by Cat Lindler
He stalked her through a meadow carpeted in grass as golden as ripened wheat. Bright sun penetrated to her bones, and she parted the high stalks, moving quickly and silently. She stopped and crouched down to listen. How close was he? He panted through parted teeth and sniffed the ground, following her spoor. Large paws padded softly, drifted toward her. She rose, lifted her head above the tallest vegetation, saw the rounded top of his tawny head. His thick mane, a fusion of dark and light strands, arched upward from the nape of his neck.
He raised his head, clear green eyes catching her gaze, holding her in thrall. While she stood utterly still, unable to move, he wove a flowing path, drawing in on her by sight instead of scent. The world fell still. All sound and motion ceased beyond this one spot in this golden meadow. Yellow sunlight poured down, the world beyond its sphere turning as black as the ocean depths. A curtain of life drew around them, as if nothing else existed outside its enveloping folds. They were the only living creatures on Earth.
As the cat drew nearer, a quiver shook her. ‘Twas inevitable he would track her down. His canines, long and curved, gleamed in the sun, and his pink tongue lolled outside the wide mouth, which lifted into a knowing grin. A grin meant only for her.
She had nowhere to go. No escape from his piercing teeth and lethal claws. Fear tore through her, hot and screaming in a high keening. Or was it her voice?
He crouched, his thigh muscles bunched into steel coils. His tawny tail whipped back and forth, flattening the grass and sending a wave of seeds into the crystalline air. Resigned to her fate, she lay back and bared her throat. When he sprang, he arched across the sky, a streak of golden fire and overwhelming strength. She closed her eyes, waiting for his weight to bear her into the earth.
Samantha awoke with a jerk, tossing Narcissus off the bed and onto the floor. Her breath came in short, hot gasps. Her heart slammed against her ribs. She pressed a hand on her chest and released a small, whispery laugh. “My goodness,” she uttered into the darkness. When she turned over and closed her eyes again, the iguana climbed back onto the counterpane and curled up beside her.
CHAPTER SIX
On the dot of eight the following morning, Samantha stood at attention in front of Garrett’s desk. He melted her with a smile, gesturing toward the door. “He’s expecting you,” the dreamy man said, then gave her a warning look. “You’d better knock this time.”
Considering her scruffy appearance the preceding day, Samantha had taken especial care with her wardrobe. She had brushed her hair into submission and coiled it into a becoming style under a jaunty blue hat and dotted veil. Her navy blue suit fit snugly, but modestly, with long, tight sleeves and a high collar edged with white lace. The skirt swept back to a bustle draped with a velvet train. Smart black leather half boots with a medium heel peeked out from beneath her hem. White gloves completed the ensemble. Aunt Delia had inspected her earlier with a critical eye and pronounced her quite acceptable.
For most of the previous night, Samantha had tossed and turned, plagued not only by her disturbing dream but also by visions of a broad, hairy chest and hard, green eyes. In addition to addressing the business bringing her to Professor Badia’s door today, she had every intention of mentioning the rude employee’s behavior.
The man had tried to kiss her. And, good Lord, she’d almost let him! She even recalled his scent: salty and earthy, distressingly … male. Each time she called to mind his disrespect and reprehensible behavior, an unpleasant cauldron of heat seethed low in her belly. She attributed the reaction to disgust. A man of his ilk should be locked up, kept away from decent women.
She dared not inform Delia of the man’s inappropriate attentions. She had enough difficulty convincing her aunt to allow her to visit Professor Badia without a chaperone.
Samantha knocked on the pocket doors. She interpreted the grunt coming from beyond the wooden barrier as permission to enter. She went inside and quietly closed the doors. The drapes were drawn, the sole light coming from a fire on the hearth and a small table against the far wall.
Professor Badia, she presumed, bent over the table, his eye pressed to a microscope. Candlelight, reflected in a tilted mirror, illuminated the specimen on the stage. His outline revealed a large body, and she smiled. So much for spare and wiry. Standing in silence with hands laced at her waist and tadpoles wriggling in her stomach, she waited for him to acknowledge her.
He readjusted the mirror and fiddled with the lens, ignoring her for endless minutes. At last he straightened, walked over to the windows. Tall and sturdily built, he wore formfitting trousers and a dark frock coat. He pulled back the drapes and turned around.
Her hands tightened into fists, and the breath stuck in her throat. She released it in an explosion of sound. “You!”
Professor Badia waved toward a chair. “So it seems,” he said dryly.
Samantha remained at the door, as though her boots were nailed to the floor.
He gestured again. “Please have a seat, Lady Samantha, unless you wish to leave now. My time is valuable. I’m here at your request, and I’m not a patient man.”
She forced herself to move, slid into the chair, and clamped her lips together, fearing only nonsense would spew forth, or worse yet, vile oaths. She fought the urge to leave at once, but he represented her last hope, so she swallowed her pride.
He sank into the desk chair, rotating it to face her, crossing his legs, and bracing his elbows on the armrests. Listing his head to one side, he stroked his chin with the fingertips of his right hand while his eyes held hers in a penetrating gaze. After a long silence, he sighed. “I suppose I’ll have to initiate this conversation, since you appear to be tongue-tied. Exactly what do you require from me?”
“Your expertise,” she said without thinking.
His mouth turned up in a slow smile. “Your request could be interpreted in many ways, my lady.”
The heat of a blush ran down to her toes. “Y-y-you know perfectly well I meant your animal tracking and expedition expertise.” She hadn’t truly noticed his lips before, though she did now. Full and sensual, they appeared soft in contrast to the sharp points of his cheekbones, the firmness of his jaw, and the ruggedness of his body. When she realized she was staring at his mouth like a smitten schoolgirl, she glanced away to focus on a point beyond his left shoulder.
“What do you want to do with them?” he asked softly.
Her eyes widened, her gaze bouncing back to him. Of course, he meant his scientific talents. She inhaled a calming breath to prevent her mind from wandering again. “As I told you in my letter, my uncle Richard discovered a living Smilodon.”
He shifted, as though bored, and looked out over the room.
“I realize how ridiculous that must sound,” she quickly went on, “seeing as the saber-toothed tiger has been thought to be extinct for at least ten thousand years, but Richard is a serious, respected scientist, an Oxford-educated botanist. He says he has found a Smilodon, and you may trust his word. He is not prone to delusions, pranks, or exaggerations.”
Professor Badia sat straighter. “Your uncle is Lord Richard Colchester, the Earl of Stanbury?”
“Yes. You have heard of him?”
He inclined his head. “I have several of his monographs. They’re quite excellent.”
A smidgen of optimism settled in her chest.
“Well, get on with your story,” he said. “How did Lord Stanbury manage to find this Smilodon?”
His apparent interest, lukewarm though it was, encouraged her to continue. “Uncle Richard was in Tasmania, arranging a botanical expedition to explore an isolated region of the interior, when a native approached him with a dried flower Richard had never seen before. The native said he found it on an island in the Furneaux Group. Uncle Richard became quite excited because the plant fit no recorded family of flora. He chartered a small boat with his friend James Truett, the botanical illustrator, intending to make a cursory survey of the island preparatory to a full expedition.
A storm at sea caught them and sent them off course. You see, it was the typhoon season. When they reached the nearest landfall, an uncharted island with no landing harbor for boats, Uncle Richard and James swam ashore and camped out on the beach, while the crippled boat limped back to Tasmania with the crew.”
He gestured for her to halt. “Why did they not return with the boat?”
She chuckled. “You would have to know Uncle Richard. For the opportunity to explore completely unknown territory, he would swim across the English Channel. And the boat’s crew promised to send back rescue.”
He leaned back in the chair and tapped his full bottom lip with his steepled fingers. “I understand.”
“Do you?” She attempted a small smile. “I suppose all scientists feel they are compelled to seek out new adventures. Even you.”
“Indeed.” His eyes twinkled beneath half-closed lids. “I also enjoy exploring unknown territory … and seeking new adventures.”
Something in his tone struck her as less than respectful. Samantha blushed again, losing her smile and her train of thought. The man was insufferable! Were all American men this ill-mannered?
He filled her speechless silence. “And on this uncharted island they found a Smilodon.”
“Yes,” she said, unable to meet his eyes. She pulled a paper from her reticule, leaned forward, and laid it on the desk. “James drew this illustration of the cat.”
Christian picked up the drawing and perused it, his brows lowered in concentration. “Again,” he said, handing it back, “why do you need me? This seems like a task Lord Stanbury and his colleague would prefer to handle on their own.”
Samantha bit her quivering lower lip. Her stomach plummeted, and tears gathered in her eyes. He would refuse to help her; she just knew it. “Richard is a botanist, not a zoologist. He requested that I engage a competent scientist with the right qualifications. But I … I fear something terrible has happened. Once I read his letter, I immediately wrote him back and received no reply. I’m the only other person who knows the island’s exact location. So you see, I must ask you not only to lead the Smilodon expedition but also to find my uncle.”
His face took on a pensive expression. “A true living Smilodon would be an incredible find. Your uncle is widely known for his scientific integrity. However, I’m obliged to ask myself whether I wish to become involved, to throw my bucolic life into turmoil. As I’m sure you’re aware, I no longer pursue wild animals.”
“Please, Professor Badia. I cannot do this without your assistance.”
He sighed. “Tell me about the two vessels, the one your uncle arrived on and the rescue ship.”
“I checked with the Naval Ministry. Both sank with all hands aboard a month later.”
“And James Truett?”
“Also missing.”
Christian left the chair and walked to the mantel, pouring himself a brandy. “Would you care for something? A sherry, perhaps?” He turned, sending her a look of inquiry. “Brandy?”
Her blush escaped before she could suppress it. Honestly, the man must believe her red face to be a permanent affliction! “No, thank you. I dislike strong spirits. Will you head my expedition? I have the funds, but I require your expertise.”
He stood at the hearth with one boot resting on the fender, gazed into the fire, and said nothing for a long time. At last he lifted his head. “I must admit it’s intriguing, my lady, but I’ll have to give your proposition some thought. I can fit you in again …” He strode over to the appointment book on his desk and flipped through the pages.
Samantha sprang to her feet and slapped a palm down on the book.
He raised his eyes to hers.
“Tomorrow,” she stated.
A vein throbbed blue against the skin of his temple, surely an ominous sign.
A steel band clamped around her chest, restricted her breathing. “This could easily be the most important discovery of the century,” she said before she could lose her nerve, “and you have played with me long enough. Should you decline, I have other interested parties. I repeat, I shall give you until tomorrow.” He could not possibly know she was bluffing, but he had humiliated her and was now tugging her about like a toddler on a leading string.
He chuckled. “Very well, Lady Samantha Eugenia Colchester, tomorrow it is. Be here at seven o’clock sharp.”
“On the contrary. This time you are obliged to make an appointment with me.” She handed him her card. “You may call on me at precisely nine o’clock at this address. Should you arrive even five minutes late, I shall assume you have no interest in the expedition and will contact my other sources.” She tilted up her nose and walked away, prepared to make a haughty exit. Though she was taking a risk, a colossal risk, she assured herself that the possibility of such a monumental discovery would sway him to reason. Besides, men such as Professor Badia must be dealt with firmly, lest they gain the false impression that they were in charge.
His voice stopped her before she reached the door. “What do your friends call you, Lady Samantha? I would wager something insufferably charming, such as Mandy or Sam.”
She whirled back around. “My friends call me Samantha. You, Professor Badia, may address me as … my lady.”
He threw back his head and laughed.
As she left, she managed to pull the door to without slamming it.
Samantha’s scent had barely cleared the air when Garrett opened the door and popped his head inside. “Spicy, isn’t she?”
Christian scowled. “Were you listening at the door again?”
“Wouldn’t have to if you would invite me in.”
“Indeed,” Christian muttered. “She’s spicy all right, like sour pickles.”
“Come, Chris, are you not being a bit judgmental?”
“Judgmental? Damned right. She’s a bloody aristocrat!”
Garrett frowned. “She’s not Lady Jane, you know. Don’t even look like her.”
Christian swung the door closed with emphasis, nearly bouncing it off Garrett’s head.
“Cork-brained clodpate! Lack-witted lobcock! Reprehensible reprobate! Moronic muttonhead! Vituperative villain! Boorish bacon brain! Thick-witted troglodyte! Addlepated, addlepated …” Samantha ran out of additional appropriate alliterations for Professor Christian Badia. She paced past the clock yet again and glared at the hands: a quarter of ten. Snatching a picture off the mantel, she smashed it against the wall. What was she to do now? Should he fail to come, and that appeared to be his intention, she had no options left. She scowled at the clock and slumped into a chair. The minutes ticked by. Tension twisted the muscles of her neck into knots and accelerated the pulse banging against her temples. Why, oh why, was Christian Badia the only person qualified for this expedition? She racked her brain for other possibilities. None came to mind.
The clock struck ten, and a knock resounded on the door.
Samantha rose, running her hands over her hair and green damask dress. “Enter,” she said.
Pettibone opened the door. “Professor Christian Badia,” he announced in his bored, nasal tone.
Samantha composed her expression. “Please see him in, Pettibone.” She would be damned if she would allow Professor Badia to see how his tardiness upset her.
Christian strolled up to the door, handing his hat and cloak to Pettibone. He wore fawn-hued riding breeches and black boots. His white lawn shirt was cravatless, open at the throat, exposing the dark hair Samantha was painfully aware also covered his chest. A brown hunting coat molded to his shoulders. His blond-streaked brown hair swept back into a queue tied with a rawhide strip. Odors of leather, horses, and brisk autumn air accompanied his entrance.
“You are late,” she said, the words simply springing from her mouth of their own volition. She nearly bit her tongue for giving him such an obvious opening.
He grinned as wickedly as Satan at a feast for the newly damned. “I fear so. But only a little bit late.”
She flinched and walked ov
er to a fireside table. “Tea, Professor Badia?”
“No thanks, Sam. I would rather have coffee if it’s available.”
Her hackles rose at the diminutive of her name. Did the man have no manners at all? The tea she was pouring overran the cup rim, spilling into the saucer. She clenched her fists to stop her hands from shaking and rang for the butler. “Professor Badia would prefer coffee.”
Pettibone bowed stiffly and sniffed. “Yes, m’lady.”
“Please be seated, Professor Badia.” She indicated a seat by the fire.
He inclined his head, settled into the chair, and stretched his legs, so muscular in the skintight breeches, out in front of him. When he crossed one ankle over the other knee, she looked up, her gaze colliding with his. His eyes glimmered with amusement and something else: something dark and knowing, barely detectable behind the mirth.
She nearly dropped the cup of tea. Heat crept up her cheeks and down her neck.
“Perhaps I should go first,” he said as she managed to find her chair. “Once again, you seem to be at a loss for words.”
She started to open her mouth, thought better of it, and stirred her tea instead.
“I’ll agree to head this expedition only if you consent to my conditions.”
She arched her brows. “Conditions?”
“Conditions.”
Samantha looked away. What mischief dwelled in his mind now? Perhaps he would require her to row the ship to Tasmania or catch sharks with a hatpin. She caught herself nibbling on her fingernails and halted the nervous gesture. Had he noticed? She glanced at him. Oh, bother, he had. She dropped her hand and pressed her spine against the wooden spindles of the chair. In spite of her reservations of there being “conditions” to which she must agree, she gave a jerky bob of her head.
As Christian relaxed into his chair, Pettibone appeared with the coffee. “Cream or sugar, Professor Badia?”
“Black will be fine. Thank you.” He accepted the cup and sipped the brew. “Great coffee,” he said to Pettibone. “You aren’t looking for new employment, are you? I could use a majordomo.”