by Mae Clair
“Outbid?” Reagan blinked, feeling a nip of alarm. She’d been invited to purchase Rook’s journal, not enter into a bidding war. Frazzled, she tugged on Brody’s sleeve. “Excuse me, just who are you and what are you doing here?”
He chuckled lightly. “Since Pellar left and Sothern isn’t here, let me handle the introductions.” He placed her hand in the crook of his arm and guided her into the room. The others turned from their various spots, eyeing her with open curiosity. One by one, Brody introduced them. The young couple was Livy and Alan Franklin, the bald man Earl Tarvick, and the dark-haired woman, Monica Holt.
“We all came for the same reason,” Brody explained. “Jeremiah Rook’s journal. We’ve all received an invitation from Sothern for the weekend. Other than that, we’re waiting to see what our host has planned.”
Before Reagan could respond, a servant arrived with a tray of blended fruit drinks in tulip-shaped glasses and a platter of hors d’oeuvres. Fancy cut cheeses, cold shrimp and grilled toast points with smoked salmon, cucumber and dill were artfully arranged on blush crystal. Anxious, she snatched up one of the tropical drinks, then trailed Brody to a corner where they could talk privately.
“But I came to purchase Rook’s journal,” she protested.
He flashed a smile. “So did I. It sounds like we’ve all been had. Might as well enjoy the stay. And the company.”
He was magnetic but Reagan sensed his charm was conjured at will, a switch he toggled on and off as he pleased. Determined not to be sucked under, she looked away, studying the young couple who spoke with Elijah.
Brody had introduced them as Livy and Alan Franklin, brother and sister, direct descendants of Samuel Storm. She had originally thought they might be husband and wife, but could now see marked similarities in their features. Both had blond hair and wide-set blue eyes, giving them a wholesome boy-and girl-next-door look. Livy’s hair was long and straight, secured in a sleek ponytail. She was cheerleader pretty, with flawless skin and a way of smiling that made her eyes sparkle.
Reagan frowned, noting how intimately Elijah chatted with her, two gorgeous twenty-somethings clicking in the span of a heartbeat. She wasn’t certain why the thought bothered her, or why she was annoyed by Elijah’s fawning.
Was he fawning?
He wasn’t nearly as refined as Brody, but there was something appealing about his offbeat appearance. The unkempt hair, battered fedora and faded jeans paired with dock shoes, made him look more like a starving musician than a respected academic. Eccentric and brilliant. Hadn’t she always fancied herself falling for a man who could think rings around the general population? Too bad he was so young and cocky.
Brody nudged her arm, distracting her. He pointed to the bald man he’d introduced as Earl Tarvick. “Earl likes to snatch up antiquities for resale on the international market. Doc and I frequently get stuck competing with him for the same item. I’ve never met Monica or the Franklins before, but collector circles are growing.”
“Doc?” She fixated on the name. It was the second time he’d called Elijah that. “You’re referring to Dr. Cross?”
“Yeah.” Brody laughed. “It’s kind of a private joke. I’ve crossed paths with Elijah so many times I know him like a brother. The kid’s too brainy for his own good, even if he does come off like a cocky adolescent. I’ve seen him pack lecture halls with men twice his age. What he lacks in social graces, he makes up in intellect. What I can’t figure out…” He shot her a sideways glance and his lips tipped in a crooked smile. “Is what he’s doing with you. My bet is you’re related to Gavin Cassidy.”
“My uncle.” She wasn’t certain why she volunteered the information, but guessed it would come out sooner or later. That Brody had already made the connection meant he really did move in collector circles.
“So you’re here on Gavin’s behalf,” Brody mused. “That still doesn’t explain Boy Wonder.”
Reagan sipped her drink, hiding a smile. She sent another glance in Elijah’s direction. He and Livy were seated on a low-backed sofa, quietly conversing. Alan had wandered away to talk with Earl Tarvick. Little space showed between Elijah and Livy. They sat close together, knees practically touching. Elijah’s back was turned, his body angled toward Livy, marking the conversation intimate and private. Observing their posture, Reagan felt a flush of anger. It had to be because Livy was a competitor for the journal. No way was there anything remotely personal in her feelings for Dr. Elijah Cross.
“I wonder if we’ve met somewhere before?”
Reagan whipped back to the present. Monica Holt had sauntered over to their corner, her slim hands wrapped around the delicate stem of a tulip-shaped glass. Earlier, Brody had introduced her as an archivist with the Shipwright Landing Historical Society. Tall and thin, with dark eyes and the kind of low, husky voice that turned men to mush, Monica looked more supermodel than record-keeper. Her hair was cut in a blunt bob, offsetting chiseled cheekbones and a long, slender neck.
“I don’t think so.” Something about the woman left her unbalanced. She couldn’t decide if it was the long elegant tips of Monica’s painted fingernails or the throaty way she talked like she’d downed a fifth of gin.
“But you know Dr. Cross?” A single eyebrow crept into the fringe of Monica’s coal-black hair. She toyed with the delicate links of a gold necklace clasped around her throat. Her eyes darted sideways, settling on Elijah. “I’ve heard his name bandied about in academic circles, but always figured he was older. Gray-haired and portly, like one of those stodgy old professors.”
“I really don’t know him,” Reagan said quickly. All she wanted to do was collect Rook’s journal and leave. The thought of spending the entire weekend at Sothern’s estate with this odd assortment of characters turned her stomach. “He’s doing my uncle a favor. We only met earlier today.”
That wasn’t entirely true. There’d been that mortifying encounter at the North Shore when she’d witnessed just how well endowed he was in areas other than his mind. Thinking about it brought heat to her cheeks. She ducked her head, hoping the hot flush would fade. Thankfully, Pellar returned before anyone could comment on her odd reaction.
“Mr. Sothern regrets he won’t be able to join you until dinner this evening, but wishes to assure all of you, he’ll answer your questions at that time.”
“What about Jeremiah Rook’s journal?” Earl Tarvick demanded.
Pellar held up a hand as if dealing with a slow-witted child. “Please, Mr. Tarvick. No questions until this evening.” He forced a smile that didn’t reach his eyes, and included the whole group in his next announcement. “Feel free to make use of any of the estate’s amenities. There is an indoor pool in the east wing, and should weather permit–” Again the staged smile, a little too practiced for Reagan’s taste. “A Jacuzzi and lighted pool on the roof deck. Your invitations should have included instructions on what clothing to bring. Hopefully, you were all astute enough to comply.”
Pellar flicked a hand over his pristine cuffs, a nervous twitch. “There are stables to the south and tennis courts to the west. You’ll find a full gymnasium, weight room and sauna on the lower level, plus a billiard room at the end of the hall. Dinner is at precisely eight PM in the circular dining room. I trust you’ll all come properly attired.” He cast a snotty sideways glance at Elijah’s battered deck shoes. “Ms. Cassidy, Dr. Cross, I’ve had the staff retrieve your luggage and place it in your rooms. If you’ll kindly follow me, I’ll show you the way.”
Brody leaned close to whisper in her ear. “Competent cuss, isn’t he? Five-to-one, Elijah decks him before the weekend is over.”
Reagan elbowed him in the ribs, unable to smother a smile. She looked in Elijah’s direction, but he appeared unfazed by Pellar’s attitude. Flashing Livy a dazzling parting grin, he sprinted after the older man.
Reagan set her drink down and hurried into the hallway, huffing to keep up. “I thought you’d wait for me,” she complained, falling in step beside Elijah.
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br /> He was still wearing his outer jacket and slid his hands into the pockets. “Why?”
“Because it’s the courteous thing to do.” She looked at Pellar’s rigid back, making sure their conversation didn’t carry. In true highbrow fashion, he appeared impervious to their discussion, stiffly leading them up the sweeping staircase she’d noted earlier.
Elijah shrugged. “I didn’t want to tear you away from Brody. You looked attached at the hip.” He sounded jealous, a crazy notion. His eyes slid to the side, blue and black-lashed, so incredibly striking, her heart jumped.
“What about you and Livy Franklin?” she countered. “From what I could see, you had a long, private powwow.” She cringed immediately, uncertain what had prompted the remark. She’d only just met this man, but was behaving like someone engaged in a popularity contest, vying for his attention.
It had to be the confusion…arriving at Sothern’s estate, planning to purchase the journal outright, only to find she was in competition. Nothing was going as planned. Nothing had gone as planned from the moment she’d stumbled on Elijah Cross utterly naked in his room. As much as she wished otherwise, she couldn’t shake the initial attraction she’d felt for him. If only he’d do something stupid and geeky to obliterate his appeal.
Elijah frowned. “Livy and I were discussing nautical superstitions. She’s minoring in maritime history.”
“Isn’t that convenient?” Dismissing him, Reagan looked straight ahead. They’d reached the top of the stairwell, giving her the opportunity to shoulder past him. It was in her best interest not to discuss anything further, unless it concerned Rook’s journal.
Elijah grew quiet.
Pellar led them across the loft and down a shorter hallway, eventually halting before side-by-side rooms. “I trust you’ll find everything acceptable.”
Both doors stood open. Reagan glanced inside, finding them near-mirror images with differing color schemes.
“Mr. Sothern calls them the twins,” Pellar explained, noticing her glance. “They share a Jack and Jill bath. For privacy, I suggest you make certain the opposite door is locked when you use the facility.” He departed with a slight incline of his head.
Elijah rolled his eyes. “The facility. Can you believe that guy?”
Reagan paled. The thought of sharing a bathroom with him, even one with locking doors, left her queasy. After the humiliating circumstances of their initial meeting, it was too much like tempting fate.
“What’s the matter?” Elijah propped a shoulder against the doorframe of his room. “Want help unpacking? I could color coordinate your lingerie. Pink and pink.”
She steeled herself, tempted to slap him. The return of his casual cockiness smothered her anxiety. Had she really felt an attraction to him? Good God! “You really are a despicable man, Dr. Cross.”
“Is that why you can’t keep your eyes off me?”
Slapping be damned. He needed to be drawn and quartered, then dumped headfirst into a vat of boiling oil. Reagan scrunched her hands into fists. “You arrogant, self-centered, egotistical–”
“Handsome?”
She wanted to scream. He was toying with her, playing a game of aren’t-I-the-calm-clever-one? Exasperated, she shook her head, intending to leave before her composure cracked. Elijah surprised her by grabbing her arm and tugging her against him. He was all muscle and sinew, deliciously lean sensual male. Shocked by the unexpected feel of him, she froze.
He lowered his head and claimed her mouth in a soft, exploratory kiss. Warm, gentle. Nothing like she would have expected. Before she could fully comprehend what had happened, he released her with a smile.
“See you at dinner.”
The door snicked closed. Stunned, Reagan stared at the wood. A minute passed before she felt the slow burn of heat on her face. He’d done it again. Made a fool of her; and she’d let him. What was she thinking? The man was a–a–child!
With a PhD, a silent voice mocked. He was damned attractive, and she knew it.
Disgusted, she dug her fingernails into her palms. Is this how he planned to charm Livy Franklin? It wasn’t Brody with his blond good looks and suave manner she had to worry about. It was Elijah Cross. Despite her better judgment, despite their age difference, she couldn’t get him out of her head.
Or erase the feel of his lips on hers.
Panicked by the realization, she kicked the door as hard as she could. Pain spiked from her ankle to her kneecap. She spat an unladylike curse and hobbled in a circle. A glance down the hall told her no one had witnessed her ridiculous fit of temper. All she needed was the arrival of golden-girl Livy or model-perfect Monica to make her humiliation complete. Muttering, she limped into her room and slammed the door. A painting wobbled on the wall.
She glared at it, as if it had questioned her integrity. She could still feel the heat of Elijah’s lips on hers, a sensation that left her unnerved. Did she want to wring his neck, or invite him for an encore? The resurrection of her bewildering attraction sent her over the top, and she did the only childish thing she could think to do. Stomping into the bath, she locked the adjoining door, permanently barring him from the shared room.
* * * *
Elijah grinned when he heard the loud thump against his door, Reagan’s curt response to his spur-of-the-moment kiss. Maybe it had been a stupid thing to do, but he couldn’t get the woman out of his head. It wasn’t as if he’d never felt instant attraction before, but this went beyond normal male hormones and the allure of an impromptu fling. He clicked with Reagan and liked the rarity of that. Most of his relationships went belly-up once a woman realized how exhausting his mind could be. Even at sixteen he’d been involved with older women, a side effect of rarely having been with people his own age. He knew women found him attractive, but once the novelty of his intelligence and looks wore off, they grew bored with what remained. A fish out of water.
Elijah paced to the window and laced a hand through his long hair. He’d grown up in a hurry, forced into awkward social situations before he was ready. Intellectually, he’d been ahead of the game, but had lacked the maturity of his much older peers. To cover his insecurities, he’d developed an off-the-cuff attitude. It was a role he’d grown comfortable with over time. Too comfortable.
He shouldn’t have behaved the way he had with Reagan. Anyone with a smidgen of common sense would have let the attraction develop at its own pace, but, idiot that he was, he lived life in fast-forward. He didn’t know how to slow down and handle circumstance the way the rest of the world did. He’d always been one step ahead, the brilliant academic breaking records, blazing new boundaries.
And falling flat on his face.
What was so brilliant about aggravating Reagan? They’d been on rocky ground from the start. He probably alienated her for good with the stunt he’d just pulled, but–damn–all he’d cared about was kissing her! The temptation of covering her moist, full lips with his had shot his sanity to hell. He’d been blindsided by her from the moment they’d met. Her insistence on strict professionalism only made him want her more.
He thought of her lips, lush and smooth, and how they’d molded perfectly to his. He could still feel her heat smoldering beneath the surface, so rocket-hot it made his groin ache. He had it bad. Dr. Elijah Cross, noted PhD, thinking with his libido. He was doomed, plain and simple.
He sprawled in a chair and glanced about the room. It was spacious and neat, decorated in warm shades of russet, olive and gold. French doors led to a sundeck overlooking a barren stretch of beach to the rear. Through the glass he could hear the roar of the surf as it crashed on rock and sand. The duffel bag he’d jammed full of clothes and toiletries sat at the foot of the bed, courtesy of Sothern’s house staff. His lone suit had been hung in the closet.
Expelling a breath, he slouched lower in the chair. He’d have to do some fancy apologizing before the day was out if he wanted to put his relationship with Reagan back on track. Originally, when he’d agreed to help Gavin Cassidy, a
ll he’d cared about was learning why the Twelfth Sun sank. Rook’s journal would end two centuries of theory and debate. As intriguing as that was, it took a backseat to Reagan and her tight little behind. Stifling a groan, he dragged both hands over his face.
Red hair, green eyes and a body with enough curves to make a man forget his own name.
The woman was gorgeous. Not just passing pretty, but stop-a-man-in-his-tracks-gorgeous. Too bad she considered him little more than an overgrown schoolboy. So what if there was a gap in their ages? He wasn’t a wet-behind-the-ears teenager and she a tottering old grandmother. It was the twenty-first century, for crying out loud. Didn’t she realize older women with younger men were in vogue? She’d certainly had no qualms about flirting with Brody.
Elijah snorted.
Okay, so maybe it hadn’t been flirting exactly, but they’d been awfully cozy. He scowled, knowing his sometimes friend, more often rival, had been blessed with a healthy dose of good looks and charm. Determined to keep Reagan away from him, he pushed from the chair and headed for the door. He had a day and a half to convince her he wasn’t a bookish egghead, good only for mucking through maritime histories. He knew his way around the bedroom every bit as well as the lab. With any luck, she’d let him prove it.
* * * *
Reagan took her time unpacking. When she was done, she wandered through the house, adjusting to the scope of the mammoth estate. A man given to eclectic tastes, Sothern had installed everything from a fully-equipped photographer’s dark room to an artist’s gallery on the main level. A greenhouse, conservatory, library, and formal dining room in a glass-enclosed rotunda, overlooked the rocky beach. The circular dining room, Pellar had called it. It was stunning and elaborate, designed to take advantage of breathtaking ocean views. Yet it was the small-scale planetarium, offset from the main house she found the most intriguing. Who the hell had a planetarium in their house?