by J. R. Ward
“Look, Mr. Farrell—”
“Nick.”
“Mr. Farrell—”
His smile got bigger. “Are you always this stubborn?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
Carter cocked her head and stared at him. “You are so odd.”
“That’s kind. Considering what you were tempted to say, I’m sure.”
She huffed at him. “Just trying to be polite. Not that I’m returning the favor.”
“I did say please once or twice yesterday.”
“When you were kicking me out.”
“Asking you to leave,” he amended smoothly, seeming to eat up her antagonism.
With a casual movement, he took off his glasses. His true intent was no clearer now that she could see his eyes but she was intimidated by how closely he was looking at her. She was tempted to ask him to put them back on.
“Most women like to show off their nests,” he pointed out in a voice that was just on the polite side of condescension.
She planted her hands on her hips. “Birds have nests, Mr. Farrell. People live in houses. And I’m not most women.”
“At least we can agree on that,” he countered softly, some of his smile lost. “If nothing more.”
Warning bells started to go off in Carter’s head. It wasn’t that his expression had changed. His riveting face was still all sardonic amusement. His eyes still gave away nothing of his inner thoughts. But there was a thread of something different in that tone of his, some subtle shift that made the tiny hairs on her arms prickle with an alarming delight. It was as if he had stroked his hand across her skin.
With a wave of heat, her body let her know it wanted in on his promise of pleasure. Desperately.
Dammit, she thought.
When she remained silent, he shrugged. “Well, if there’s going to be no tour, we might as well get down to business.”
With a stiff nod, she led him into the house. She watched how he took it all in, his eyes traveling over her things with the same disturbing focus he’d trained on her.
When she got to the foot of the stairs, he said laconically, “You don’t have to change on my account. I’m already used to today’s getup.”
Her eyes shot sparks at him. “I wouldn’t change my clothes for you even if you were offended.”
“Especially if I were offended, right?” A slow smile spread over his face, pulling the dimple back into place.
She wished like hell he would go back to being argumentative. His arrogance got on her nerves but that smile could prove deadly.
“My study’s up there,” she said with a frown.
“Of course it is.”
Carter marched up the stairs, preferring to let that one go. When they got to the second floor, she regretted having her workplace and her bedroom in one space. Both were revealed before him, a road map into her intimate world. She felt naked and didn’t like the idea of having a memory of Nick Farrell being in the same room where she slept.
Clothing herself in determination, Carter approached her desk. “Let’s see what you think you have.”
“Think I have?”
“Fakes are well-known in my business,” she said briskly, flipping on a gooseneck lamp.
“Then you and I have something in common, after all.”
Carter held her tongue, anxious to get through the meeting.
Despite her impatience, or maybe because of it, he loitered with the briefcase in his hand, taking his time to look over the desk and her books, the view and the bare floorboards. His eyes lingered on her small twin bed with its simple white comforter and its lonely pillow. By the time he finally fixed his gaze on her, she was ready to jump out of her skin.
“You live here by yourself?”
“What business is it of yours?” Carter began drumming her fingers on the desk. When his eyes skirted over to the sound, she forced herself to sit still.
“Just curious.”
“Get used to the feeling.”
“Tough talk from a gardener.” But he put the briefcase on her desk, released its two brass locks, and opened the lid. She noted absently that the inside of the case, which was done in red silk, was as beautifully finished as the outside.
Farrell took out a cloth bundle and gently unwrapped it on her desk.
Carter’s breath left her in a reverent gasp. Lying in the cloth was a simple wooden cross, made from two pieces of hardwood with a square-headed nail in the center. Blackened with age and ragged on the ends, it was four inches long and three inches wide and had a metal circle at the top through which a piece of cloth could be threaded.
Pulling over her lamp, Carter sat down and put on an elaborate set of magnifying glasses. Before she touched the cross, she slid on some cloth gloves to keep the oils from her skin off the wood. Carefully, she turned the piece over in her hands, noting its sturdy construction.
Just like the faith it symbolized, she thought.
On the back, cutting through the wood grains like trails through history, she saw the engraving Rev. J. Winship.
“You look very fierce,” he said softly. “Although your hands are gentle.”
Carter stiffened but kept her mouth shut, hoping he’d go back to staring at her things.
“You don’t like being watched, do you?”
“I don’t know anyone who does,” she clipped. “Or why you’re bothering to.”
“Those glasses make you look like a scientist. That smudge of dirt on your nose makes you human. It’s an interesting combination.”
She couldn’t help it. Still examining the cross, she started rubbing her nose.
“A little more to the left,” he directed. “But I like it where it is.”
Carter rubbed even more vigorously and heard him laugh.
“Where did you find this?” She looked up from the artifact.
“In the circle of rocks.”
“Was there anything else with it?”
He shook his head. “We’ve found a lot of arrowheads up there but nothing else like this.”
“So all that digging at the site wasn’t just Lyst’s?”
“You mean those holes? No, they’re all his handiwork. I was sixteen when I found this.” Nick looked down at the cross. “That was a long time ago.”
Carter tried to imagine him as a boy, digging in the dirt. “Do you know if anyone else has excavated up there? Any professionals?”
“Members of the family have hit the mountain with shovels over the generations but no one with formal training’s ever been up there. We try to keep the experts and the amateurs away.”
“You’ve taken good care of this. It’s well preserved.”
“That’s more luck than stewardship. Right after I found it, I was afraid it would get taken away from me so I kept it under my bed. In college and business school, it lived in my bookcase. Lately, it’s been marking time in my safe.”
Carter could see how attached he was to the piece by the way his eyes caught on the aged wood and held. He seemed nostalgic and it made him more approachable. Unexpectedly, she found herself warming to him.
Clearing her throat, she said, “It looks like the real thing to me.”
He smiled with approval. “So it seems like we have something to discuss.”
Carter shut off the light and glanced up at him. “And that is?”
Because he was so tall, she had to arch her neck to see him, making her feel like she was at a disadvantage. She got to her feet.
“Are you still interested in doing a little digging?”
She shrugged. “Maybe. But what’s with your sudden change of heart?”
“I did a little research.”
“On the value of history?”
“On you.”
She swallowed through a tight throat. “And what did you find out?”
“You’re at the top of your field.” Farrell began to stroll around the room, the heels of his shoes landing sharply on the floorboards. She could s
ee how commanding he would be in a boardroom. “Specializing in early American history, you’re on track to become one of the youngest full professors at UVM. Part of that’s because you graduated from prep school at the ripe young age of sixteen and doubled up on your classes at college. Mostly it’s because you’re widely respected as an archaeologist and a historian and are known for being painstakingly meticulous both in your fieldwork and your scholarship. You lecture around the country, a part of your job which is complicated for you.”
He leaned over to look at some of her books.
“Oh, really?”
“You hate to fly.”
Carter was surprised he knew about her phobia.
He straightened and resumed walking, heading for her bed. She was struck by an urge to shoo him away from it.
“You’re tough to get ahold of and prefer to work alone. When you do collaborate, it’s with a Harvard guy, Branson Swift. Most recently, you were in charge of excavating a four-block section of Manhattan before a new underground subway platform was constructed. That was this spring, and, come autumn, you should be ready to start presenting on those finds.”
He bent down to her bedside table and picked up the mystery novel she’d been reading. “Kinsey Millhone. I like Grafton, too.”
When she remained silent, he put the book back and faced her. “You’re a workaholic. I venture most of your relationships are based on your profession and you like it that way. I’d also bet you haven’t taken a vacation in years, if ever. And you obviously live here alone, which I have to believe is by choice. Considering your looks.”
A warm glow spread through Carter’s body. She beat it back with determination.
“That’s all pretty accurate factually,” she said tautly. “Although I’m not going to comment on your conclusions. Are you a private eye as well as a corporate raider?”
“We prefer the term ‘takeover engineer,’” he tossed back. That slow half smile crept across his face again.
Carter began to feel fuzzy in the head. Flustered, she broke their eye contact and walked over to the window farthest away from him.
She took a deep breath, wrapping her arms around her body. “So I’m supposed to believe you’ve asked around, read my curriculum vitae, and suddenly decided the sum of my virtues is sufficient to justify changing your mind? I don’t get it.”
“Perhaps conversions happen,” he murmured, “even in people like me.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.”
“Maybe you just need to get to know me better. I could have a heart of gold under this gruff exterior.”
“That would be fool’s gold, no doubt.”
He laughed, a low, husky sound.
Carter turned to face him. “Why me?”
“Because I believe you when you say it’s not about the gold. You’re known for being an academic, not a gold digger.”
She had to hide a smile at his choice of words. “Well, at least you got that part right. Would you be prepared to put any artifacts I find on permanent loan to the museum of my choice?”
“Of course.”
“And what if I find the gold?”
“You won’t.”
“Don’t think I can?”
“I don’t think it’s there to be found. Chances are whoever slaughtered the Winship party took it along with their scalps.”
“So you think Red Hawk ran off with it after he killed them?”
“You tell me. You’re the expert.” Nick’s eyes were steady on hers. She began to think he was serious about changing his mind.
“My team and I are going to have to camp out by the site.”
“Team?”
“I’ll have at least one other person digging with me. Maybe a third.”
“The talented Branson Swift?”
“Yes.”
Farrell inclined his head. “Fine. You can all stay at the house.”
“Out in the woods is more convenient,” she said quickly. And safer than sleeping under Farrell’s roof, even with the mountain lions and rattlesnakes.
“You’re prepared to turn down all the comforts of home for a tent and sleeping bag? Should I take this personally?”
“Buddy and I set up a good camp.”
Farrell’s face grew pensive. “So you and Swift like to get cozy on these digs—is that it?”
“What do you mean?”
“Nothing. Just humor me and consider it an open invitation. We can get some cold nights, even in June. When will you start?”
“Day after tomorrow?”
Nick nodded and went over to her desk where he started rolling the cross up in its cloth. “I’m going to expect regular reports from you.”
“Of course. Buddy—er, Dr. Swift and I will be happy to present—”
Those gray eyes flashed over to her. “I want them from you.”
“But he and I always—”
“I don’t care what you always do. I don’t want a lot of people chatting my ear off. You’re the project leader. I want to hear from you.” There was no arguing with the tone in his voice.
Carter frowned. “Okay. Whenever you’re at the lake, I’ll fill you in.”
“I’ll be there the whole time.” He laughed as her jaw slacked open. “Why does everyone greet the prospect of me being up here for the summer with the same expression of horror?”
“You’ll be there the whole time?”
“Until Labor Day. Is that a problem?”
She pulled herself together. “Of course not. I’m just surprised you’d be away from your businesses so much.”
“I am my business. People come to me, not the other way around.”
Carter had to imagine that was true.
“If you’d like, you can leave the cross here so I can study it in greater depth,” she offered as he resumed wrapping up the artifact.
“This stays with me.” Nick returned it to the briefcase, thumbing the locks back in place. “But you can always come and look at it.”
He picked up the case from the desk and extended a hand toward her. She made no move in his direction.
“Aren’t we going to shake on our agreement?” he prompted. “Surely a woman who is willing to sleep in the great outdoors doesn’t fear anything as civilized as a handshake?”
Carter approached slowly and slipped her palm into his. His fingers enveloped her hand, his skin warm and smooth against hers. Immediately, a shock went through her and her eyes shot up to his. She watched as his expression changed from one of sardonic teasing to something altogether serious. When she went to pull her hand back, he held on for a moment before letting her go.
“I’ll see you in forty-eight hours.” His voice was very deep, his eyes hooded and burning under dark lashes.
As they left the room, Carter hurried down the stairs despite the fact that her legs felt shaky. She was desperate for fresh air because, through some shift in the laws of science, he’d made the wide-open space of the loft seem cramped and suffocating. He was, she thought, larger than life.
It took several deep breaths before she was ready to face him again.
“So long, Carter Wessex,” he said when she met his eyes. With an enigmatic grin, he slid his sunglasses back on, went to his car, and shot off down her driveway.
Oh, God, she thought. The man was going to be at the lake the entire time she was there.
Distance was going to be critical, she decided. She was going to stay on top of that mountain, do her job with lightning-fast efficiency, and avoid the man like he was contagious.
That was just the way it would have to be.
Setting her shoulders, she went back upstairs and left word for Grace that the dig was a go. Then she called the Swift household. By the time she put the phone down, Buddy and his daughter were prepared to meet her at Farrell’s house by the end of the week. Jo-Jo, Buddy’s better half, would be staying in Cambridge for the summer to finish her current book.
Carter smiled as she thought about h
er friend and colleague. She’d met Buddy on the historical lecture circuit and they’d bonded immediately. He was an expert on early North American military conflict and an excellent archaeologist. Theirs had always been a relationship based on respect and friendship, and she liked his wife tremendously. Jo-Jo, who was a professor of chemistry, understood the closeness between the two historians and was happy to have Carter in their lives.
The Swifts, who had been married for almost twenty years, seemed like an unusual pair. With a crop of wiry red hair on his head, Buddy was built like a string bean and had boundless energy, whereas Jo-Jo was a petite, quietly intense woman. Their daughter, Louella, who refused to answer to anything but Ellie, was halfway between the extremes of her parents. She had her father’s height and her mother’s formidable intelligence, and could be by turns gregarious and focused. They were a wonderful family and a lot of fun to work with.
Snapping out of her reverie, she got up from her desk with purpose. There was packing to do, she had to go to her university office and get some of her tools, and she needed to think about provisions.
Carter was about to go downstairs when she turned and looked back at her room. Everything was the same as it had been when she’d woken up that morning. Her clothes were still in the drawers and hanging in the closet; her papers were filed next to her desk; her books were where she had left them.
But somehow, it was all different. It was as if everything in the room had been moved one inch in another direction.
Carter thought of Nick Farrell standing by her desk, his wide shoulders taking up so much space, those pale eyes watching her. Her memory of him was so clear, it was as if a hologram of him remained after he’d left.
Why the vividness?
She wasn’t sure, but she didn’t want to dwell on that.
And why did she feel so exposed with him in her study?
Of the answers that came to mind, one bothered her most.
In the year since she’d moved into the farmhouse, he was the first man she’d invited into her home.
Carter groaned.
Why did she have to pick him? Why couldn’t it have been someone more run-of-the-mill? An exterminator. A plumber.
An extraterrestrial, for Chrissakes.