

  When he was done, he dictated for another three hours while she transcribed. She interrupted now and then, but her questions didn’t bother him as much.

  The fact was, they were good questions, the kind that made him think. He did classroom duty from time to time, though it was never his first choice. He was forced to admit that the majority of students professing a desire to make a career in the field didn’t have as quick an understanding of the point as she did.

  He caught himself studying the long line of her neck. The graceful curve and arch of it. Mortified, he turned away, pushed himself back into his notes and forgot her.

  She knew he’d been staring, just as she knew he’d switched her off again as easily as a finger flicked a light from on to off.

  She found she liked it—all the aspects. His interest, his annoyance with it and the focus that allowed him to dismiss it.

  His interest had nothing to do with her family, her blood or her rank. It was the first time in her life she’d been utterly sure of that, and the response inside her was quick and pleased. As to the annoyance she could sense him feeling, that was purely satisfying.

  He saw her as a woman, first and last. Not an image, not a title. And that made her feel like a woman. He was attracted to her and didn’t want to be. That gave her a lovely edge of control—an essential female control that wasn’t weighed down with royal command.

  And his focus, well, that attracted her. It was a kind of skill she respected, and stemmed from willpower, intellect and passion for his work.

  It also challenged her. Though she knew it would be wise to resist that challenge. She was, after all, essentially alone with him—a man she knew little about—and flirting with that focus, trying to undermine it for her own curiosity and satisfaction might have … consequences.

  Then again, what was a quest without consequences?

  When he paused long enough, she rolled her stiff shoulders, smiled over at him. “Would you mind if we took a break?”

  She watched him come back to the present, back to the room, back to her. Felt his gaze, sexy and scholarly behind his reading glasses, slide over her as she rose to stretch.

  “I’m not finished,” he told her.

  “We can pick it up again after dinner, if you like.” She kept her smile easy. “I could use a walk before I start cooking. Do you ever walk in the woods, Del?”

  There was the faintest hum of invitation in her voice. He was sure—damn sure—it was deliberate. It packed a hell of a punch. He hated to think what she could do if she took a good, solid shot at a man.

  “Go ahead, I’ve got stuff to do.” He picked up more notes, dismissing her. He waited until she’d passed into the mudroom before he called out, “Watch out for snakes.”

  The hesitation in her stride, the faintest gasp, gave him a great deal of satisfaction.

  * * *

  He woke in the middle of the night with his ribs aching and his mind blurry.

  He’d been dreaming of her again, damn it. This time they’d been in the kitchen working on his notes. She’d sat at the keyboard, stupendously naked.

  The fantasy was juvenile enough to embarrass him.

  The problem with women was they could get to you just by breathing.

  He lay there a moment, willing his ribs to settle and his blood to cool.

  He’d gotten through the day and the evening, hadn’t he, holding on to his stipulation. He’d never touched her, not once. It would’ve been easy to. A finger trailed down that pretty nape while she’d typed. A brush of his hand when she’d passed him the salt over dinner.

  Easy, as easy as grabbing her one-handed, diving in and finding out what that long, mobile mouth tasted like.

  But he hadn’t. Points for him.

  Still, it made him a little nervous that he kept thinking about doing it.

  And she was flirting with him. He’d ignored, evaded or moved in on flirtations often enough to recognize one. Especially when the woman wasn’t being particularly subtle.

  He’d had students—or the occasional groupie who hung around digs—put moves on h
im. Mostly, in his estimation, because they’d dreamed up some romantic image about the field. He put the blame squarely on Indiana Jones for that. Though those movies had been so damned entertaining he couldn’t be sore about it.

  He dismissed the flirtations, or fell in with them, depending on the timing, the woman and his mood. But as far as serious relationships went, he’d managed to avoid that boggy complication. The redhead had complication written all over her, so fun and games were out of the question.

  He should get her a room in town. Pay for it. Move her out.

  Then he thought of the pile of neatly typed pages, and the intensity of his annoyance went way down. She was a miracle worker. Not only did her help mean he didn’t need to fight his way through the material on his own, but her questions, her interest and her organizational ability was actually getting him to deliver the best material he’d ever done. Not that he was going to mention that.

  He thought of the meal she’d put on the table. He hadn’t a clue what she’d done to that humble chicken, but she’d turned it into a feast.

  He began to revise his notion that she had a rich, irritated husband or lover stashed somewhere. She was too efficient, too clever in the kitchen to be somebody’s spoiled and pampered tootsie.

  Which was a good thing as fantasizing about another man’s woman was too close to fooling around with another man’s woman. And that was on his short list of unbreakable rules.

  If he moved her out, he’d be back to square one. If he moved her out, he’d be admitting he couldn’t keep his hands off her. If he admitted that, well, where was he?

  Giving up, he rose—remembered at the last minute to tug on sweats—and went down the hall to the bathroom. He didn’t notice the sparkling tiles and neatly hung fresh towels any more than he’d have noticed soap scum and damp heaps. But the scent caught him, because it was hers.

  And it tightened every muscle in his body.

  He yanked his pain medication from the cabinet, then shoved it back again. Damn pills made him stupid. He’d rather toss back a handful of over-the-counter stuff and a short, neat whiskey.

  He didn’t allow himself to so much as glance at her bedroom door, to think—even for an instant—of her lying in bed behind it. A minute later, he realized that fantasy would’ve been wasted because she wasn’t in bed.

  He heard her voice, the quiet murmur of it coming from the kitchen. Eyes narrowed, he paused, listened. He couldn’t quite make out the words, but the tone was soft, full of affection. It set his teeth on edge.

  Who the hell was she talking to? He moved forward and caught the end of her conversation.

  “Je t’aime aussi. Bonne nuit.”

  The quiet click of the phone on the receiver came an instant before he hit the lights.

  She stumbled back, bit off a scream and slapped both hands to her mouth. “Mon Dieu! Vous m’avez fait peur!” She let out a shaky breath, shook the French out of her head. “You frightened me.”

  “What are you doing down here in the dark?”

  She’d crept down to check the phone, and finding it working, had called home to reassure her family. She kept the lights off and her voice low to avoid exactly what was happening now. Explanations.

  “The phone’s back on.”

  “Yeah. Answer the question.”

  Her shoulders went back, her chin went up. “I didn’t realize I was meant to stay in my room like a child after bedtime,” she tossed back. “I’m repaying you for the lodging, and assumed I was free to make use of the house.”

  “I don’t give a damn if you dance a tango in the moonlight. I want to know