Twelfth Sun
Page 1
Also by Mae Clair
Weathering Rock
Twelfth Sun
TWELFTH SUN
By MAE CLAIR
LYRICAL PRESS
http://lyricalpress.com/
KENSINGTON PUBLISHING CORP.
http://www.kensingtonbooks.com/
For Sandy, Cindy and Bob
Family is forever
Foreword
Snippet of verse in Chapter 7 is taken from The Rime of the Ancient Mariner
by Samuel Taylor Coleridge, a work in Public Domain.
Chapter 1
Wind and rain battered the roof of the tiny waterside inn. Reagan Cassidy was thankful to be indoors, out of the storm that had dogged her trip for the last eight hours. When she’d agreed to drive to Shipwright Landing for her uncle, she hadn’t counted on narrow, winding roads or near gale-force winds. The frontal system hanging over the entire New England coast wasn’t scheduled to dissipate until morning. It coaxed protesting creaks and groans from the timbers of the old inn, a brooding two-story surrounded by chestnut trees.
Mrs. Keller, the matronly gray-haired lady who owned the North Shore, had given her a key for room No. 1 before pointing her toward the stairs. Dripping wet, lugging her overstuffed suitcase behind her, all Reagan could think of was stripping off her sodden clothes and soaking in a hot bath. It was already after eleven PM and she was scheduled to meet her uncle’s friend, Dr. Elijah Cross, in the morning for breakfast.
Early.
Stifling a yawn, she dragged her suitcase up the final step and located room No. 1 around a corner in the hall. As she moved to insert her key in the lock, she brushed the door and it drifted open on its own. Mrs. Keller had prepared the room for her, even turning on a bedside lamp to provide a cozy glow. What a sweet lady.
Reagan set her suitcase on the floor, pausing to study the decor. Interior design was her business so it was easy for her to appreciate the contrasting shades of blue, cream and brown that supported the inn’s nautical theme. The bedside lamp had a brass ship’s wheel mounted at the base, and the walls were paneled with planks of walnut-stained barnboard. A closed door on the adjacent wall led to what she guessed was the bathroom. Heaven!
The mere thought of soaking in a heated tub made her toes curl. She kicked off her shoes, shed her coat, and dropped it over a chair. Unpacking could wait. Circling the bed, she headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning her wilted silk blouse as she went. The knob turned before she could touch it and the door yawned unexpectedly wide, revealing a man on the threshold.
Her eyes dropped.
A completely naked man.
“Oh, God!” She backpedaled violently, bumping into the wall, trapping herself in the corner. Too stunned to scream, too frightened to move, she clamped her mouth shut. Even when she squeezed her eyes closed, she couldn’t block the sight of him emblazoned behind her lids. Every sheer, startlingly masculine inch of him. A strangled squeak slipped past her lips, shattering the spell. In the space of a single heartbeat, fear, anger and adrenalin ricocheted through her. She grabbed the first thing within reach–the bedside lamp–and wielded it like a club.
“Get out of my room before I call the police.” Her voice quavered and she was certain she looked absurd, her long red hair dripping wet, the ridiculous lamp with its shiny spoked wheel clutched threateningly in front of her. Too late, she remembered her unbuttoned blouse.
The man’s eyes settled on the lacy edge of her shell pink bra, then dipped lower to her plunging cleavage. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away and motioned to the lamp. “How about putting that down before you hurt someone?”
Taken aback by the non-threatening trace of humor in his voice, Reagan gave the lamp a jerk. She raised it above her head in what she hoped was a convincingly intimidating pose. At the last second the cord snapped taut and popped from the wall, plunging the room into shadow. Frightened by the sudden darkness, Reagan tried to shimmy farther away, but her knees collided with the nightstand. Off balance, she struggled to button her blouse, fumbling one-handedly. “Stay where you are. I’m calling the police.”
“To tell them what?” His voice was nearer and she realized he’d stepped closer to the bed, completely eliminating any chance she had of breaking for the door. “The last time I checked, taking a shower in my room was perfectly legal.”
“Your room?” She kept the lamp poised, her body tense. He seemed rational enough, but, for all she knew, he could be wired on alcohol or drugs. And he was still blocking her path to the doorway. He looked young enough to have come from Battinger College, forty-six miles to the south. Maybe a grad student or one of the research assistants. At most he couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, an age supported by every toned and muscled line of his body. Her cheeks flamed crimson. “This is my room. And would you please put on some clothes?”
He grinned in the darkness, revealing even white teeth. “Something more suited to conversation?”
Reagan looked away. With a chuckle, he padded barefoot to the dresser and rooted through the top drawer for a pair of jeans. A sexual predator wouldn’t have stored clothes in the nearest bureau, but the thought didn’t make her breathe easier. Only when she heard the closing snick of his zipper, did she look again.
“Better?” He flicked on the wall switch, activating a lamp on the dresser.
In the sudden flare of brightness, she saw him clearly. His hair wasn’t quite black, but dark-brown, the color of deep-roasted chestnuts. Still wet from his shower, it curled in loose, wayward strands against the back of his neck. Long jet lashes framed remarkable blue eyes, offsetting features more striking than rugged. If she’d met him on the street, she would have discreetly turned her head for a second glance, intrigued by an aura of understated sex appeal. As it was, she wanted him out of her room. She lowered the lamp, but didn’t loosen her grip. There was still the possibility he was drug-crazed or psychotic.
“I want you to leave. If you go now, I won’t tell the police.”
Bullshit on that. She’d call as soon as he was out the door, but didn’t plan on broadcasting her intent. A man lurking naked in the bedroom of an unsuspecting woman deserved whatever he got.
Unconcerned, he crossed his arms over his chest and propped his hip against the dresser, making himself comfortable. “What’s your name?”
“None of your business.” She was exhausted, frightened and wet. If he left, maybe she could breathe normally again. It wasn’t every night one found a naked man in their bedroom. Well, unless you happened to have a sizzling love life.
Which she didn’t. If anything, she was accustomed to dry spells, interspersed by periods with macho idiots who spent their time scheming up ways to get her into bed. She’d dumped the last one three months ago, swearing off men indefinitely. At thirty-five, with a flourishing interior design business, upscale condo, two cats and a goldfish, she didn’t need a man to complicate her life.
Sucking down an unsteady breath, she tried to gather her wits. She shot a glance at the door, silently calculating the odds of reaching it unharmed. He’d positioned himself in such a way that she’d have to sprint directly past him to escape. Even though he appeared non-threatening, she wasn’t ready to take the chance.
“If this is your room, why would you leave the door unlocked?”
The man shrugged, sending a ripple of muscle across his bare shoulders and chest. He’d donned a pair of faded jeans, but that didn’t lessen his simmering sex appeal. The soft denim was frayed at the edges and ripped at the knees, but fit him exceptionally well. Reagan hated herself for noticing.
“I didn’t. The lock’s broken. I already reported it to Mrs. Keller. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”
She didn’t move.
“You seem uptight.”
“More than uptight.” He grinned sharply as if he knew even men would find him attractive, and moved toward the closet.
Alarms went off in Reagan’s head, pinging through every strained nerve of her body. She wrenched the lamp higher, brandishing it like a baseball bat. “What are you doing?”
“Looking for something.” He pulled a battered travel bag from the closet and plopped it on the bed. “You’re welcome to stay, but only if you don’t snore, and only if you keep your hands to yourself.” He sent her a cocky grin. “I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow, so I don’t have time for anything else.”
Reagan flushed. Apparently her intruder had gone through life with an overly inflated opinion of himself. Suddenly too angry to be afraid, she choked on words, struggling to get them past her lips. “You should be in jail. I’m calling the police now!”
Incensed, she snatched the phone from the nightstand. Forgetting the lamp, she jabbed out the local emergency number. Across the room, her bare-chested intruder whistled nonchalantly as he dumped a series of tablets, folded maps and well-thumbed notebooks on the bed.
“Be sure to tell them I’m in room ten.”
“I know exactly what to tell–” Reagan stopped suddenly, the brittle ring of the phone cycling in her ear. “This is room one.”
“Ten.”
She slammed the receiver down, overtaken by a dreadful thought. Mister sure-of-himself was rifling through his books, head bowed, brown-black hair spilling forward to hide his expression.
“If you don’t believe me, look on the door,” he said distractedly.
She hadn’t been that stupid. She couldn’t have made such a foolish, embarrassing mistake. Steeling herself, Reagan crossed the room and wrenched open the door. In the weak lamplight filtering from the hallway a brass-plated number No. 1 was plainly visible on the surface. She felt an exhilarating rush of victory that quickly faded when she spied the ghost outline of a zero on the wood. The barely visible oval marked the space of a missing numeral.
The blood drained from her face. Mortified, she looked across the hall, noting the closest room was number nine, the one adjacent, number eight. She heard footsteps and turned to discover her near-naked companion behind her.
“For the record, I normally enjoy having a beautiful, disheveled woman in my bedroom. Especially one with pink lingerie.”
He was despicable. A wretch. A cad.
Considerably younger, he had the disconcerting ability of making her feel sophomoric and unbalanced. She wanted to spit a reply, but he brushed the sodden hair from her shoulder, striking her mute. His touch was too intimate, boldly unsettling for a stranger.
Reagan felt her pulse quicken. He stood uncomfortably close, his eyes the electric blue of a sun-drenched sea. Unnerved, she looked away. She was tired and confused. There could be no other explanation for her odd attraction to someone she’d only just met. Someone who’d seen her make a complete fool of herself.
Her face burned at the thought of her blunder. How could she fault his sexual innuendo after she’d barged in on his privacy? She wanted to sink through the floor. Too embarrassed to meet his eyes, she pushed past him and hastily gathered her coat and suitcase. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a terrible mistake.” She slipped into her shoes and hurried into the hallway, walking as quickly as she could to escape.
“Don’t be a stranger,” he called after her with an amused chuckle.
A moment later she heard his door click into place. It wasn’t until she was in her own room that she breathed easier. She locked the door behind her and slumped gratefully against the wall. She’d done stupid things in her life, but this eclipsed them all. With any luck, she could avoid the man in room ten for the duration of her brief stay. Tomorrow morning she’d meet Dr. Elijah Cross and they’d find Eric Sothern. The history of the Twelfth Sun and her uncle’s PhD friend would keep her occupied for days. Nothing like a stodgy marine archeologist, probably as gray-haired and wizened as her beloved uncle, to keep her focused on why she was there. The man in room ten and the startling quicksilver attraction she’d felt would become nothing more than an embarrassing memory.
Reagan exhaled, smiling slightly. If nothing else, she’d given the dark-haired stranger something to talk about for a long time to come.
* * * *
The previous night felt disjointed and hazy like the flotsam of a dream. The storm continued in the morning, less severe, but sufficient enough to make Reagan bundle into a sweater at the breakfast table. She’d chosen The Bluff, a waterside cafe, as the place to meet Elijah Cross.
Her uncle had suggested it when he’d planned the trip weeks before. It wasn’t just anyone who could talk her into abandoning her business at the start of an early summer season, but Gavin Cassidy had an inborn knack for wheedling her into doing almost anything. Now that illness confined him to his home, she was more susceptible than usual. Even when it involved something as off-the-wall as tracking down the ship’s log of a nineteenth-century frigate.
With the help of Elijah Cross.
Reagan had never met her uncle’s friend, but he’d told her enough to make her realize Cross was well-qualified for the task.
“Elijah has a doctorate in marine archeology,” he’d explained when he first approached her with the crazy idea. “He’ll be able to verify the authenticity of the journal and assure it came from the Twelfth Sun. He’s written several books on underwater excavation, plus a handful of historical accounts on American and British shipwrecks. Most academics consider him a leading authority in the field.”
Reagan swirled a spoonful of honey into a cup of lemon-laced tea as she recalled the conversation. Her uncle’s friends tended to fall into one of two categories: brilliant academics or crackpots. Despite that extreme difference, all had reached their physical prime twenty or thirty years in the past. She expected Dr. Cross would be no different.
Relaxing, she glanced about the cafe. At 7:10 AM, it was nearly deserted, a middle-aged couple and a lanky blond-haired man the only other occupants. The couple quietly conversed over pancakes and sausages while the man was content to nurse a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal.
Cozy and quaint, the eatery sported round tables with barrel-back chairs, a massive stone hearth, and colored glass lanterns. Framed prints of whaling ships and storm-tossed seas graced the walls. She could almost smell the brine of lobster pots, feel the wind-driven crash of waves against unforgiving rock. She’d come to Shipwright Landing to find the answers that had driven Samuel Storm from his home over a century ago, and sent his ship on a last fateful voyage across the Atlantic.
Reagan glanced at her watch. She’d dragged herself from bed hours before any civilized person should be up, for the sole purpose of meeting Elijah Cross. The marine archeologist was already ten minutes late–not a brilliant way to begin a working relationship. She’d learned through firsthand experience many of her uncle’s friends were as unreliable as they were eccentric. Foolishly, she had hoped Dr. Cross wouldn’t fall into the same category.
Resigned to passing the time, she added hot water to her tea. From the corner of her eye she spied movement at the door of the cafe. A man stepped inside, shaking rain from his jacket. The door banged shut behind him, ensnaring her full attention. He wore a battered black fedora and worn jeans with scuffed dock shoes. There was something oddly familiar about him. He turned slightly and she caught his profile, realizing he was the man from room ten. Self-conscious, she looked away, hoping to sink through the floor. He spoke briefly with the hostess and then headed in her direction.
She tensed. What were the odds of encountering him now when she was scheduled to meet Dr. Cross, a highly-respected and, no doubt critical, academic? How would it look to her uncle’s friend if he walked in on a conversation revolving around naked men and the color of her undergarments?
&nbs
p; Chagrined, she bowed her head over her teacup. Her hair spilled forward, concealing her face behind curtains of red-gold. With any luck he’d go away. With any luck, he’d leave her alone.
“Hi.”
Reagan raised her head fully convinced mischievous imps had tracked her to Shipwright Landing and were even now performing rituals of bad luck. “Hi.” She pressed her lips together. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m expecting someone.”
“Yeah, I know.” He grinned. “You’re Reagan Cassidy.”
She blinked. She’d given the hostess her name only because she was expecting Dr. Cross and neither had any idea what the other looked like. She certainly hadn’t expected the woman to share her name with any longhaired Lothario who asked for it. “The hostess told you.”
He nodded. Removing his hat by the crown, he dropped it on the table. “Some storm.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hooked it over the back of the nearest chair. “Good thing it’ll be over soon.”
Reagan watched flabbergasted as he sat across from her and picked up a menu. “Excuse me.” Her voice rose sharply, edged like a knife. “I didn’t invite you to sit. I told you I’m expecting someone.”
“Yeah, I know.” He flashed that same irritating grin. “I’m Elijah Cross.”
She balked. She couldn’t possibly have heard right. The insanely gorgeous man seated across from her wasn’t even thirty years old. No way could he be a noted marine archeologist with an accredited PhD. A sinking sensation hit the pit of her stomach. “That’s impossible!”
“Why?” He flipped open the menu. “Because I’m twenty-five, or because you saw me naked last night?”
“Oh dear God.” She lowered her head. Heat spread rapidly across her cheeks. “This is never going to work.”
“Your uncle will be disappointed.” Elijah righted his coffee mug and motioned for the waitress. “Not to mention a number of marine historians. Your uncle’s agreed to give the journal to the Maritime Museum in Charrington after he’s reviewed it. This might not work for you, but it’s got to for me. I have a host of academic and non-profit organizations counting on it.” He sent her a non-threatening glance. “I’m harmless. Really. Like the geeky kid you knew in school who always had his nose in a textbook.”