by Mae Clair
Brody dragged a hand over his face. “You don’t understand.” His shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Then explain it. From where I’m standing, you crossed the line.”
Brody remained silent, looking more morose than before. Elijah cursed and turned away. He started up the beach, stopping abruptly to hold out his hand for Reagan. Her fingers slid into his, and the contact slowed everything down, righting the world on its axis. Pain spiked up his leg when he started walking again. He grimaced, but not from discomfort. Had he really accused his friend of trying to kill him?
He pulled Reagan closer, wrapping his arm around her shoulders. The cold was setting in, the feel of her body snug against his helping to offset it. His wet hair dripped onto her dress, but she made no move to pull away. “I think I screwed up,” he breathed into her ear.
“No.” Reagan shook her head. “You’re right about Brody.” She looked up at him, her gaze steady as if trying to gauge whether or not he was ready to hear the truth. “He’s not what he seems.”
Chapter 10
Reagan couldn’t sleep. The night was a whirlwind of confusion. After returning to the house, she and Alan Franklin had helped Elijah tend to his leg. Alan had some minor first aid background and had been able to clean and treat the gash to her satisfaction. Fortunately, the cut hadn’t been deep enough to require stitches, and Elijah had confessed to having a tetanus shot within the past year. He’d been injured during an archeological dive when a piece of metal had cut through his wetsuit, slicing his forearm. The attending physician had stitched the wound, later summoning a big-boned Nordic-looking nurse to shove a needle below his hip. Reagan had laughed when he’d said he hadn’t been certain which hurt worse, his pride or his butt.
That had been the only grin from him all evening. She knew he was bothered by what happened with Brody. Not so much his injury, but what he felt was betrayal on the part of his friend. Reagan had shared her own suspicions about Brody, going so far as to tell him about the conversation she’d overheard between Brody and Pellar. Elijah had grown increasingly withdrawn afterward, and she’d begun to wonder if she’d made a mistake in telling him. But he had a right to know, especially if he was in danger.
Disturbed, she pushed from her bed. She was torn about Brody, unwilling to trust him, but unable to believe he’d deliberately harm Elijah. Perhaps what happened in the water had been an accident and Elijah was overreacting.
No. Dr. Elijah Cross was not the type of man to go off the deep end, randomly accusing people of foul play. The whole wretched week was one unexplainable enigma. Between the ever-absent Sothern, the strange treasure hunt with its cryptic clues and solutions, Pellar’s role as obnoxious ringmaster and Brody’s growing duplicity, everything was spiraling out of control. Should she and Elijah confront Brody and Pellar, or continue to play along and hope for the best?
She had promised her uncle she’d do everything she could to get Rook’s journal, but the stakes were climbing too high. Grabbing her robe from a chair, Reagan slipped it over her slinky pink nightie and walked into the bathroom. It was after midnight, the house still. She didn’t bother turning on the light but stood in the darkness, listening for any hint of sound through Elijah’s closed door.
Alan had made him swallow a couple of ibuprofen and warned him his leg would be stiff and sore in the morning. Concerned, she gnawed on her bottom lip, debating the merits of checking on him. He was probably sleeping. She didn’t want to disturb him, but worried the cut on his leg could lead to fever. Darn, if she hadn’t grown attached to him.
No, that wasn’t right.
More than attached. She was falling for him. Not a just little, but a lot. Big time.
Reagan and Elijah, sitting in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G.
The sing-song kiddie verse popped into her head and she giggled. What would her mother say if she brought him home?
Mom, this Elijah. He’s not as young as he looks. Well, okay, he is, but didn’t you always say I should marry a doctor?
Another giggle and she pressed her ear against the door separating her from the other bedroom. Elijah wasn’t moving at all. She tested the knob and found it unlocked, sending her curiosity soaring. She’d already seen him naked, so there was nothing left that could embarrass her. And a man who didn’t snore, even a little, was too good to be true, worthy of a peek. She’d pop her head in, tiptoe to the bed and make sure he was alright. If she could convince herself he was fine and hadn’t started on a fever or something worse, she’d be able to sleep. Maybe she’d stop envisioning hangman’s gallows and torture chambers for Brody.
Drawing a steadying breath, she slipped into the room. A voice in the back of her head told her that sneaking into a man’s bedroom was something she’d never done. Which only served up a reminder of how deeply her feelings had grown. Creeping toward the bed, she craned her neck to see through the darkness. Elijah was lying on his back, the sheet drawn to his waist, the rest of the blankets bunched at the foot of the bed. She’d just take a quick look and turn around. If he caught her, she’d never live it down.
“Hello, Reagan,” Elijah said quietly.
She came to a halt, hitting an imaginary brick wall. His eyes slid open and she saw a flash of blue, followed by the white of his teeth when he grinned. “Couldn’t sleep?”
She swallowed. “I–” One hand rose to clutch the neck of her short silk robe. “I wanted to see how you were feeling.”
His lips stretched in a broad smile. “Lonely.”
So much for worrying. He was predatory, but damn good at it. He patted the mattress beside him, and she felt her resolve weaken. She wanted to press her hand to his forehead and assure herself the glint in his eyes had nothing to do with fever. Stroke the dark brown curls from his brow, maybe even brush a kiss across his lips when she left.
She stayed rooted to the spot. “You should sleep.”
He patted the bed again. “Sit down and talk to me.”
Reagan’s legs quivered. If he got her on the bed, they wouldn’t spend the time talking. But didn’t they have a mutual agreement to put everything on hold until after she had Rook’s journal? Besides, he was hurt. With his leg banged up the way it was, he wouldn’t feel like…
Her cheeks flamed. Well…that!
Deciding she was safe, Reagan stepped nearer. He wore only boxers again, blue this time, the waistband visible beneath the lip of the sheet. She perched uneasily on the edge of the bed, ready to bolt at the slightest provocation.
Elijah laughed. “Will you relax?” He took her hand, tugging her closer. “I just want to talk. I promise not to morph into the Marquis de Sade or Jack the Ripper.”
Reagan raised her eyebrows. “I was thinking more of Don Juan.”
“Oh. Well, no promises there.”
“Elijah.”
“What can I say? You’re wearing pink. It pushes all my buttons.”
“Hmm.” She tried to look stern, and failed. He made her nervous, lightly tracking his thumb across the inside of her wrist. She used her free hand to brush the bangs from his forehead, unobtrusively checking for fever. His skin felt cool and dry. “Does your leg hurt?”
“My heart hurts.”
“If you’re not going to be serious…”
“That’s not easy with you creeping into my room in that skimpy excuse of a nightgown. If this were a ship, you’d have to forfeit all rights to your virginity. Actually,” he continued, grinning ear to ear. “If this were a ship, you’d have been naked from the start. Having a woman on board is considered bad luck. Unless she isn’t wearing any clothes.” He wiggled his eyebrows.
Reagan smiled. “Lucky for me this isn’t a ship.”
He pulled her into his arms. “We could pretend. Doctorate, captaincy. They’re basically the same. You wouldn’t want me turn you over to the crew.”
“I don’t know.” Reagan snuggled into his arms, lying down beside him. He wasn’t threatening right now as much as playful. She had no problem holding
her own as long as they stayed in that mood. Once he kissed her or touched her, the game was his. “Alan is kind of cute.”
Elijah snorted. “In a Boy Scout sort of way. He’d never make a gypsy-pirate.”
“And you would?”
“My dad’s father was part gypsy. Besides, the sea is in my blood.” He turned onto his side, locking his good leg over hers, holding her in place. Pushing up on one elbow, he stared down at her, abruptly serious. “Did you know a good marine archaeologist can spend his entire life studying a single wreck and never be bored? Never feel the need to move onto something else?” He stroked her cheek, brushing her hair aside. “That’s what I want to do with you, Reagan. I want to spend my days and nights learning about you. Everything about you. What you think. The way you smell…” He leaned forward, inhaling the light scent of the honeysuckle oil she’d used in her bath.
Ping! Warning claxons flared in her head. Elijah, playful and teasing she could control. Elijah, serious and romantic meant trouble.
“The way you feel.” His fingers tracked down her arm and hooked into the flimsy belt holding her robe shut. “The way you taste.” His mouth closed over hers at precisely the moment he tugged open her robe.
Every instinct screamed at her to push him away and end his seduction before it reached the point she couldn’t escape. But the press of his body against hers was riveting. The track of his hand inside her robe contouring her hip, sent shivers tripping down her spine. She locked her arms around his neck, drawing him closer.
He uttered a low groan. The heat of his kiss scalded her from the inside out, sending liquid flame gushing into her throat. His hand found her breast and his lips tracked a sizzling trail of fire from her mouth to her neck. She felt consumed. Engulfed.
Instinctively she clawed at his back, feeling a tight ripple of muscle beneath her fingertips. She wanted him. More than she’d ever wanted anything or anyone in her life. Caught in the grip of passion, she whimpered. She wanted him to paw her clothes aside. To feel the shocking, blistering press of his bare flesh against hers.
But more than that, she wanted his restraint, his love.
His promise.
The room spun, sucking her into a dizzying vortex where every touch of his hands and brush of his lips, crackled with seductive power. His mouth molded her throat, teasing the wildly thrumming pulse in the hollow of her neck. At twenty-five he had mastered the art of love, leaving her senseless and dazed, a willing observer to her own seduction. His lips tracked lower to her aching, sensitized breasts. She would never recover.
She arched her back, willing his electrified touch. Her nipples were erect, straining against the flimsy material of her nightie, a barrier she could no longer tolerate. Elijah swept the silky fabric aside, baring her skin to the cool night air and the hot, moist touch of his lips.
He took one breast in his mouth, teasing the sensitive nipple with his tongue. Reagan moaned.
He choked down a breath, as if undone by the sound of her pleasure.
His fingers knotted in her hair. He rose up on both elbows now, drawing back to look in her eyes. The arresting press of his erection throbbed between her legs, and she had to forcibly restrain herself from touching him. She wanted him to consume her, pushing her over a pinnacle that was both physical and emotional.
She slid her fingers into the long curls that framed his face and tumbled down his neck. “I won’t stop you this time.”
Elijah groaned. He dropped his head to her brow, audibly panting. “You’re a siren, you know that? I want you so bad, I can taste it.”
She felt him trembling. “Elijah, I won’t stop you,” she said again.
“I know.” He kissed her. Lightly this time, his tongue teasing the outer corners of her mouth. His muscles strained with the effort to hold his desire in check. “You came to see how I was feeling. Not to be seduced.”
But she did. Subconsciously, she’d wanted this. She still did. She wanted him.
He’d given her an out. Reagan lowered her hand, tugging the nightie over her bare breasts. It wasn’t fair. Just when she had counted on him being a scoundrel, he’d decided to play white knight. Was it possible she’d fallen in love with a man not yet in his thirties? Or was this lust, pure and simple?
She found her voice, buried somewhere beneath the physical ache in her heart. “Elijah.” Her voice cracked, bottoming out somewhere between the shocking blue fire of his eyes and the barebones emotions tangled there. Her heart fluttered. He wasn’t simply handsome, he was so obscenely gorgeous her stomach flip-flopped. Was she really going to let a man who looked like that not have his way with her? Especially when she was more than willing.
Whose idea was this stupid no-sex for a week thing anyway? I should be shot.
“Can I…” The words stuck to her tongue. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Can I stay here tonight? With you? We don’t have to do anything. I just want to be with you.”
In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve fallen in love with you.
He moved aside, lying beside her, snugly spooning her body to his. His lips brushed her hair, the sensual whisper of his breath warm against her ear. “I’d like that.” His arm tightened over her stomach, drawing her closer. “I’d spend eternity with you in my bed.”
* * * *
The next morning was even more subdued than dinner had been. Alan and Livy turned up to watch everyone else pick their clues, but it was clear from Livy’s red-rimmed eyes she’d taken their exclusion hard. Reagan picked at her French toast and strawberries while Elijah skipped breakfast in favor of hot tea with lemon. He’d tossed and turned during the night, waking her on occasion with his restlessness. That, coupled with his lack of appetite this morning, made her think his leg bothered him more than he was willing to admit.
He’d dressed sloppily, wearing an old pair of jeans with holes in the knees and sneakers so ragged any sensible person would have thrown them out long ago. A gray T-shirt under an oversized brown shirt completed what she had come to think of as his grunge attire. The shirt sported metal snaps in place of buttons and the cuffs were frayed, loosely rolled on his forearms. The tip of a faded scar peeked from beneath the sleeve of his left arm, likely the one he’d gotten last year while exploring the wreck of the J. Scott Rowe. His long hair was a little wilder than usual, the loose curls tumbled haphazardly and scattered by the breeze blowing across the sundeck. Only his glasses made him look remotely scholarly. If she was meeting him for the first time, she’d mistake him for an underground club musician or a street peddler. Her stepfather, the ex-cop, would probably want to shake him down for drugs.
She smiled, imagining the meeting between them, and took a bite of French toast. In direct contrast to Elijah’s ragged attire, she was smartly dressed, wearing snug navy capris and a pink pull-over top. Wasn’t that the color Elijah said pushed all of his buttons? She blushed to think of how they had slept together last night. Morning sun streamed across their intertwined bodies when she woke, her head nestled on his chest.
Three more days and the treasure hunt would be over. Three more days and she would have Rook’s journal or return to her uncle empty-handed. What would happen to her relationship with Elijah when the hunt ended Friday evening? Would it go the next level, one they were both eager to initiate, or would it crumble with distance? She bit her lip and lowered her eyes. She didn’t want to let go of this man. Not now or in the future.
“Hey, kids.” Brody stepped to the table, wearing his trademark grin. Reagan started at the interruption, offering a wavering smile, but Elijah turned his head and bluntly looked away.
Brody scowled. “Elijah, we have to talk.”
Elijah slouched lower in his chair, cradling his tea mug against his stomach, long legs stretched before him and crossed at the ankles. Brody shifted from foot to foot, huffing out a breath in exasperation. “Doc, I really need to talk to you.”
“Send me a text.”
Sitting straighter, Reagan pushed awa
y her plate. She glanced about the deck, but no one seemed aware of the brewing tension between Elijah and Brody. Alan and Livy talked quietly with Monica, who had finished breakfast and was idly filing her nails. Tarvick had his nose buried in the morning paper. He likely wouldn’t have cared anyway, unless the ensuing fallout benefited him.
She cleared her throat. “Brody, now isn’t a good time.”
He shifted again, his uncharacteristic nervousness out of place when matched against his normally suave personality. “I wanted to see how you were feeling,” he told Elijah, ignoring Reagan’s comment. “If there’s anything I can do, kid…”
“That depends,” Elijah cut him off, keeping his voice low. “On what you and Pellar have planned next.”
Brody clamped his mouth shut. He looked at Elijah as if he’d sprouted horns. “What does that mean?”
“Drop the act, Brody. I know you’re in this together. Reagan heard the two of you talking the other night.”
Brody laughed nervously. His eyes shifted to Reagan, then back again. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Are you going to toss away three years of friendship based on a little misunderstanding?”
Elijah leaned forward, setting the tea mug on the table. “Saying Sunday when you mean Monday is a misunderstanding. Drowning, I take personally.” He shoved from his chair and walked toward the railing, limping as he went.
Reagan looked at Brody. “I think you should stay clear of him for a while.”
“You don’t understand. Neither of you do. And this thing with Pellar–”
As if summoned by his name, the staff manager swept onto the sundeck, loudly clapping his hands. “Enough dilly-dallying, everyone! There are clues to be chosen, treasure to be retrieved. Come now. Let’s get this over with, shall we?”
Clarice followed Pellar onto the sundeck, pushing a cart with the by-now familiar crystal bowl containing the clues. She left it near the food buffet, vanishing when spurred by a curt nod from Pellar. He sighed dramatically, impatient. “How many times have we done this, people? You know the draw order. Let’s be quick about it, please.”