by Nora Roberts
Locked the door.
There were towels on the floor, toothpaste—sans cap—on the counter on a small white sink that, while not gleaming, at least appeared to have been rinsed sometime within the last six months.
There was also, she soon discovered, hot water. The minute she stepped into the shower, the glory of it wiped out every other sensation. She let it beat on her, flood over her head. She very nearly danced in it. When the warmth reached her bones, she simply closed her eyes and sighed.
It was with some regret that she turned off the taps, stepped out. Locating a reasonably clean-looking towel on the rack, she wrapped herself in it as she dug out a shirt and trousers.
She was standing in her underwear when the lights went out.
She screamed. She couldn’t help it, and ended up ramming her hip sharply against the sink before she controlled herself.
Her hands shook and her temper spiked as she fought to dress herself in the dark.
“Mr. Caine!” she shouted for him as she inched out of the bath. The place was pitch-black.
“Yeah, yeah, don’t blow a gasket.”
She heard him tromping up the stairs, saw the narrow beam of light bobbing with him. “Power’s out,” he told her.
“I never would’ve guessed.”
“Perfect time for sarcasm,” he muttered. “Just stay put.” He and the light disappeared into another room. He came back with the flashlight, and offered her a flickering candle. “You done in there?” he gestured with his head toward the bathroom.
“Yes, thank you.”
“Fine.” He started back down, and the next boom of thunder had her hurrying after him.
“What do we do now?”
“We build a fire, drink coffee, heat up some soup and wish you were someplace else.”
“I don’t see any reason to be rude. It’s hardly my fault there’s a storm.” She tripped over a pair of shoes and rapped into his back.
“Damn it!” The jar had his shoulder singing. “Watch it, will you?”
“I beg your pardon. If you didn’t live like a pig, I wouldn’t trip over your mess.”
“Look, just go in there.” He pointed to the front room of the cabin. “Sit down. Stay out of the way.”
“Gladly.” She sailed into the room, then spoiled the effect by letting out a muffled shriek. “Are those …” She lifted a hand weakly toward what her light had picked out on a littered table. “Bones?”
Del shined the flashlight over the bones sealed in airtight plastic. “Yeah. Human, mostly.” He said it matter-of-factly as he headed toward the fireplace. “Don’t worry.” He crouched and set kindling. “I didn’t kill anyone.”
“Oh, really.” She was edging back, wondering what she might use for a weapon.
“The original owner died about seven thousand years ago—but not in the fall that fractured a number of those bones. Anyway, she doesn’t miss them.” He set the kindling to light.
“Why do you have them?”
“I found them—on a dig in Florida.”
He set logs to blaze and stood. The fire snapped at his back, shooting light around him. “You … dig graves?” she managed to ask, the horror only a hint in her voice.
For the first time, he smiled. It was a flash as bright as the lightning that shot across the sky. “In a manner of speaking. Relax … what was your name?”
She moistened her lips. “Camilla.”
“Right, well relax, Camilla. I’m an archaeologist, not a mad scientist. I’m going for the coffee. Don’t touch my bones—or anything else for that matter.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” She also wouldn’t dream of staying alone in the dark room on a storm ravaged night with a pile of human bones. No matter how carefully packaged or old they might be. “I’ll give you a hand.” Because she wanted to cover her unease, she smiled. “You look like you could use one.”
“Yeah, I guess.” The injury still irritated him, in more ways than one. “Look, there’s a spare room upstairs. You might as well figure on bunking there. We’ll deal with your car in the morning.”
“Thanks.” She was warm, she was dry and the coffee smelled wonderful. Things might’ve been a great deal worse. “I really do appreciate it, Mr. Caine.”
“Caine, just Caine, or Del.” When he walked straight back to the mudroom, she followed him.
“Where are you going?”
“What?” He paused in the act of struggling into a slicker. He just wasn’t used to explaining his moves. “We’re going to need water. Rain, water, bucket,” he said, picking up one. “And there’s a generator in the shed. I might be able to get it going. Don’t mess with my stuff,” he added, and walked back into the storm.
“Not without a tetanus shot, believe me,” she muttered as the door slammed behind him.
Afraid of what she might find, she eased open a cupboard. Then another, and another. As the first three were empty, she found what she assumed were the only clean dishes in the cabin in the last one.
She poured coffee into a chipped mug, and took the first wary sip. She was delighted and stunned that the man made superior coffee.
Braced by it, she took stock of the kitchen. She couldn’t just stand around in this sty and do nothing. If they were going to eat, she was going to have to figure out how to cook under these conditions.
There were plenty of cans in the pantry, among them two cans of condensed tomato soup. It was something. Cheered, she cracked open the refrigerator.
While it wasn’t filthy, perhaps worse, it was very nearly empty. She frowned over three eggs, a hunk of very old cheese, a six-pack of beer—minus two—and to her delight, a bottle of excellent pinot noir.
Things were looking up.
There was a quart of milk which—after a testing sniff—proved to be fresh, and a half gallon of bottled water.
Rolling up her sleeves, Princess Camilla got to work.
Fifteen minutes later, armed with a pail of her own, she stepped outside. She could barely make out the shed through the rain. But over its drumming, she heard plenty of cursing and crashing. Deciding Del would be busy for a while yet, she switched his half-filled pail with her own, and hauled the water back inside.
* * *
If he’d had some damn light, Del thought as he kicked the little generator again, he could see to fix the stupid son of a bitch. The problem was, to get some damn light he needed to fix it.
Which meant he wasn’t going to get it up and running before morning. Which meant, he thought sourly, he’d wasted the best part of an hour fumbling around in a cramped shed, and had bumped his miserable shoulder countless times.
Every inch of his body hurt in one way or the other. And he was still wet, cold and in the dark.
If it had been just himself, he wouldn’t have bothered with the generator in the first place. He’d have opened a can, eaten a cold dinner and worked a bit by candlelight.
But there was the woman to think about. He hated having to think of a woman under the best of circumstances—and these were far from the best.
“Fancy piece, too,” he muttered, shining the flashlight around the shed to see if there was anything he could use in the cabin. “On the run from something. Probably a rich husband who didn’t buy her enough sparkles to suit her.”
None of his business, he reminded himself. She’d be out of his hair the next day, and he could get back to work without interruptions.
He turned, caught his shin on the generator, jerked. And literally saw stars as he aggravated his broken collarbone. Sweat slicked over his face so that he had to slap his good hand against the wall and wait for the dizzy sickness to pass.
His injuries were the reason he wasn’t still on site at the Florida dig—one that had been his baby since the beginning three seasons before. He could handle that. Someone had to do the written reports, the journals, the cataloging and lab work.
He preferred that someone be himself.
But he hated the damn inconveni
ence of the injuries. And the weakness that dogged him behind the pain. He could barely dress himself without jarring the broken bone, the dislocated shoulder, the bruised ribs.
He couldn’t even tie his own damn shoes.
It was a hell of a situation.
Steady enough to brood over his unsteadiness, he picked up the flashlight he’d dropped and made his way back to the cabin. He stopped to pick up the pail of rainwater and swore viciously as even that weight strained his resources.
In the mudroom he set down the bucket, ditched the slicker, then headed straight for a mug in the kitchen.
When he reached for the coffeepot, he saw it wasn’t there.
It took him a minute. Del didn’t notice details unless he meant to notice them. Not only was the coffee missing, but so were all the dishes that had been piled in the sink, over the table and counters.
He didn’t remember washing them. It wasn’t a chore he bothered with until all options were exhausted. Baffled, he opened a cupboard and studied the pile of clean dishes.
The counters were clean, and the table. He snarled reflexively when he saw his notes and papers tidily stacked.
But even as he marched through the cabin, prepared to skin some of that soft, rosy skin off his unwelcome visitor, the scent of coffee—and food—hit him, and hit hard. It reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours, and buried the leading edge of his temper under appetite.
There she was, stirring a saucepot over the fire. He noted she’d jury-rigged a grill—probably one of the oven racks—bracing the ends of it with stacks of bricks.
He recalled the bricks had been piled on the front porch, but had no idea why.
Resourceful, he admitted—grudgingly—and noted that for a skinny woman, she had an excellent backside.
“I told you not to touch my stuff.”
She didn’t jolt. He clumped through the cabin like a herd of elephants. She’d known he was there.
“I’m hungry. I refuse to cook or to eat in a sty. The papers in the kitchen are relatively undisturbed. It’s the filth I dispensed with.”
And the papers, she thought, were fascinating. What she could read of his handwriting, in any case.
“I knew where everything was.”
“Well.” She straightened, turned to face him. “Now you’ll have to find where it all is now. Which is in two ordered stacks. I have no idea how you—” She broke off as she saw the blood dripping from his hand. “Oh! What have you done?”
He glanced down, noticed the shallow slice in the back of his good hand, and sighed. “Hell. What’s one more?”
But she was rushing to him, taking the wounded hand and clucking over the cut like a mother hen over a chick. “Back in the kitchen,” she ordered. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
It was hardly a major wound. No one had ever fussed over his cuts and scrapes—not even his mother. He supposed that was due to the fact she’d always had plenty of her own. Taken off guard, he let himself be pulled back into the kitchen where she stuck his bleeding hand into the sink.
“Stay,” she ordered.
As she might have said, he mused, to a pet. Or worse—a servant.
She unearthed a rag, dumped it in the pail of water and proceeded to wash off his hand. “What did you cut it on?”
“I don’t know. It was dark.”
She clucked again, as she examined the cleaned cut. “Do you have a first-aid kit? Antiseptic?”
“It’s just a scratch,” he began, but gave up and rolled his eyes at her fulminating stare. “Back there.” He gestured vaguely.
She went into the mudroom, and he heard her slamming cabinet doors—and muttering.
“Vous êtes un espece de cochon, et gauche aussi.”
“If you’re going to curse at me, do it in English.”
“I said you’re a pig of a man, and clumsy as well.” She sailed back in with a first-aid kit, busied herself digging out antiseptic.
He started to tell her he knew what she’d called him, then stopped himself. Why ruin what small amount of amusement he might unearth during this ordeal? “I’m not clumsy.”
“Hah. That explains why your arm’s in a sling and your hand is bleeding.”
“This is a work-related injury,” he began, but as she turned to doctor his hand, he sneezed. That basic bodily reaction to a dousing in a rainstorm had his vision wavering. He swayed, fighting for breath as his ribs screamed, and his stomach pitched.
She looked up, saw the pain turn his eyes glassy, his cheeks sheet pale.
“What is it?” Without thinking, she slid her arms around his waist to support him as his body shuddered. “You should sit.”
“Just—” Trying to steady himself, he nudged her back. His vision was still gray at the edges, and he willed it to clear. “Some bruised ribs,” he managed to say when he got his breath back. At her expression of guilt and horror, he bared his teeth. “Dislocated shoulder, broken clavicle—work-related.”
“Oh, you poor man.” Sympathy overwhelmed everything else. “Come, I’ll help you upstairs. You need dry clothes. I’m making soup, so you’ll have a hot meal. You should’ve told me you were seriously hurt.”
“I’m not …” He trailed off again. She smelled fabulous—and she was cooking. And feeling sorry for him. Why be an idiot? “It’s not so bad.”
“Men are so foolish about admitting they’re hurt. We’ll need the flashlight.”
“In my back pocket.”
“Ah.” She managed to brace him, shift her body. He didn’t mind, not really, when her nice, firm breast nestled against his good side. Or when her long, narrow fingers slid over his butt to pull the flashlight out of his jean’s pocket.
He really couldn’t say he minded. And it took his mind off the pain.
He let her help him upstairs where he eased down to sit on the side of his unmade bed. From there he could watch her bustling around, finding more candles to light.
“Dry clothes,” she said and started going through his dresser. He opened his mouth to object, but she turned with jeans and a sweatshirt in her arms and looked at him with a bolstering smile.
“Do you need me to help you … um, change?”
He thought about it. He knew he shouldn’t—it was one step too far. But he figured if a man didn’t at least think of being undressed by a beautiful woman he might as well be shot in the head and end it all.
“… No, thanks. I can manage it.”
“All right then. I’m going down to see to the soup. Just call if you need help.”
She hurried downstairs again, to stir the soup and berate herself.
She’d called him a pig. The poor man couldn’t possibly do for himself when he was hurt and in pain. It shamed her, how impatient, how unsympathetic and ungrateful she’d been. At least she could make him as comfortable as possible now, give him a hot bowl of soup.
She went over to plump the sprung cushions of the sofa—and coughed violently at the dust that plumed up. It made her scowl again. Really, she thought, the entire place needed to be turned upside down and shaken out.
He’d said he’d fired his cleaning service because they—she—had touched his things. She didn’t doubt that for a minute. The man had an obviously prickly temperament. But she also imagined finances could be a problem. Being an archaeologist, he probably subsisted on grants and that sort of thing.
She’d have to find a way to send him payment for the night’s lodging—after she sold her watch.
When he came back down, she had bowls and cups and folded paper towels in lieu of napkins on the scarred coffee table. There was candlelight, and the glow from the fire, and the good scent of hot soup.
She smiled—then stared for just a moment. His hair was dry now, and she could see it wasn’t brown. Or not merely brown as she’d assumed. It was all shot through with lighter streaks bleached out, she imagined, from the sun. It curled a bit, a deep and streaky oak tone, over the neck of the sweatshirt.
A gorgeo
us head of hair, she could admit, with a rough and tumbled style that somehow suited those bottle-green eyes.
“You’ll feel better when you eat.”
He was already feeling marginally better after swallowing one of his pain pills. The throbbing was down to an irritating ache. He was counting on the hot food smoothing that away.
He’d have killed for a hot shower, but a man couldn’t have everything.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Potage.” She gave it a deliberately elegant sound. “Crème de tomate avec pomme de terre.” Laughing, she tapped her spoon against the pot. “You had plenty of cans, so I mixed the soup with canned potatoes and used some of your milk. It’d be a great deal better with some herbs, but your pantry didn’t run to them. Sit down. Relax. I’ll serve.”
Under normal circumstances, he didn’t care to be pampered. At least he didn’t think so. He couldn’t actually remember ever having been pampered. Regardless, it wasn’t what anyone could call a normal evening, and he might as well enjoy it.
“You don’t look like the type who’d cook—more like the type who has a cook.”
That made her frown. She thought she looked like a very normal, very average woman. “I’m a very good cook.” She spooned up soup. Because it had interested her, she’d taken private lessons with a cordon bleu chef. “Though this is my first attempt over an open fire.”
“Looks like you managed. Smells like it, too.” It was his idea of praise—as his anticipatory grunt was his idea of thanks when she handed him his bowl.
“I wasn’t sure what you’d like to drink. Coffee, or the milk? There’s beer … and wine.”
“Coffee. I took some meds, so I’d better back off the alcohol.” He was already applying himself to the soup. When she simply stood in front of him, waiting, he spared her a glance. “What?”
She bit back a sigh. Since the man didn’t have the courtesy to offer, she’d have to ask. “I’d enjoy a glass of wine, if you wouldn’t mind.”