by Jackson, Pam
She watched as he gathered two pieces of firewood from a wicker basket and added them to the inner hearth. He struck a match and lit fine strips of kindling pine and newspaper to reignite the fire, warming the spacious room.
“So,” Andie said, trying to forget about the handgun as she removed her coat and placed it next to her on the leather sofa. “You never told me where you grew up. Was it up here?”
“No, in South Philly. My mom met my dad when she was eighteen, and they were married within a few months. My suspicion is I was the cause of the speedy nuptials, but my mom swears it was her destiny to marry my dad.” He let out a nervous laugh. “My dad died in a motorcycle accident before I was born, and my mom would send me up here for summer vacation. I actually think it was so I would stay out of trouble in the streets during the summer months, and of course, it gave my mom a little space to entertain her new boyfriends.” He smirked, and Andie could see a bit of aggravation on his face.
“Your mom was very young when you were born, and she was robbed of a life that she was banking on, Clay. She evidently did a great job, since we already discussed that you’re not a serial killer.” Andie felt a connection to this woman’s loss and wanted to defend her, even if she didn’t have a clue about Clay’s rearing. “Sometimes, you need to make the best out of the cards you’re dealt.” Andie was all too familiar with loss, and with surviving without a parent. Sure, her dad had taught her and her sisters how to be strong and to improvise, but no one had ever taught her about falling in love and how to handle heartbreak. That was supposed to be her mom’s job.
“Well, I guess you’re right. My mom was, and still is, an incredibly beautiful woman, and having a bratty son around all the time wasn’t exactly date bait—but, hell, we survived. I went to Penn State on an ROTC scholarship and then went into the army as an officer; I became Special Forces and worked myself up the ranks. I’ve been serving my country ever since.”
“Philadelphia. So I was close. I thought I detected a slight Jersey accent for a moment, but maybe it’s that sexy Jon Bon Jovi thing you’ve got going on there with your hair that threw me off.” She chuckled, playfully tugging at her own blonde strands of hair to indicate she liked his lush, chocolaty waves.
He arched a dark eyebrow inquisitively.
“Oh, God!” Andie exclaimed. “I’m so sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.” She backpedaled, hoping she hadn’t offended him. Had she actually said the word “sexy”? Well—it was sexy, masculine hair, she thought. Great for running your fingers through, great for pulling during a steamy moment, too. Whoa, girl. Settle down. You just met this guy.
“Yeah, the hair.” He gently tugged at the dark ends that settled at the nape of his neck. “Well, since I’ve been home on leave, I figured I would try this out for a while. It’s usually buzzed pretty short, but I kinda like it. It’s not too long, right?” He released his grasp on his hair, creasing his brow. “Trust me, if it gets to a point where I can pull it back into a long ponytail, I’ll cut it ... that wouldn’t be a good look for me.” He shrugged and crossed his arms over the width of his chest. “And as for the accent, it occasionally shows up here and there. I can speak five languages fluently, with perfect dialect, but when I go home, I guess sometimes I sound more like I’m kickin’ ass and taking names in the streets of Philly. Personally, I thought it sounded more like a sweet Kentucky accent. Guess I was wrong.” He smiled and laughed softly.
“No, it’s great, I like them both. You have a nice voice,” she said, but she wasn’t thinking nice, she was thinking drop dead amazing. “And I know some guys who’d pay a fortune at a flashy salon to have a great haircut like that. Keep it, if you can. And as for a ponytail—well, you might be able to pull that off, too. Somehow, I think an eighteenth century Englishman’s queue would look good on you.”
She smiled nervously. She wished she could just accept his personal history at face value, but the skeptic in Andie needed more information. Damn it, girl, you’ve got some major trust issues. “Which languages do you speak fluently?” she asked, trying to sound indifferent.
His gaze suddenly became strong and penetrating. She was amazed how he could switch on a dime from sweet boy next door to a hulking, no-shit tough guy. Her question must’ve really pissed him off.
“Why, Andie? Is it so hard to believe that a kid from South Philly, raised by a single parent, could grow up to be well-rounded and educated?”
Oh shit, she had really screwed this up. Nice job. Absolutely brilliant. “No, no. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sorry. Sometimes when I say things they can come out ... well, a little brash. Again, I’m sorry.”
He moved toward her and bent down so she could see every masculine plane and angle of his face. His lips hung close to her ear, and she didn’t move a muscle as she felt her cheeks warm and flush with blood. With a sensual whisper that would make even a glacier drip with sweat, he said, “Ya lubil by tselovat’ tvoyu chudesnuyu grud’.”
The words rolled from his tongue with elegance and a soft, caressing undertone of something so erotic that Andie found her breath caught in her throat. She was almost sure it was Russian, but she had no clue of the meaning. Definitely not Italian or Spanish, but frankly, it didn’t matter. He could’ve said it in Martian, and he might have just placed an order for pancakes with eggs over easy. It would’ve made her pulse race with the same heat that warmed her limbs and made her mind numb.
“Now it’s your turn, Andie, and I don’t mean your upbringing. Care to share? Oh, and speaking of accents, I see you’ve lost your sweet little Georgia peach drawl. I guess there’s no room for a naive Southern girl up here in the Big Bad Apple.” He oozed with sarcasm as he broke the proximity between them. He was leaving her absolutely no wiggle room to avert his questioning with small talk and a sweet smile.
###
Clay wanted answers, and he wanted them now. He didn’t want to be such a shit to her. In fact, he was amazed at his own uneasiness as he questioned her with his sarcastic tone. He felt more like a big prick than a badass.
He watched her shift uncomfortably on the sofa, and her playful grin turned deadpan cold. What was she hiding, and why was she so damned afraid? He wasn’t used to coddling people to get answers. It was usually, When I ask, you tell ... or else. He didn’t like secrets, especially when he was now ass deep in whatever shit storm she was mixed up in.
He knew he had to reach down deep to find the words that would make her trust him. The problem was, he had stopped caring and feeling a long time ago. He had denied himself the touch of a woman for what seemed like an eternity, and speaking tender words, even if it was just to gain trust, would only bring back the pain. Hell no, those terrible visions—he couldn’t possibly revisit that again. But it was the only option he had; he would reach out and touch her, tell her it was going to be all right, no one would hurt her, he would protect her at all costs. All words he said had before—all of them lies.
His head ached for a moment, and blistering heat flashed through his memory as the stench of burnt flesh filled his senses. He swallowed hard and focused on Andie’s face, desperately trying to suppress the gruesome scene that was etched deep in his mind. He concentrated on the rise in Andie’s cheekbones and the soft hollow under her earlobe that led to a smooth and silky path down her ivory neck.
Oh, man. It would be hard not to want her; she was beautiful. Those green eyes—turbulent green, like the ocean after a wicked storm. He noticed how she had looked at him after he spoke to her in Russian. She was turned on by his words, and it definitely stroked his ego—and that left him thinking about other things that could be stroked, too.
He imagined kissing her, then tasting her, inhaling the sweet scent of her skin. He could smell her now—strong, yet delicious. She reminded him of a forbidden fruit, tempting him to take a bite. The thought of tasting her sweet, ripe nipples was now rousing him, and all he could do was think about her standing naked before him. His cock stirred and began pressing aga
inst his jeans. He knew he would lose control soon if he continued thinking of her hot, swollen clit against his tongue. He would want to take her and feel her warm touch under his body. He imagined his hands around her delicate wrists as her wet lips moved slowly, pleading him for more. Fuck! It had been way too long since he was with a woman, especially one as beautiful as Andie.
Enough!
His mind shut down any thoughts that were irrelevant to the matter at hand. He would need to remain focused. It was the only way to get this done. And for Christ’s sake, he would not bed her—he just couldn’t.
Then she spoke.
“I know I owe you an explanation,” she said, looking at him with unsettled eyes. “But I don’t know if I can give it.”
He could see that she was shaken, and he took a seat next to her. He reached out and touched her arm, making a mental note not to linger too long. She didn’t move from under his touch, so he figured it was all right to gently nudge her to speak. “Andie, trust me. I want to help you. You are evidently in some kind of danger, and that message on your cell phone ... well, it didn’t seem like an idle threat. Who was that man?”
She was silent for a moment and then slowly began. “His name is Giovanni Tivoli, and I work for him ... well, I did, but not anymore. He owns a rare book and antiquities auction house in Manhattan. I locate and authenticate rare collections for high-paying clients. Sometimes I find them illegally, and lately, well … let’s just say I’ve been dealing with some very shady and corrupt characters. When it comes to making a fortune, Tivoli doesn’t care who is standing in his way. People you’d never suspect of being on his payroll are prospering daily from his pillaging and plundering. He’s like a modern-day Saxon, just with a better wardrobe. And he gets away with it. He’s untouchable. But I can’t … I can’t do this anymore,” she murmured. “Especially not with what is at stake now.”
She stopped speaking and stared at Clay.
There was something holding her back, and then it suddenly dawned on him. “Wait. You think ... you think I work for him? This guy Tivoli, that is.” He smirked and raised a dark eyebrow. “Andie, if I was working for him, you’d be dead already, sweetheart.” He rolled his eyes at his own remark. Caring and tenderness were going to need some work. “I ... I mean ... ah, shit.” His words trailed off as he felt her hand reach out to grasp his. Even through the bandages on her palms, he could feel the warmth of her touch sending a current of excitement through his body. Don’t stay here, man. No time for love—or lust. Focus.
“It’s okay.” She looked down at her freshly bandaged hands. “I guess I need to trust you. I don’t think I can do this alone. Clay, will you help me?”
Chapter 7
Andie pulled her backpack off the floor. She retrieved a small, leather book and handed it to Clay.
“What’s this?” he asked, sliding his fingers across the worn animal hide cover.
“It’s a diary. It belonged to a young woman named Katherine Onderdonk. She lived with her family in these hills during the Revolutionary War.” As Andie began explaining, she could feel the pressure on her slowly easing. “First, I owe you an apology. I lied earlier when I said that I’ve never heard of Claudius Smith. Tivoli gave me an assignment to research Claudius Smith and anything to do with his hidden treasure. I’ve been researching him for over a year, and I hadn’t found too much on him, but I got lucky when I found this old diary at a book fair this past fall. The book vendor told me it was recovered under the floorboards of a newly renovated farm house built in the eighteenth century— the Onderdonk homestead, to be exact.”
“Yeah, I figured you weren’t being completely honest with me when you tried that sweet schoolgirl charm while asking about my uncle’s map.” A smirk crossed Clay’s face as he stared at her breast pocket—or maybe it was just at her breasts. Either way, it instantly heated Andie’s skin.
“Oh, the map!” She had almost forgotten about it tucked away safely in her down jacket. She retrieved it and spread it across the coffee table.
“I’m lost, Andie. What does this old diary have to do with Claudius? And you do realize this map is my property.”
Without acknowledging Clay’s last comment, Andie continued, “There’s a legend about Claudius Smith in these hills. It says he not only stole cattle and horses from his neighbors, only to sell them to the British army, but he also stole some of their personal wealth. There was a cave—”
Clay cut her off with a raised hand. “Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it before. In fact, it was all my uncle talked about every summer when I came up here. Yes, there’s a lost cave or mineshaft, or whatever you want to call it—it’s filled with gold and silver and some strange magic book Claudius stole from a wealthy farmer. Blah, blah, blah. It’s a folktale made up by old miners who worked these hills. Nothing but a campfire story.” He grunted. “Wait a minute, that’s what you’re doing up here? You almost die falling from a cliff because of some old campfire story? Christ almighty! You could’ve just asked me hours ago and I would’ve told you you’re wasting your time. It doesn’t exist, and anyway, aren’t you a little old to be playing pirate, searching for buried treasure?”
“Well, your uncle seemed to believe. Look at the detail of this map. He has every rock and bush penciled within a twenty-mile radius. The location of the cave is right here,” she insisted, pointing at a miniature drawing of a weathered, decaying tree trunk with a square neatly drawn beneath it. The words “Claudius Smith Secret Lair” were written in Old English penmanship around the sketch. “And your insults don’t bother me, Clay. Maybe if you respected someone else’s vision, you wouldn’t be such a callous ass.”
“Let me tell you something about my uncle.” His face flushed with anger. “He was obsessed with this tale. He would work on that damn map every year, searching through every book and news article that even mentioned Claudius. Then my aunt died, and the guilt hit him hard—like a freight train—and he knew that he should’ve spent all that wasted time with Aunt Lorraine instead of chasing some fictitious story about an eighteenth century thief who’d been hanged for his malevolence toward his fellow man. He knew two things like the back of his hand: that old map and this cursed piece of parkland he protected. And when it was too late to love his wife, depression sank in. He placed the map in a frame and never looked at it again. It just hung on the wall there for years. I should’ve thrown the damned thing out when I inherited this place.”
He was sullen for a moment, but he managed to brush off the bad memories of his uncle’s neglect of his aunt. “Okay, I’ll listen to your side of this nonsense, Andie. But we’re going to the police tomorrow, and you’re filing a restraining order against your asshole boss.”
She smiled politely, admiring his take-charge command. She let him rant on, knowing there was more to this old story than Clay or his uncle ever knew. She had the proof. If he would only stop playing super brute for a moment, she could explain.
“First of all, it is tomorrow.” She waved her hand toward the window, where the first light of dawn was breaking on the horizon. Dark, tall trees were silhouetted against pale, pink hues in a periwinkle sky. The beginning of a beautiful day—and maybe a deadly one. For a moment, her thoughts shifted to Tivoli and to his usual tactics for handling people who betrayed him or competed against him—she was pretty sure he had his own secret cemetery somewhere for this type of situation. “Second, you need to promise me that you’ll listen to my story and my problem before dragging me down to the police department. You’re charming when your feisty, but I need to get this out before Tivoli sends his men out to find me. Do you promise?”
He nodded solemnly. “I promise.”
She took the diary from him and opened it to a dog-eared page that’d been bookmarked with a yellow sticky note.
Andie began reading the marked page of the diary. “This is an entry made by Katherine on October 24, 1777. She states that she had been abducted several days earlier by a ‘native man with swarthy featur
es and a strong hand.’ He kidnapped her from her family’s livestock barn. Katherine said that he at first introduced himself in a kindly manner and that his name was Jhan. But then he grabbed her without another word and dragged her out of the barn. She kicked at him and tried biting him, but he continued the abduction, unfazed by her hysteria. She was blindfolded and gagged, then placed in the back of a hay wagon.”
“Jhan? Is that the name she wrote down in her diary?” Clay scoffed at Katherine’s account.
“Yes!” Andie continued reading and ignored Clay’s question. She wasn’t going to let him poke holes in her research just because he was biased against listening to an outsider’s opinion. “They traveled for what seemed like miles, and she thought she was being carried into a deep root cellar. When Jhan removed the blindfold and cloth gag, she found herself in a ‘vast cave, well lit by candlelight and magnificently furnished with iron chests full of gold and silver coins, silver candelabras and fine porcelain serving sets. A wood dining table with chairs in the midst of the cavern. A glass library cupboard, full of books and papers.’ She also stated that she searched for a door or opening for an escape, but all she could see was an iron hatch placed high in the ceiling of a smaller chamber next to the large cavern that was filled with the furnishings and treasure. After writing in her diary at length on how she missed her family and was afraid this was the end of her life, she notes that Claudius appeared to her from ‘beyond the shadows.’“