She was painfully quiet otherwise.
He tried to concentrate on his work, forcing his attention on the papers before him.
It was his contention that the Mayan civilization, to have evolved to its final state of technological advancement, must have had ample time for said evolution...
Water splashed behind the curtain.
Where was she washing?
Images taunted him—soft dark curls—he craved the taste of her all over again. Swallowing, he closed his eyes for a moment, and, when he reopened them he tried harder to focus ...
It was difficult to believe that, as the present theory would have it, a Mesoamerican civilization could have developed to such a degree as had the Maya if man had migrated to the continent as late as only ten thousand years ago.
Sweet... she was sweet.
He blinked away the powerful image of her lying back on his desk... and ignored the evidence of his arousal.
Sophie’s presence was driving him absolutely insane.
What was she doing? Her silence was maddening.
Should he speak to her? Tell her good night? Why the hell was he suddenly behaving as though he were some kid with his first crush? She was a Vanderwahl, sure enough, but those beautiful legs had not too long ago been wrapped around his neck, while her soft passionate cries had filled his ears.
Annoyed with himself, he refocused his thoughts, tapping his fingers impatiently on the desk.
The Mayan accomplishments left Jack incredulous. They had developed knowledge never obtained by comparable civilizations. Their system of mathematics could express sums in the millions, and they had understood the concept of the quantity of zero a thousand years before anyone else. Among their many other accomplishments, they’d developed a calendar accurate for four hundred million years, and their measure of the year was only a small fraction off target from the actual. An infant society, so to speak, would not have had the necessary time to advance to that point—at least not without outside influence.
Those had been the seeds Penn had run away with... literally.
Having worked closely with Jack, Penn had presented to the board Jack’s precise body of thought, except that he hadn’t truly understood the gist of Jack’s theory. It was Penn’s contention that because the Mayan civilization never seemed to move beyond the Stone Age—never employing the wheel for any sensible purpose, or developing a phonetic alphabet—the Maya must have been handed their knowledge by sources outside their own culture.
Having had access to Jack’s reports, Penn had shot down Jack’s theory point by point before the board, twisting his own arguments against him in the name of religion, to such a degree that Jack found it an insult to his intelligence and a crippling blow to progress. As it was, it wouldn’t have been easy to convince them of the validity of his own theories, but after Harlan had finished with them, they hadn’t even been inclined to hear him out.
Even though Jack had proof to offer.
The reports he had in front of him by trusted colleagues gave evidence that strongly implied anatomically modem man had inhabited the continent from a far earlier date. That led Jack to believe it more likely that the Maya had indeed developed on their own. But with that theory, he had committed a professional sin: He had dared to question the standard institution.
It seemed incredible to Jack that evidence such as this, given by respected researchers, could be dismissed in favor of that given by someone like Penn. Though Penn’s evidence was minimal, relying almost primarily on religious parallelisms, it was he who had received the grants for continued research, and Jack who had been left to flounder.
Jack believed it was because Penn’s research not merely supported the accepted theory of evolution, but favored religious doctrine. And it galled him, not that Penn’s theories were given credence—all evidence should be considered—but that Penn’s theories and those like his were the only ones given any credit at all.
Jack sure as hell didn’t mind being wrong.
In fact, he’d proven himself out of countless theories. But he damned well didn’t like being told he was wrong even before he’d set out to do his job—by men who considered themselves the ruling elite.
The curtain opened abruptly.
Sophie stood there, dressed in her tattered nightgown, and somehow still managed to look regal.
Despite his mood, the sight of her brought a smile to his lips.
Sophie smiled back at him.
He was leaning wearily on his desk, chin in hand, staring at his papers with that provoked look he usually reserved for her.
“What is it you’re studying?” she asked him, resisting the urge to go and peek over his shoulder. He didn’t seem to appreciate her interest in his work, but her curiosity was addling her. She just couldn’t help herself.
“Work,” he said simply. He continued to smile at her, and Sophie’s cheeks heated.
He’d been far more receptive to her since their encounter that afternoon—a positive change—but Sophie couldn’t quite enjoy it. She didn’t like this sudden shyness that had come over her in his presence. She couldn’t even seem to glance his way without blushing, and the more care he took to put her at ease, the more embarrassed she became.
Jack MacAuley had seen far more of her than any man had a right to, and her behavior had been abominable. Her thoughts were muddled. Something so beautiful couldn’t possibly have been wrong... and yet she was technically still engaged to Harlan... at least until she faced him. She hadn’t any right to indulge in such unseemly behavior with anyone at all.
And yet, though her cheeks burned, she couldn’t find true regret for what she’d done.
The very sight of Jack made her heart catch.
He set down his papers, giving her his full attention.
Sophie smiled shyly at him and approached the desk under the pretense of looking at Harlan’s picture. Lifting it up, she smiled contentedly at her own handiwork, then set the picture down, tapping it thoughtfully before she glanced back at Jack.
He was watching her intently, secretly amused by something. About what, Sophie had no idea.
His brows lifted. “You can’t wait to see him, I take it?”
“No, I really can’t,” she admitted, and it was the truth. She couldn’t wait to read him his own treacherous words and then fling her ring into his face. Let him give it to one of his precious native girls!
“It shows,” he said, peering at her. Suddenly uncomfortable under his scrutiny, Sophie made an effort to appear serene. She wasn’t prepared for explanations just yet.
Somehow, all of it made her feel a bit of a failure.
Her mother had sometimes cautioned her not to show her true nature, because she was certain Sophie would never keep a man. Her temper was too quick, her interests too masculine, and her hair never remained in place. She reached up and pulled the ribbon from her hair, letting the strands fall free. She’d spent an inordinate amount of time trying to make it presentable, but why even try to restrain it?
It wasn’t her fault that Harlan was a philandering fool!
“So...” She toyed with the pale ivory ribbon, wrapping it around the thumb of her hand. “What are you working on?” she persisted, hoping her question would turn the attention away from her.
Jack was looking at her far too knowingly and it made her nervous.
“You really want to know?”
“Of course,” she told him. “I’d not have asked otherwise.”
“I was reading through reports made by colleagues.”
“What sort of reports?”
“Evidence discovered along the North American continent which indicates a much older indigenous peoples than is normally accepted.”
Sophie unraveled the ribbon from her finger. “In other words ... the natives have been here much longer than we think?”
“Precisely.”
“I see.” She was truly interested, but although her fiancé was an expert in the field of anthropo
logy, she hadn’t the first inkling how their studies were performed. Harlan never talked to her about anything. “And how would you know such a thing?”
He pushed a paper at her. “Take this article, for example...”
Sophie turned the paper around. It was titled “A Relic of a Bygone Age.”
“That particular article appeared in Scientific American, on June 5, 1852.”
Sophie read the scribble at the top of the page, written in what she supposed was Jack’s hand, Metallic vase from Precambrian rock.
“A bell-shaped vessel was thrown from the rock in the explosion highlighted in this article.”
Sophie scanned the letter, and asked with surprise, “In Massachusetts?”
Jack nodded portentously. “Yes, indeed. The body of the vessel resembled zinc in color and on the side was a design inlaid with pure silver. Around the bottom ran a vine, also inlaid with silver. The chasing, carving, and inlaying were done by a skilled artisan. It was blown out of solid pudding stone, fifteen feet below the earth’s surface. That stone dates to the Precambrian Age, which makes it over six hundred million years old.”
Sophie’s brows drew together. “That’s remarkable!”
“Yes, it is,” Jack agreed. “The standard view is that Asian hunters and gatherers crossed the Bering Strait about twelve thousand years ago.
“That is quite a discrepancy,” Sophie remarked.
“An incredible discrepancy. But that report hardly stands alone. There are dozens of the like.”
“Amazing,” Sophie said with awe.
Hungry for more knowledge, she glanced longingly at the stack of reports Jack had guarded so fiercely.
“Would you like to read them?”
Sophie blinked at his question and tried to gauge his expression. Was he serious? Or merely teasing her? “Really?”
He nodded, and she gasped in surprise.
“You truly don’t mind?”
He merely smiled at her question and pushed the stack towards her. “Only if you promise to take them straight to your bed and read them there, and nowhere else.”
Sophie broke into a wide smile.
“And no lanterns within five feet,” he demanded further.
Sophie laughed, although she wanted to take offense. She couldn’t. If she were Jack, she doubted she’d let herself anywhere near them.
“And no water, and no ink anywhere near it! And when you are through you are to place them back in my drawer in a tidy fashion.”
“Good lord!” Sophie wanted to laugh out loud. “I am not usually so prone to disasters,” she assured him.
His brows lifted and his smile widened as well. He sat back in his chair, staring at her, and said very decisively, “I don’t believe you.”
Sophie took his papers before he could change his mind, lifting the heavy stack to her breast, hugging them. There was really nothing she could say in her own defense, but she could certainly prove it by putting them neatly back into his desk before morning.
“Thank you, Jack,” she offered with an appreciative smile.
He nodded, staring at her still, and his smile seemed suddenly wistful, “Good night, flower,” he said.
Sophie’s heart leaped at his endearment.
She met his gaze, swallowing. It was the second time he’d said that to her ... and it made her heart beat just as fiercely the second time around. Although they were standing at least six feet from each other, the mere memory of the first time made her body instantly warm, and the look in his eyes seized her breath.
She felt suddenly dizzy.
“Good night, Jack,” she said in a rush, and practically ran to her bed, drawing the curtains shut behind her.
CHAPTER 22
Jack sat watching the curtains long after she’d closed them.
Ridiculous as the notion was, he envied that stack of papers she had embraced so protectively.
He could see her silhouette against the makeshift curtains, a gift of the lanterns she had lit on the far side of the room. She was curled up in her hammock with his papers braced on her lap, reading.
He couldn’t help but watch her as he put up his own hammock and readied himself for bed ... and wonder. Did Penn know what a gem he had in Sophie?
He was pretty sure she wasn’t snooping for Penn, and if she was, he doubted she would find anything in those reports that Penn wouldn’t at once scoff at. The man’s mind was closed. There was nothing to be lost in letting her read them, and his views weren’t any secret, either. But he didn’t want to believe any longer that she was in cahoots with Penn.
She was stubborn, definitely, and without doubt the most troublesome woman he had ever laid eyes on. In fact, trouble might be her middle name. Besides that, her temper was a bit Vesuvian in nature. Right or wrong, she took a stand the instant she was threatened, and he wondered if she were always that way, or just with him. In any case, he admired that about her. She wasn’t some fainting miss who lost consciousness or pleaded illness the instant a man raised his voice. And she didn’t strike him as a liar, or a cheat, either. Her emotions were much too evident in her beautiful face.
Her expression when he’d called her flower told him she understood where his thoughts had wandered ... and more, that her own thoughts hovered near. Her reaction had amused him. Her eyes had flared in comprehension, and she’d stared at him wide-eyed for an instant before she’d scurried away to hide on her side of the curtain.
But she hadn’t gone far enough.
He tried his damndest to forget there was only a measly sheet separating them.
He turned out his lights and climbed into his hammock, lamenting the fact that he wasn’t gentleman enough to turn the other way so that he couldn’t see her. The fact was, he wasn’t any sort of gentleman at all, had never claimed to be, and so he lay there watching her without the least trace of guilt...
Well, maybe just a little guilt.
He was certain it wasn’t the most moral thing to do ... lying there watching her, but then she had asked to share his room, not the other way around. If she didn’t like it, she could just leave ...
Though he guessed that before she would consider returning to her damaged room, she would have to be aware of the fact that he could see every deuced thing she was doing, every movement behind the curtain... every time she brushed her hair from her face... every time she flipped a page ... every time she took a breath.
Her breast lifted, and he heard her sigh.
Of course ... he couldn’t really tell her because he knew it would embarrass her ... so maybe he was being a gentleman after all...
He decided that what she didn’t know couldn’t really hurt her in this case.
But it sure as hell left Jack in pain.
His body hardened as he watched her, and his blood began to simmer.
Yep, this was definitely hurting him more than it was hurting her.
And it was without doubt the most dishonorable thing he’d ever done ... maybe ...
There was that little Mexican girl who had seduced him on his first trip to the Yucatan ... the one whose father had been his guide. The man had offered him a bed in his home the night before they set out into the jungles. Her father had been asleep in the same room, oblivious to the daughter’s endeavors. Maria had been her name. Jack would never forget her.
That was also the first time he’d ever fooled around in a hammock—tricky business but he knew now it could be done, and he’d give anything to be in that other hammock this moment... with Sophie.
He blinked, staring as the silhouette curled deeper into the hammock, knees bent to support the papers she was reading. Was she getting sleepy? Just trying to get comfortable? Were her thoughts on the reports she was reading... or dared he hope they were on something else?
He couldn’t stop thinking of her.
Couldn’t stop wanting her.
Couldn’t stop remembering the taste of her.
He adjusted himself, couldn’t help it. He had to. H
is body was in too much pain, and his pants were far too snug. For her sake, he slept at least partly dressed and made sure to wake before her and dress before she could happen on him shirtless. But this instant, he needed to be naked ... needed her to be naked, as well... needed to feel her skin against his, soft and warm. He needed to smell the scent of her skin, needed to touch her.
Christ, he was going insane with lust!
He cupped himself, needing to feel the pressure.
It was a poor substitute for what he really wanted.
His skin was burning. Sweat beaded on his brow. His mouth was as dry as desert sand.
The silhouette’s head fell backward, hair spilling over the hammock. One hand fell over the side. He heard her sigh again, and desire clawed at his loins, making him bum a little hotter. And then, while he watched, she set the papers aside and lay still in the hammock, staring at the ceiling for the longest time, her breasts rising and falling with every breath she took.
Her movements were exaggerated by the curtain, her breasts full and jutting proudly for his lips to suckle.
God, he wanted his mouth on that tender flesh, wanted to know what it was like to feel her nipples harden against his tongue, wanted to suckle gently and tease them between his teeth.
Never before in his life had he wanted a woman so badly.
Never had he fought so hard to restrain himself.
And then she did something unspeakably erotic, and he nearly fell out of his hammock in shock.
She lifted a hand to her breast... at first, a tentative touch... and then with an open hand as though she were listening to the beat of her heart through her fingers.
His own heart hammering his ribs without restraint, he lay back in his hammock, his body tense and rigid, watching with delicious anticipation.
It seemed an eternity that her hand lay so still on her breast... long enough for Jack to feel a pang of guilt for wanting it to slide down and close over the sweet mound of flesh
he craved so desperately to touch for himself.
He willed her hand to move, wanting to experience it vicariously at least.
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