The admission pinched way more than it should have.
After a few more pulls, she got the sheet off and tossed it to the side, looking down. “Ew. A dead mouse.”
Which, of course, didn’t slow her down. “Look, you have my word, my promise, my oath on whatever it is you want me to swear on.”
“What matters to you?”
“Excuse me?”
She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes wicked and sparking with intent. “Swear on something that matters to you. Whatever is the foundation of your belief system.”
Like he thought: nuts. “I don’t…” Have a belief system. No holy book, no ultimate power, no faith in…anything. He’d seen far too many horrific things to believe there was much good in the world. “Can’t you just take my word for it?” he asked.
“No.” She started on the next panel, turning away from him. “I don’t trust you.”
The statement hurt even more the second time. “You don’t even know me.”
She tried to punch a hole, hammering the side of her hand hard enough to shake the wall, but not break it.
“Ouch,” she muttered.
“Let me do it.” He eased her to the side and tapped the wall. “There’s a stud there. You’re lucky you didn’t break your hand.” He kept knocking on the wall, but it was as hard as concrete. “We’ll need a jackhammer for this one, so forget it.”
She shook her head. “I’m not going to forget it, and I’m not going to let you demolish this house and desecrate precious pieces of huge historical and archaeological significance.”
“Demo isn’t scheduled until next week. I promise you, I will personally rip out every wall and stud and make sure there are no more crates full of…” He hesitated long enough for her to turn away.
“Don’t make any remark that you’re going to regret.”
He put his hands on her shoulders, as gently as possible. “I see that you are a very determined and driven woman who doesn’t stop when she wants something.”
She angled her head, giving him a humorless death stare.
“So I am giving you my word of honor that I will not allow this building to be demolished until I—you and I—have, in broad daylight, examined every single nook, cranny, hole, and hiding place in here and made sure that whatever the former owner was secretly stockpiling is taken out and protected.”
Her expression softened, but not entirely. “What about the hill?”
Shit. The hill. “I told you, I’ll look at the paperwork, and if there’s anything at all that can delay the lot prep and grading until we do some preliminary excavation—”
“Not preliminary. And a certified archaeologist has to be there.”
That would take a month. “Whatever it takes. But let’s do it right and not here in the middle of the night by flashlight.”
She didn’t move, hopefully considering his promises and not…conjuring up a spell to put on him.
“We don’t want to miss anything in the dark,” he added, trying to seal his deal.
A scratching sound at their feet made her inch toward the door. Thanks, Mickey.
***
They drove toward the other end of Mimosa Key mostly in silence, past the four-way intersection in the heart of town toward the three-story house in Pleasure Pointe where Ari lived. Where they both lived now.
Luke cleared his throat, breaking the silence, as he pulled into the driveway, the headlights beaming on the sweet wraparound porch that circled Willow’s first-floor apartment. That apartment was dark now, since Willow and Nick were on board the N’Vidrio, the yacht that Nate Ivory had lent them for a honeymoon cruise.
“You know, you still haven’t answered my question.” Luke’s low voice was soft and, thankfully, without any teasing edge.
“Which question?” But deep inside Ari knew exactly which question she hadn’t answered.
“What did you mean when you said you thought I was the one?”
Yep. She knew it. She gnawed on her lower lip, staring straight ahead, praying—hard—that he wouldn’t see through her lie. “I meant the one to help me discover what’s under that hill and in that house.”
“I’m also the one hired to destroy the hill and the house, or lose the job.”
What could she say to that? She certainly didn’t want to be responsible for him losing the work, but in the grand scheme of things, what was more important?
She put her hand on the door handle, not wanting to tackle that question with a man who had the shadow of his own determination in his eyes.
“I’m sorry there’s no elevator to the third floor,” she said. “Can you carry the crate up for me?”
“Sure,” he agreed. “With all the TLC I can muster.”
Still no real sarcasm there, which she kind of missed. At least when he was joking about her, they had a connection. Now, the only thing she felt was…distance. No doubt he thought she was crazy.
“Thanks,” she said softly.
Out of the truck, she waited while he gingerly slid out the crate and followed her up the two flights of stairs that ran along the outside of the building.
Ari peeked into Gussie’s darkened kitchen window as they passed the second-floor apartment. “I guess she’s staying at Tom’s tonight.”
“Something tells me I’ll have her place to myself while I’m here, which will save me the trouble of finding my own apartment.”
“How long are you planning to stay with her?” she asked, no longer satisfied with “for a while,” as he’d answered her the last time she’d asked.
He didn’t respond. After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder, but his eyes were cast down, looking at the crate.
He reached the top landing and set the crate on the stone step. “Not really sure yet,” he finally said. “I guess that depends on you.”
“Me?” For a second, her legs felt a little weak. “Why would you…oh.” She realized what he meant. “If your project gets killed, you won’t stay.”
He lifted a shoulder and nodded. And Ari could have kicked herself for thinking he meant anything else by “that depends on you.” A longing, a wistfulness, an achy something rolled through her.
She’d blown this. With her…feelings and intuition and certainty about things other people weren’t certain about. Even she, in the dark, empty nights alone in her bed, wasn’t sure what she was certain of sometimes.
Sighing, she unlocked her door and stepped inside, reaching to turn on the entryway table lamp and holding the door open for him.
“You can put it on the dining table.” She indicated the high-top table with four stools tucked into a bay near the kitchen.
“Well, there you go,” he said as he set it down. “I’m certain I didn’t break a single seashell butter knife.” He turned, looking around. “Wow, this place is so different from my sister’s apartment.”
She tried to see the small one-bedroom—since the top floor of the Victorian was the tiniest of the three apartments—through his eyes. She’d decorated in shades of cream and white, all earthy and natural, especially compared to Gussie’s confectioner’s collection of purple and pink, with about fifty satin pillows lying around.
“It matches you,” he observed. “Very…real.”
Unable to decide if that was a compliment or not, she wiped her hands on her jeans. “Considering I’ve been sitting on a floor infested by God knows what, I feel a little too real right now.”
He nodded. “Then I’ll leave.”
Something in her heart slipped, something that made her want to say, No, stay, have a drink, curl up, and hold me. “Okay,” she said instead, reaching for the door. “So what happens next?”
“I’m meeting with the mason in the morning. And I’ll go through all the paperwork, present and past,” he assured her. “And, you know, while the equipment is up there, we can do a little digging around the area where you found your pearls and see what comes up.”
Her pearls. They didn’t belong to her.
They belonged to…history. She started to tell him that, but stopped and shook her head.
“What?” he prompted, as if he were really interested. As if maybe he didn’t really think she was crazy and wanted to run as fast as he could. Maybe if he could understand her a little.
She took a breath. “I was just thinking about my grandmother,” she said.
“Grandma Gummy Bear?”
She smiled, happy he was teasing her again. “Good Bear. She was a very influential person in my life, and her way of thinking really affected who I am.”
He didn’t reply, studying her, listening intently enough that she was encouraged to continue.
“But her way of thinking and seeing life, her feelings and…and connection with her heritage and all that entailed, well, that wasn’t the only influence on me.”
He nodded, seeming to sense there was a lot more.
How could she best explain the conflict in her heart? “You know Alcatraz?” she asked.
“The island that used to be a prison? Of course.”
“Have you heard of the Indian occupation of it?”
He frowned and slowly shook his head.
“Between 1969 and 1971, over fifteen hundred American Indians occupied the island of Alcatraz, demanding government intervention and support for the people of all tribes, all across the nation,” she explained. “They did this because thousands of tribes and remnants of long-gone tribes lived in poverty and deplorable conditions. And they got change and help and truly revised the course of history.”
“Okay.” He drew out the word, clearly uncertain where this history lesson was going.
“When she was forty-five, my grandmother left her kids and lived there for a year as part of the protest. My mom was fifteen and furious. Somehow, their family got through it, but my mother was really affected by losing her own mother for a year at that age. She basically chose to disenfranchise herself from anything ‘Indian.’ She moved away from the culture toward her father’s side.”
“Your grandfather wasn’t a Native American?”
She shook her head. “Irish. My mom’s only half-Native American, and I’m a quarter. Anyway, my grandmother felt that the protest was more important than her family, her husband, anything. It cost her, but she said it was worth it.” She smiled. “Grandma Good Bear never met a Native American cause she didn’t love.”
“And you’re telling me this because…?”
Because she wanted him to know her. “I’m telling you because I know what it’s like to think someone who cares about people who died thousands of years ago is”—she circled her finger around her head—“cuckoo.”
He didn’t argue, but the faintest hint of a smile gave away that he’d been thinking exactly that.
“I spent a lot of time with Grandma Good Bear, more than my brother or sister ever did, and we were very close.” Her voice rose, ready to defend the woman she loved unconditionally. “And I know what she’d want me to do. What she wants me to do,” she amended. “Because I do believe her spirit is here.”
At least he didn’t roll his eyes, but he did give a resigned shrug. “I get it.”
He didn’t, not fully. “My grandmother taught me that my feelings matter. They matter a lot. And sometimes you have to pay a high price and lose someone because those convictions and beliefs aren’t, well, concrete.”
“I like concrete,” he admitted softly.
“You would. You’re a builder.”
He smiled again. “Thanks for telling me, Ari.”
Distance again. She answered with a soft sigh. He mustn’t be The One after all, because he’d know it, right? He wouldn’t put up a wall, would he? He’d reach out and put his arms around her and hold her close and tell her he got it and they should spend the day tomorrow getting to know each other.
But he didn’t do any of that. He just looked at her like he wasn’t at all sure what to say, do, or think.
“Well,” she said. “Good night then.”
“I’ll call you after I meet with the mason tomorrow.”
She reached up and touched his jaw, purely unable to resist touching him. All the sparks were still flying, the lights inside her head were still flashing, the numbness and quivering…all still there.
So he felt like The One but didn’t act like The One. Grandma never covered this contingency in her tales of a fated mate.
He turned his head enough to put the tiniest kiss on her thumb. But he might as well have licked her it sent so many lightning bolts through her.
“I don’t know what it is about you, Little Mermaid,” he whispered. “You’ve got something. You are something.”
Her only consolation was that he was as confused as she was.
Chapter Seven
Ari blinked into the lavender tones of dawn that slipped through the wood shutters on her living room windows. Disoriented for a moment, she shook her head to clear it, lifting her face from the rough tweed of her sofa, rooting for an explanation as to why she wasn’t in her bedroom.
Luke.
Just thinking his name sent a little bombshell of awareness through her, waking her up. Of course, he wasn’t there, she thought sleepily, pushing herself up. She’d fallen asleep around three in the morning, alone, after a shower, some tea, and a few hours of sifting through the Cracker Jack box of treasures.
Even in the dim light of early morning, she could see the fruits of her middle-of-the-night labor, rows of shells, tools, utensils, and items she’d classify as art all laid out on her table and the kitchen counter, then onto the floor when she ran out of surface space.
She’d painstakingly lifted each item out of the crate, carefully set it on tissue paper, and taken a photograph to catalog it. With her laptop open, she’d done research on the fly—enough to be genuinely encouraged her find was authentic proof that Calusa Indians had been living there long before Balzac Valentine.
Ari stretched again, eyeing her half-empty teacup, working out a painful crick in her neck. But what about the ache in her heart? She put her hand on her chest as if she could actually gauge the status of that delicate organ through her pajama top.
The state of her heart was…disorderly. Chaotic. A little bruised from the push-pull of last night. She’d met a great guy—understatement of the year—and he no doubt thought she was a lunatic to be avoided at all costs.
The snap of her door latch made her whip around. For a second she didn’t breathe, half-expecting Luke to come through the door she knew she’d locked, but it was his sister’s green eyes that popped wide when their gazes met.
“Oh, you’re up,” Gussie said, dangling the master key the three women had made to get into each other’s apartments. “I thought if I knocked, I’d wake you.”
“No, I’m awake.” Not quite coherent, though. She waved her friend in. “What’s up?”
“My brother—”
“What about him?” Oh, man. Did she have to sound so breathless and eager?
Apparently, Gussie didn’t notice as she dropped the key on the entry table. “He’s a milk-siphon, that’s what. He drank every drop I had, and I will die if I have to drink black coffee.” As she got farther into the apartment, she squished up her face, looking from Ari to the table, counter, and floor and back to Ari again. She lifted one eyebrow in question. “Shell collecting now, are we?”
Ari pushed down frustration. They weren’t shells. “Didn’t Luke tell you?”
“He was gone by the time I got home, which wasn’t even twenty minutes ago. Left the empty carton on the counter, too, the jerkwad.” She grinned. “Have I mentioned how much I love having him here? Because I do.”
He’d left for the job site already? Judging by the light, it couldn’t be seven o’clock. A little niggle of disappointment wormed around Ari’s chest, but she pushed it away. Did she really think he’d come up here, knock on the door, and invite her to go with him?
Yes. But he didn’t want her there. “Where’s Tom?”
�
�Working this morning. He had to go over to Miami at the crack of dawn to test the morning light for a photo shoot he has coming up there. He’ll be back later today.”
“You still on cloud fifteen, Miss Engaged Woman?” Ari asked.
“More like cloud fifty, but, Ari, what is all this?” She took a few steps to the counter and reached out.
“No, don’t touch!”
Gussie’s hand jerked back like she’d been burned, and she shot Ari a disbelieving look.
“They’re not seashells,” Ari said.
Gussie pointed to a finely sharpened conch. “Could have fooled me.”
“They’re Native American tools, every one an ancient, valuable, museum-quality artifact.”
“Really?” Gussie eyed them closely, holding up her hands to show she wouldn’t touch. “Where on earth did you get them?”
Ari sighed, almost too exhausted to tell the story, but she had to. If anyone could help her figure out what to do about Luke and his building plans, it would be his sister. “Do you have time to have your coffee here?” she asked.
“Of course. Alex just crawled into my bed and went back to sleep,” Gussie said, referring to Tom’s twelve-year-old niece, who completed their newly formed family. She wandered along the counter that separated the kitchen from the living area, studying each item. “Wow, I’d never guess these things were valuable. They look like stones and shells and sticks to me.”
“They would to anyone who hasn’t studied Native American art and history.”
Gussie shot a brow up. “I know you like all that stuff, but you know it that well to know what these things are? Or were?”
“I’m no expert, that’s for sure, but my grandmother was. And there’s plenty of online information. What I read last night makes me think these could be three thousand years old.”
“Three thousand?” Gussie gasped. “Holy crap, no wonder you don’t want me to touch them. You still didn’t tell me where they came from.”
“Inside the house your brother was going to demolish.” And still might, if Ari didn’t stop him.
Barefoot in Pearls (Barefoot Bay Brides Book 3) Page 7