by Nora Roberts
“Leave the hair alone.”
She couldn’t blame him. It was a marvelous head of hair, wonderfully streaky and tumbled. In any case her one attempt at cutting hair—her own—had proved she had no hidden talent for it.
“All right, just relax.” She covered his face with a warm, damp towel. “I’ve seen this in movies. I believe it softens the beard.”
When he gave a muffled grunt and relaxed, she looked out at the woods. They were so green, so thick, dappled with light and shadows. She could hear birdsong, and caught the quick flash of a cardinal—a red bullet into a green target.
No one was huddled in those shadows waiting for her to make some move that would earn them a fee for a new photograph. There were no stoic guards standing by to protect her.
The peace of it was like a balm.
“It’s beautiful out today.” Absently she laid a hand on his shoulder. She wanted to share this lovely feeling of freedom with someone. “All blue and green with summer. Hot, but not oppressive. In Virginia, we’d be drenched in humidity by now.”
Aha! He knew he’d tagged a touch of the South in her voice. “What’s in Virginia?”
“Oh, my family.” Some of them, she thought. “Our farm.”
As she took the towel away, his eyes—sharp and full of doubt—met hers. “You’re telling me you’re a farmer’s daughter? Give me a break.”
“We have a farm.” Vaguely irritated, she picked up the shaving cream. Two farms, she thought. One in each of her countries. “My father grows soy beans, corn and so on. And raises both cattle and horses.”
“You never hoed a row with those hands, kid.”
She lifted a brow as she smoothed on the shaving cream. “There’s been a marvelous new invention called a tractor. And yes, I can drive one,” she added with some asperity.
“Hard to picture you out on the back forty.”
“I don’t spend much time with the crops, but I know a turnip from a potato.” Brows knitted, she lifted his chin and took the first careful swipe with the razor. “My parents expected their children to be productive and useful, to make a contribution to the world. My sister works with underprivileged children.”
“You said you had brothers.”
“One sister, two brothers. We are four.” She rinsed the razor in the bowl, meticulously scraped off more cream and stubble.
“What do you do, back on the farm?”
“A great many things,” she muttered, calculating the angle from jaw to throat.
“Is that what you’re running away from? Hey!”
As the nick welled blood, she dabbed at it. “It’s just a scratch—which I wouldn’t have made if you’d just stop talking. You say nothing for hours at a time, and now you don’t shut up.”
Amused, and intrigued that he’d apparently hit a nerve—he shrugged his shoulder. “Maybe I’m nervous. I’ve never had a woman come at me with a sharp implement.”
“That is surprising, considering your personality.”
“Tagging you as Rebecca of Sunnybrook Farm’s surprising, considering yours. If you grew up in Virginia, where’s the French pastry part come from?”
Her brows lifted above eyes lit with humor. “French pastry, is it? My mother,” she said, ignoring the little twist of guilt that came from not being completely honest. Because of it, she gave him more truth—if not specifics. “We spend part of our time in Europe—and have a small farm there as well. Do this.” She drew her top lip over her teeth.
He couldn’t stop the grin. “Show me how to do that again?”
“Now he’s full of jokes.” But she laughed, then stepped between his legs, bent down and slowly shaved the area between his nose and mouth.
He wanted to touch her, to run his hand over some part of her. Any part of her. He wanted, he realized, to kiss her again. Whoever the hell she was.
Her thumb brushed his mouth, held his lip in place, then slid away. But her gaze lingered there before it tracked up to his.
And she saw desire, the dangerous burn of it in his eyes. Felt it stab inside her like the fired edge of blade.
“Why is this, do you think?” she murmured.
He didn’t pretend to misunderstand. He didn’t believe in pretense. “I haven’t got a clue—other than, you being a tasty treat for the eyes.”
She nearly smiled at that, and turned to rinse the razor again. “Even attraction should have more. I’m not sure we even like each other very much.”
“I don’t have anything against you, particularly.”
“Why, Delaney, you’re so smooth.” She laughed because it eased some of the tension inside her. “A woman hasn’t a prayer against such poetry, such charm.”
“You want poetry, read a book.”
“I think I do like you.” She considered as she came back to finish the shave. “On some odd level, I enjoy your irascibility.”
“Old men are irascible. I’m young yet, so I’m just rude.”
“Precisely. But you also have an interesting mind, and I find it attractive. I’m intrigued by your work.” She turned his face to the side, eased in close again. “And your passion for it. I came looking for passion—not the sexual sort, but for some emotional—some intellectual passion. How strange that I should find it here, and in old bones and broken pots.”
“My field takes more than passion and intellect.”
“Yes. Hard work, sacrifice, sweat, perhaps some blood.” She angled her head. “If you think I’m a stranger to such things, you’re wrong.”
“You’re not a slacker.”
She smiled again. “There now, you’ve flattered me. My heart pounds.”
“And you’ve got a smart mouth, sister. Maybe, on some odd level, I enjoy your sarcasm.”
“That’s handy. Why don’t you ever use my name?” She stepped back to pick up a fresh towel and wipe the smears of shaving cream left on his face. “It is my name,” she said quietly. “Camilla. My mother enjoys flowers, and there were camellias on my father’s farm when he took her there for the first time.”
“So, you only lied about the last name.”
“Yes.” Testingly she ran her fingers over his cheeks. “I think I did a fine job, and you have a nice, if complicated face. Better, by far, without the scraggly beard.”
She walked to the table, wiped her hands. “I only want a few weeks for myself,” she murmured. “A few weeks to be myself without restrictions, responsibilities, demands, expectations. Haven’t you ever just needed to breathe?”
“Yeah.” And something in her tone, something in her eyes—both haunted—told him that, at least, was perfect truth. “Well, there’s plenty of air around here.” He touched his face, rubbed a hand over his freshly shaved chin. “Your car’ll be ready in a couple days. Probably. You can take off then, or you can stay a week or two, and we’ll keep things the way they are.”
Tears stung her eyes, though she had no idea why. “Maybe a few days longer. Thank you. I’d like to know more about your project. I’d like to know more about you.”
“Let’s just keep things the way they are. Until they change. Nice shave … Camilla.”
She smiled to herself as the screen door slammed behind him.
* * *
To demonstrate her gratitude, Camilla did her best not to annoy him. For an entire day and a half. She had the cabin scrubbed to a gleam, his photographs and sketches labeled and filed. The neatly typed pages from his notes and dictation now comprised two thick stacks.
It was time, she decided, for a change in routine.
“You need fresh supplies,” she told him.
“I just bought supplies.”
“Days ago, and the key word is fresh. You’re out of fruit, low on vegetables. And I want lemons. I’ll make lemonade. You drink entirely too much coffee.”
“Without coffee: coma.”
“And you’re nearly out of that as well, so unless you’d like to be comatose, we have to go into town for supplies.”
For the first time, he spared her a look, taking off his reading glasses to frown at her. “We?”
“Yes. I can check on the status of my car as your Carl only makes mumbling noises over the phone when I call to ask about it.” She was already checking the contents of her purse, taking out her sunglasses. “So. We’ll go to town.”
“I want to finish this section.”
“We can finish when we get back. I’m happy to drive if your shoulder’s troubling you too much.”
In point of fact, his shoulder barely troubled him at all now. He’d put the hours he spent restless and awake in his room at night to good use by carefully exercising it. His ribs were still miserable, but he was about ready to ditch the sling.
“Sure, I’ll just let you behind the wheel of my truck since you’ve proven what a good driver you are.”
“I’m a perfectly good driver. If the deer hadn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah, well you can forget driving my truck, kid.” Since he knew her well enough now to be sure she’d nag and push for the next hour, he decided to save time and aggravation and just go. “I’ll drive—but you do the grocery thing.”
When he simply stood, frowning, she angled her head. “If you’re trying to remember where you put your keys, they’re in the ignition of your precious truck, where you left them.”
“I knew that,” he muttered and started out. “Are we going or not?”
As pleased as if she’d been offered a night on the town, she hurried after him. “Is there a department store? I could use some—”
“Hold it.” He stopped short at the back door so that she bumped solidly into him. “No, there’s not, and don’t get the idea we’re going on some spree. You want lemons, we’ll get some damn lemons, but you’re not dragging me off on some girl safari looking for shoes and earrings and God knows.”
She had a small—and perfectly harmless—weakness for earrings. Her mouth moved into something perilously close to a pout. “I merely want some eye cream.”
He tugged her sunglasses down her nose, gave her eyes a hard look. “They’re fine.”
She rolled them at his back as he continued toward the truck, but she decided not to push the issue. Until they were in town. Now, it was better to distract him.
“I wonder,” she began as she hitched herself into the cab of the truck, “if you could tell me how radio-carbon dating works.”
“You want a workshop—”
“Yes, yes, take a course. But just a thumbnail explanation. I do better with the transcribing if I have a picture in my head.”
His sigh was long-suffering as the truck bumped along the lane toward the main road. “Carbon’s in the atmosphere. You got trillions of atoms of carbon to every one atom of radioactive Carbon 14. Plants absorb Carbon 14, animals absorb it by—”
“Eating the plants,” she finished, pleased with herself.
He shot her a look. “And other animals. Absorbed, it starts to disintegrate. It gets replenished from the atmosphere or from food. Until whatever’s absorbed, it dies. Anyway, in a plant or an animal it gives off about fifteen disintegration rays every minute, and they can be detected by a Geiger counter. The rest is just math. The dead source loses radioactivity at a rate … Why am I talking to myself?”
“What?” She dragged her attention back. “I’m sorry. It’s just so beautiful. I missed so much in the storm. It’s so green and gorgeous. A bit like Ireland, really, with all those hills.”
She caught the glint that could only be sun flashing off water. “And a lake, all the lovely trees. It’s all so still and quiet.”
“That’s why most people live in this part of Vermont. We don’t like crowds and noise. You want those, you don’t come to the NEK, you go west to Lake Champlain.”
“The NEK?”
“Northeast Kingdom.”
The name made her smile. So, she thought, she’d slipped away from a principality for a time, and landed in a kingdom. “Have you always lived here?”
“Off and on.”
She gave a little cry of delight as they approached a covered bridge. “Oh, it’s charming!”
“It gets you over the stream,” Del said, but her pleasure was infectious. Sometimes he forgot to look around, to take satisfaction in the pretty piece of the world where he often made his home.
They rattled over the bridge toward the white church spires that rose over the trees. She thought it was like a book, some brilliant and deeply American story. The green roll of hills, the white churches and tidy houses with their tidy lawns. And the town itself was laid out as neatly as a game board with straight streets, a small park and weathered brick buildings tucked in with faded clapboard.
She wanted to stroll those streets, wander the shops, watch the people as they went about their day. Perhaps have lunch in one of the little restaurants. Or better, she thought, stroll about with an ice-cream cone.
Del pulled into a parking lot. “Grocery store,” he informed her as he dragged out his wallet. He pushed several bills into her hand. “Get what you need. I’ll go check on your car. You’ve got thirty minutes.”
“Oh, but couldn’t we—”
“And get some cookies or something,” he added along with a meaningful shove.
Eyes narrowed behind her shaded glasses, she climbed down, then stood with her hands oh her hips as he pulled out of the lot again. The man was a complete blockhead. Ordering her, pushing her, cutting her off before she completed a sentence. She’d never been treated so rudely, so carelessly in her life.
It was beyond her comprehension why she enjoyed it.
Regardless, she’d be damned if she wouldn’t see something of the town before he hauled her back to the cave for another week. Squaring her shoulders, she headed off to explore.
The pristine and practical New England village didn’t run to pawnshops, but she did find a lovely jewelry store with a fine selection of estate pieces. And the earrings were tempting. Still, she controlled herself and earmarked the shop as a possibility for selling her watch should it become necessary.
She wandered into a drugstore. Though the choices of eye cream didn’t include her usual brand, she settled for what she could get. She also picked up some very nice scented candles, a few bags of potpourri.
An antique store proved a treasure trove. It pained her to have to pass up the crystal-and-silver inkwell. It would’ve made a lovely gift for her uncle Alex—but was beyond her current budget unless she risked the credit card.
Still, she found some interesting old bottles for a reasonable price, and snapped them up. They’d be perfect for wildflowers and twigs, and would perk up the cabin considerably.
The clerk was a woman about Camilla’s age, with dark blond hair worn in a sleek ponytail and sharp blue eyes that had noted her customer lingering over the inkwell. She smiled as she wrapped the bottles in protective paper.
“That inkwell’s nineteenth century. It’s a nice piece for a collector—at a good price.”
“Yes, it’s lovely. You have a very nice shop.”
“We take a lot of pride in it. Visiting the area?”
“Yes.”
“If you’re staying at one of the registered B&B’s, we offer a ten percent discount on purchases over a hundred dollars.”
“Oh, well. No … no, I’m not.” She glanced back to the desk where the inkwell was displayed. Her uncle’s birthday was only three months away. “I wonder, would you take a small deposit to hold it for me?”
The clerk considered, giving Camilla a careful measure. “You could put twenty down. I’ll hold it for you for two weeks.”
“Thanks.” Camilla took the bill from her dwindling supply.
“No problem.” The clerk began to write out a receipt for the deposit. “Your name?”
“My … Breen.”
“I’ll put a hold tag on it for you, Miss Breen. You can come in anytime within the next two weeks with the balance.”
Camilla fingered her watch, and a glance at i
t widened her eyes. “I’m late. Delaney’s going to be furious.”
“Delaney? Caine?”
“Yes. I was supposed to meet him five minutes ago.” Camilla gathered her bags and rushed toward the door.
“Miss! Wait!” The clerk bolted after her. “Your receipt.”
“Oh, sorry. He’s just so easily annoyed.”
“Yes, I know.” The woman’s eyes danced with a combination of laughter and curiosity. “We went out once or twice.”
“Oh. I’m not sure if I should congratulate you or offer my sympathies.” So she offered a smile. “I’m working for him, temporarily.”
“In the cabin? Then I’ll offer you my sympathies. Tell him Sarah Lattimer sends her best.”
“I will. I have to run or I’ll be hiking back to the cabin.”
You got that right, Sarah mused as she watched Camilla dash away. Del wasn’t a man known for his patience. Still, she sighed a little, remembering how she’d nearly convinced herself she could change him—tame him—when she’d been twenty.
She shook her head at the idea as she walked back to put the hold tag on the inkwell. She wished the pretty redhead plenty of luck. Funny, she thought now, the woman had looked familiar somehow. Like a movie star or celebrity or something.
Sarah shrugged. It would nag at her until she figured out just who Del’s new assistant resembled. But she’d get it eventually.
* * *
Juggling bags, Camilla made it to the parking lot at a full run. She grimaced when she spotted the truck, then just wrenched open the door and shoved her purchases inside. “Have to pick up a few things,” she said gaily. “I’ll just be another minute.”
Before he could open his mouth—to snarl, she was sure—she was rushing inside the market.
Snagging a cart, she set off toward produce at a smart pace. But the process of selecting fresh fruits and vegetables simply could not be rushed. She bagged lemons, delicately squeezed tomatoes, pursed her lips over the endive.
The supermarket was such a novelty for her, she lingered longer than she intended over fresh seafood, over the baked items. She liked the colors, the scents, the textures. The big bold signs announcing specials, and truly horrible canned music numbers playing over the loud speaker, interrupted only by voices calling for price checks and cleanups.
She shivered in frozen foods, deciding the chances of talking Del into an ice-cream cone now were nil. So she bought the makings for them. Delighted with the variety of choices, she loaded the cart, then wheeled it to checkout.
If she were a housewife, she thought, she would do this every week. It probably wouldn’t be nearly as much fun. Just another obligation, she thought, and that was a shame.
She came back to reality with a thud when she moved up in line and saw her own face staring out from the cover of a tabloid.
PRINCESS CAMILLA’S HEARTBREAK
Why, they had her in grieving seclusion, Camilla saw with growing irritation. Over an aborted romance with a French actor. One she’d never even met! Imbéciles! Menteurs! What right did they have to tell lies about her personal life? Wasn’t it enough to report every move she made, to use their telephoto lenses to snap pictures of her night and day?
She started to reach for the paper, for the sheer pleasure of ripping it to pieces.
“What the hell are you doing in here?” Del demanded.
She jumped like a thief, and instinctively whirled around to block the paper with her body. Fury, which she’d considered a healthy reaction, became a sick trembling in her stomach.
If she was unmasked here, now, it would all be over. People would crowd around her, gawking. The media would be on her scent like hounds on a rabbit.
“I’m … waiting in line to pay.”
“What is all this stuff?”
“Food.” She worked up a smile as a cold sweat slid down her back.
