Cordinas Crown Jewel (4 page)

Of course, the downside was he hadn’t realized how problematic it would be to try to deal with paperwork, with cataloging, with every damn thing essentially one-handed.

But he was managing.

Mostly.

It was just an hour or so, he reminded himself. He couldn’t have left the woman stranded on the side of the road in the middle of a storm. Okay, he’d considered it—but only for a couple seconds. A minute, max.

Brooding, he didn’t notice her shivering on the seat beside him. But he did notice when she huffed irritably and leaned over to turn up the heat.

He only grunted and kept driving.

Baboon, Camilla thought. Delany Caine was rapidly descending the evolutionary chain in her mind. When he turned into a narrow, rain-rutted, bone-jarring lane that had her bouncing on the seat, she decided he didn’t deserve whole mammal status and regulated him to horse’s ass.

Cold, miserable, fuming, she tried to make out the shape of the structure ahead of them. It was nestled in the woods, and looked to be some sort of cabin. She assumed it was wood—it was certainly dark. She caught a glimpse of an overgrown lawn and a sagging front porch as he muscled the truck around what was hardly more than a mud-packed path to the back of the building.

There, a yellow, unshielded lightbulb was burning beside a door.

“You … live here?”

“Sometimes.” He shoved open his door. “Grab what you need, leave the rest.” And with that, he stomped through the rain toward the back door.

Since she needed, more than breath, to change into dry, warm clothes, Camilla dragged her cases out and lugged them toward the cabin. She had to maneuver to open the door, as he hadn’t bothered to wait for her or hold it open as any Neanderthal with even half a pea for a brain would have.

Out of breath, she shoved through into a tiny mudroom that lived up to its name. It was, in a word, filthy—as was everything in it. Boots, coats, hats, gloves, buckets, small shovels. Under a heap of pails, trowels and laundry were, she assumed, a small washer and dryer unit.

Cochon,
she thought. The man was a complete pig.

The opinion wasn’t swayed when she walked through and into the kitchen. The sink was full of dishes, the small table covered with more. Along with papers, a pair of glasses, an open bag of cookies and several pencil stubs.

Her feet stuck to the floor and made little sucking sounds as she walked.

“I see soap and water are rare commodities in Vermont.”

She said it sweetly with a polite smile. He only shrugged. “I fired the cleaning lady. Wouldn’t leave my stuff alone.”

“How, I wonder, could she find it under the dirt?”

“Tow truck,” he muttered, and dug out an ancient phone book.

At least he seemed to be fairly clean, Camilla mused. That was something at least. He was roughly dressed, and his boots were scarred, but his hands and hair—though it was long, wet and unkempt—were clean. She thought his face might even be handsome—of a type—under that untidy beard.

It was a hard face, and somewhat remote, but the eyes were striking. And looked fairly intelligent.

She waited, with admirable patience, she thought, while he found the number. Then he picked up the phone, started to punch in a button. Swore.

“Phone’s out.”

No, she thought, fate couldn’t be so cruel. “Are you sure?”

“On this planet, no dial tone equals no phone.”

They stared at each other with equal levels of dismay and annoyance. Her teeth wanted to chatter.

“Perhaps you could drive me to the nearest inn, or motel.”

He glanced toward the window as the next blast of lightning lit the glass. “Twenty miles in this—flash flooding, high winds.” He rubbed his aching shoulder absently. Two good arms, he might have tried it, just to get rid of her. But with one, it wasn’t worth it. “I don’t think so.”

“What would you suggest?”

“I’d suggest you get on some dry clothes before you end up sick—which would just cap things for me here.
Then we’ll see if we can find something to eat in this place, and make the best of it.”

“Mr. Caine, that is incredibly gracious of you. But I wouldn’t want to—” She sneezed, three times in rapid succession.

“Down the hall,” he told her, pointing. “Up the stairs. Bathroom’s all the way at the end. I’ll make coffee.”

Too chilled to argue or think of an alternative, she picked up her suitcases again, struggled with them down the short hall and up the stairs. Like a horse with blinders heading toward the finish line, she kept her gaze straight ahead and closed herself in the bathroom.

Locked the door.

There were towels on the floor, toothpaste—sans cap—on the counter on a small white sink that, while not gleaming, at least appeared to have been rinsed sometime within the last six months.

There was also, she soon discovered, hot water. The minute she stepped into the shower, the glory of it wiped out every other sensation. She let it beat on her, flood over her head. She very nearly danced in it. When the warmth reached her bones, she simply closed her eyes and sighed.

It was with some regret that she turned off the taps, stepped out. Locating a reasonably clean-looking towel on the rack, she wrapped herself in it as she dug out a shirt and trousers.

She was standing in her underwear when the lights went out.

She screamed. She couldn’t help it, and ended up ramming her hip sharply against the sink before she controlled herself.

Her hands shook and her temper spiked as she fought to dress herself in the dark.

“Mr. Caine!” she shouted for him as she inched out of the bath. The place was pitch-black.

“Yeah, yeah, don’t blow a gasket.”

She heard him tromping up the stairs, saw the narrow beam of light bobbing with him. “Power’s out,” he told her.

“I never would’ve guessed.”

“Perfect time for sarcasm,” he muttered. “Just stay put.” He and the light disappeared into another room.
He came back with the flashlight, and offered her a flickering candle. “You done in there?” he gestured with his head toward the bathroom.

“Yes, thank you.”

“Fine.” He started back down, and the next boom of thunder had her hurrying after him.

“What do we do now?”

“We build a fire, drink coffee, heat up some soup and wish you were someplace else.”

“I don’t see any reason to be rude. It’s hardly my fault there’s a storm.” She tripped over a pair of shoes and rapped into his back.

“Damn it!” The jar had his shoulder singing. “Watch it, will you?”

“I beg your pardon. If you didn’t live like a pig, I wouldn’t trip over your mess.”

“Look, just go in there.” He pointed to the front room of the cabin. “Sit down. Stay out of the way.”

“Gladly.” She sailed into the room, then spoiled the effect by letting out a muffled shriek. “Are those …” She lifted a hand weakly toward what her light had picked out on a littered table. “Bones?”

Del shined the flashlight over the bones sealed in airtight plastic. “Yeah. Human, mostly.” He said it matter-of-factly as he headed toward the fireplace. “Don’t worry.” He crouched and set kindling. “I didn’t kill anyone.”

“Oh, really.” She was edging back, wondering what she might use for a weapon.

“The original owner died about seven thousand years ago—but not in the fall that fractured a number of those bones. Anyway, she doesn’t miss them.” He set the kindling to light.

“Why do you have them?”

“I found them—on a dig in Florida.”

He set logs to blaze and stood. The fire snapped at his back, shooting light around him. “You … dig graves?” she managed to ask, the horror only a hint in her voice.

For the first time, he smiled. It was a flash as bright as the lightning that shot across the sky. “In a manner of speaking. Relax … what was your name?”

She moistened her lips. “Camilla.”

“Right, well relax, Camilla. I’m an archaeologist, not a mad scientist. I’m going for the coffee. Don’t touch my bones—or anything else for that matter.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She also wouldn’t dream of staying alone in the dark room on a storm ravaged night with a pile of human bones. No matter how carefully packaged or old they might be. “I’ll give you a hand.” Because she wanted to cover her unease, she smiled. “You look like you could use one.”

“Yeah, I guess.” The injury still irritated him, in more ways than one. “Look, there’s a spare room upstairs. You might as well figure on bunking there. We’ll deal with your car in the morning.”

“Thanks.” She was warm, she was dry and the coffee smelled wonderful. Things might’ve been a great deal worse. “I really do appreciate it, Mr. Caine.”

“Caine, just Caine, or Del.” When he walked straight back to the mudroom, she followed him.

“Where are you going?”

“What?” He paused in the act of struggling into a slicker. He just wasn’t used to explaining his moves. “We’re going to need water. Rain, water, bucket,” he said, picking up one. “And there’s a generator in the shed. I might be able to get it going. Don’t mess with my stuff,” he added, and walked back into the storm.

“Not without a tetanus shot, believe me,” she muttered as the door slammed behind him.

Afraid of what she might find, she eased open a cupboard. Then another, and another. As the first three were empty, she found what she assumed were the only clean dishes in the cabin in the last one.

She poured coffee into a chipped mug, and took the first wary sip. She was delighted and stunned that the man made superior coffee.

Braced by it, she took stock of the kitchen. She couldn’t just stand around in this sty and do nothing. If they were going to eat, she was going to have to figure out how to cook under these conditions.

There were plenty of cans in the pantry, among them two cans of condensed tomato soup. It was something. Cheered, she cracked open the refrigerator.

While it wasn’t filthy, perhaps worse, it was very nearly empty. She frowned over three eggs, a hunk of very old cheese, a six-pack of beer—minus two—and to her delight, a bottle of excellent pinot noir.

Things were looking up.

There was a quart of milk which—after a testing sniff—proved to be fresh, and a half gallon of bottled water.

Rolling up her sleeves, Princess Camilla got to work.

Fifteen minutes later, armed with a pail of her own, she stepped outside. She could barely make out the shed through the rain. But over its drumming, she heard plenty of cursing and crashing. Deciding Del would be busy for a while yet, she switched his half-filled pail with her own, and hauled the water back inside.

*  *  *

If he’d had some damn light, Del thought as he kicked the little generator again, he could see to fix the stupid son of a bitch. The problem was, to get some damn light he needed to fix it.

Which meant he wasn’t going to get it up and running before morning. Which meant, he thought sourly, he’d wasted the best part of an hour fumbling around in a cramped shed, and had bumped his miserable shoulder countless times.

Every inch of his body hurt in one way or the other. And he was still wet, cold and in the dark.

If it had been just himself, he wouldn’t have bothered with the generator in the first place. He’d have opened a can, eaten a cold dinner and worked a bit by candlelight.

But there was the woman to think about. He hated having to think of a woman under the best of circumstances—and these were far from the best.

“Fancy piece, too,” he muttered, shining the flashlight around the shed to see if there was anything he could use in the cabin. “On the run from something. Probably a rich husband who didn’t buy her enough sparkles to suit her.”

None of his business, he reminded himself. She’d be out of his hair the next day, and he could get back to work without interruptions.

He turned, caught his shin on the generator, jerked. And literally saw stars as he aggravated his broken collarbone. Sweat slicked over his face so that he had to slap his good hand against the wall and wait for the dizzy sickness to pass.

His injuries were the reason he wasn’t still on site at the Florida dig—one that had been his baby since the beginning three seasons before. He could handle that. Someone had to do the written reports, the journals, the cataloging and lab work.

He preferred that someone be himself.

But he hated the damn inconvenience of the injuries. And the weakness that dogged him behind the pain. He could barely dress himself without jarring the broken bone, the dislocated shoulder, the bruised ribs.

He couldn’t even tie his own damn shoes.

It was a hell of a situation.

Steady enough to brood over his unsteadiness, he picked up the flashlight he’d dropped and made his way back to the cabin. He stopped to pick up the pail of rainwater and swore viciously as even that weight strained his resources.

In the mudroom he set down the bucket, ditched the slicker, then headed straight for a mug in the kitchen.

When he reached for the coffeepot, he saw it wasn’t there.

It took him a minute. Del didn’t notice details unless he meant to notice them. Not only was the coffee missing, but so were all the dishes that had been piled in the sink, over the table and counters.

He didn’t remember washing them. It wasn’t a chore he bothered with until all options were exhausted. Baffled, he opened a cupboard and studied the pile of clean dishes.

The counters were clean, and the table. He snarled reflexively when he saw his notes and papers tidily stacked.

But even as he marched through the cabin, prepared to skin some of that soft, rosy skin off his unwelcome visitor, the scent of coffee—and food—hit him, and hit hard. It reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours, and buried the leading edge of his temper under appetite.

There she was, stirring a saucepot over the fire. He noted she’d jury-rigged a grill—probably one of the oven racks—bracing the ends of it with stacks of bricks.

He recalled the bricks had been piled on the front porch, but had no idea why.

Resourceful, he admitted—grudgingly—and noted that for a skinny woman, she had an excellent backside.

“I told you not to touch my stuff.”