Cordina's Crown Jewel

by Nora Roberts

  “In six months if the articles and reports I’m putting together don’t beat the right drum and shake out a couple million in grants, the site closes.”

  “Closes? You mean you’d be finished with the dig?”

  “Finished?” He scooped up pasta. “Not by a long shot. But the state can’t—or won’t—allocate more funds. Bureaucrats,” he muttered. “Not enough media attention after three seasons to keep them smiling for the cameras and handing over grants. The university’s tapped out. There’s enough private money for another six months. After that, we’re shut down and that’s it.”

  The idea of the site closing was so appalling she couldn’t get her mind around it. “That can’t be it if you’re not done.”

  “Money talks, sister.” And he’d sunk all he could afford of his own into that dark peat.

  “Then you’ll get more. Anyone who reads your work will want to keep the project going. If not from the incredible archaeological significance of such amazingly rich findings, then for the completely unique scientific opportunities. I could—” She broke off. She was an expert fund-raiser. People paid, and dearly, to see Princess Camilla at a charity function.

  Media attention? That was never a problem.

  More, she had connections. Her thoughts went instantly to her godmother, the former Christine Hamilton, now the wife of a United States senator from Texas. Both were avid supporters of arts and science.

  “You got an extra million or so weighing you down, just pass it my way.” Del reached for the wine bottle, stretching his healing shoulder a little too far, a little too fast. And cursed.

  She snapped back to the moment. “Be careful, you don’t want to overtax yourself. I’m afraid I don’t have a million on me.” She smiled as she topped off his wineglass. “But I have ideas. I’m very good with ideas. I’ll think of something.”

  “You do that.”

  She let it go, and he forgot about it.

  * * *

  When dinner was finished, he vanished. It was a talent of his to disappear when dishes were involved. Camilla was forced to admire it. She couldn’t claim the washing up pleased her nearly so much as making the mess in the first place.

  Cooking was a kind of art. Washing dishes a mindless chore she’d have been happy to pass along to someone else.

  In the cabin, however, she was the someone else.

  In any case, she knew he wouldn’t come near the back of the house until they were done. It gave her the opportunity to call home.

  She kept one eye and one ear on the doorway while the connection to Virginia went through. Her youngest brother, Dorian, answered, and though normally she’d have been delighted to chat, to catch up on family news, to just hear his voice, she was pressed for time.

  “I really need to talk to Mama.”

  “You take off like a gypsy, and now you can’t give me the time of day.”

  “When I get back, I’ll bore your ears off with everything I’ve done. I miss you, Dorian.” She laughed quietly. “I never thought I’d actually say that, but I do. I miss all of you.”

  “But you’re having a great time. I can hear it in your voice.”

  “I am.”

  “So you’re not pining away for the French guy.”

  She huffed out a breath. Dorian considered teasing a royal duty. “I take back that I miss you. Where’s Mama?”

  “I’ll get her. But I’d better warn you, she’s got her hands full keeping Dad from sending out a search-and-rescue. You’re going to have to dance double-time to smooth things out with him.”

  “I know it. I’m sorry, but I’m not a child.”

  “That’s what Mama said. And he said—at the top of his lungs—that you were his child. Keep that in mind. Hang on.”

  She knew he might tease, but Dorian was good as gold. He’d find a way to get their mother on the line without letting her father know.

  Where would Mama be now? she wondered, and brought the image of the big, sprawling house in Virginia into her mind. In her sitting room perhaps. No, more likely out in the gardens, enjoying the evening.

  Was it raining there, too?

  Maybe she was entertaining. But no, Dorian would have said so.

  As the silence on the line grew lengthy, Camilla began to fret.

  Then she heard her mother’s voice. “Camilla, I’m so glad you called. We were just talking about you.”

  “Is Daddy still very upset?”

  “He’s … adjusting. Slowly.”

  “I’m sorry, Mama. I just had to—”

  “You don’t have to explain to me. I remember what it’s like. We just want to know you’re safe, and happy.”

  “I’m both. I told you about the cabin, about Delaney. His work is so important, so interesting to me. Mama …” She reverted to French as English seemed too ordinary to explain her excitement in the project.

  “You sound like a scientist,” Gabriella laughed.

  “I feel like a student. One who can’t learn enough fast enough. Tonight I learned something distressing.”

  She explained about the project deadline as quickly as possible.

  “That’s difficult. Your professor must be very concerned.”

  “I’d like to help. I thought perhaps you could use your connections to find out what can be done, how much is needed. I was thinking—could you contact Aunt Christine? I’m good at raising money for causes, but she’s even better. Finally I’ve found something that’s really interesting—something that’s personally important to me. I just need an idea of the right wallets to open.”

  “I can make some inquiries. Florida, is it? The Bardville Research Project, Dr. Delaney Caine. Give me a few days.”

  “Thanks. Thank you, Mama. You will be discreet? I’d just as soon he didn’t know right now that Her Serene Highness Gabriella de Cordina had taken an interest in his work. It’s so nice just being Camilla, I don’t want to take a chance on anyone making the connection. Not just yet.”

  “Don’t worry. The family’s leaving for Cordina in a few days, Camilla. I’d hoped you might be ready to go with us.”

  “Another few weeks. Please. I’ll contact you there and make arrangements to fly directly over when I … when I leave here.”

  “Take care of my baby. We love her.”

  “She loves you, too. I’ll see you soon, Mama. I have so much to tell you.”

  After she hung up, Camilla hummed as she set the kitchen to rights. In so short a time, she thought, she’d accomplished much of what she’d set out to do. She was content with herself—and that had been something missing the past several months. She’d done ordinary things—too many of which had slipped away from her since adulthood.

  And she realized much of that had been her own doing.

  When she’d been a child, her parents had made certain she had a normal life, or as normal as possible. They’d done everything they could to keep her and her siblings out of the spotlight. But there had been duties, a gradual escalation of them as she’d grown.

  Then the media had focused on her. Cordina’s crown jewel, they’d dubbed her. And normality had begun to erode around the edges until the fabric of it was frayed. It had been flattering at first, exciting, even amusing. Then mildly annoying. After nearly a decade of constant attention, of speculative and outright fabricated articles, of being seen as a commodity, never as a human being, it had become smothering.

  But now she could breathe again. And she knew she would go back to her life stronger, more capable and less vulnerable to the barrage.

  She’d found a passion, and would now find a way to embrace it. This was the balance she’d seen and envied in her mother, in her aunts. Duty was never shirked, but each pursued a life full of interests and richness as a woman. So could she.

  So would she.

  One day she’d go on a dig and be part of a team that discovered. That sought knowledge and celebrated it. Let the media come, she thought as she prepared fresh coffee. The attention, while
it lasted, would only generate interest in the field. And that meant funding.

  It was unthinkable to allow their project to come to a premature end because of money. And it was their project now, she thought with a dreamy sigh. Hers and Delaney’s. They shared it as they did the cabin, with each bringing their own stamp, their own mind, their own talents to the whole.

  It was … marvelous.

  Her excitement and passion might even be responsible for sparking the imagination of a generation of young women, bringing archaeology, the study of past peoples, cultures and customs into fashion.

  She stopped, laughing at herself. Never satisfied with little steps, she thought. She always wanted more.

  She filled two mugs and carried them into the living area. There he was, sitting on the horrible little sofa, his eyes intense behind his reading glasses, papers scattered over his lap and across the sprung cushions.

  What leaped inside her was a wild and wonderful mixture of lust and longing, and, she discovered with a slow warm sigh, love.

  Why she was in love with him, she thought with surprise. Wasn’t that … fascinating. Somewhere during this complicated and problematic interlude, she’d slid headlong into love with a bad-tempered, irritable, rough-mannered scientist who was more likely to snarl at her than smile.

  He was rude, demanding, easily annoyed, impatient. And brilliant, passionate, reluctantly kind. It was a captivating mix that made him uniquely himself. She wouldn’t change a single thing about him.

  More, she thought, leaning against the wall to watch him. He had one of the most essential traits she wanted in a friend, and in a lover. He had honor.

  They were alone here, yet he’d never tried to take advantage of that. In fact, he rarely touched her even in the most casual way. Though he was attracted—she knew she wasn’t wrong about that—his personal code wouldn’t allow him to exploit the situation.

  Her lips twitched in a smile. That made him, under it all, a gentleman. How he would hate to be termed so.

  So, she was in love with an ill-tempered gentleman who wouldn’t allow himself to seduce his temporary assistant. That meant it was going to be up to her to seduce him.

  The idea, only an interesting fantasy until now, became more intriguing, more exciting now her heart was engaged. Love, she thought, gave her a marvelous advantage.

  You’re going to have to deal with me now, she decided. And you, Dr. Delaney Caine, don’t have a prayer.

  She nearly went back to the kitchen to exchange the coffee for wine. But she reasoned the caffeine would be more … stimulating.

  The plan of attack should be simple. And subtle.

  She walked to him, held out the coffee. “Which area has you snagged?”

  “Huh?”

  “Which area,” she repeated, gesturing toward the scattered papers, “has you snagged?”

  “I just need to think it through. Get this damn paperwork done. I need to get back to the site.” He rolled his shoulder, testing it. “Into the lab.”

  She felt the quick hitch in her throat. If he was starting to think about going back, she couldn’t afford to be subtle for long.

  Because when he went back, she intended to go with him. As his student, his associate. As his lover.

  “The work you’re doing here is just as important, just as essential. Though I’m sure it’s not as rewarding for you.”

  “I’m not an administrator.” He said it as though it were something foul, which made her smile.

  “You’ll soon be back in the field. You just need a little more time to finish here, and to heal.”

  He shifted, experimenting by stretching his torso. His ribs sang. An hour on the dig would have him crawling like a baby, he thought in disgust. But the lab …

  “Let’s get some of this down,” he began, and rose too quickly. He had to grit his teeth as his body objected.

  “Tell you what.” Gently she took the coffee out of his hand. “I’ll give you that rubdown first. It should help. You’re always more uncomfortable first thing in the morning and after a long day. Let’s loosen you up again. Then if you still want to work tonight, we’ll work.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “You’re not. And if you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll just delay your recovery and your return to the dig.” Keeping her voice brisk, she started toward the stairs carrying both mugs. “Come on, we’ll just consider it physical therapy.”

  He hurt, and that irritated him. He could take a pill—which would end up putting him to sleep and wasting work hours. He could put the damn sling back on, which would irritate him more. Or he could give the lubricant a try.

  All he had to do was handle her rubbing her hands over him. And a man ought to have enough willpower to deal with that.

  Besides, she had the coffee. He had to follow her upstairs.

  “We can do it down here.”

  “Easier up here,” she called back, smirking. “The sofa’s a torture board, and too small in any case. No point in being uncomfortable. Just sit down on your bed. Take your shirt off.”

  Words, he thought, most men dreamed of hearing.

  He wasn’t going to think along those lines, he reminded himself. He was going to consider the entire experience a kind of therapeutic medicine.

  Chapter 7

  She made a quick detour into her own bedroom and dabbed on perfume. Undid another two buttons of her shirt. If the man thought of romance as a tool, she was going in fully equipped.

  She gathered the witch hazel, some fresh towels and some of the scented candles.

  It was conniving, she admitted, but surely a woman in love was allowed some ploys. Just as, she thought as she stepped into his bedroom and saw every available light blazing, a wary man was allowed to try for some defense.

  She found his safety precautions wonderfully sweet. And easily foiled.

  “Let’s have a look.” She circled around the bed where he sat, then instantly lost her calculation in her sympathy. “Oh, Del, you really did a job on yourself, didn’t you?”

  “It’s better.”

  “I’m sure, but …” The shoulder which had been hidden behind shirt or sling up till now was visibly swollen still. The bruising was a sickly yellow and green pattern that matched the clouds that ran along his ribs.

  She wanted, more than anything else now, to simply nurse him, to ease his hurts.

  “I didn’t think about the swelling,” she murmured, gently touching his shoulder.

  “It’s nearly gone.” He moved his shoulder, as much to test it as to dislodge her hand. He wasn’t, he realized, quite ready to have her touch him.

  “Regardless. We should’ve been icing this down.” Recalling what had happened before when she’d tried that particular kind of medical attention had her pulse dancing.

  She wanted to nurse him, and soothe. But that wasn’t all she wanted, for either of them.

  “Well, just relax, and we’ll see what we can do about making you more … comfortable.”

  She turned away, started to arrange and to light the candles.

  “What’re you doing with those?”

  The wariness in his voice had her lips curving. “Haven’t you ever heard of aromatherapy? Just get as comfortable as you can, and we’ll start on the shoulder first. You never told me how you were hurt.”

  “I was stupid enough to let some idiot kid drive from the lab. Some people just can’t handle a wet road,” he added with a bland stare. “He flipped the Jeep.”

  “Flipped?” Horror for him replaced any need to defend her own driving skills. “My God, you’re lucky you weren’t killed.”

  “He walked away with a couple scratches,” Del said bitterly. “He’s lucky I didn’t snap his neck like a twig. This has put me on the DL over three weeks already.”

  She walked over to turn off lights. “DL?”

  “No baseball in your world, sister? Disabled list.” He’d just think about baseball—sports were good—or work, or world politics
. Anything but the way she looked in candlelight.

  “How’re you going to see if you turn off the lights?”

  “I can see perfectly well. You won’t relax with lights shining in your eyes.” She wished he had a radio, a stereo system. Something. But they’d just have to cope without it.

  She climbed onto the bed behind him, knelt.

  The give of the mattress had his stomach muscles fumbling into knots—and his body bracing as if for battle.

  “Now don’t be stoic,” she said. “Tell me if I hurt you. I’d say you’re healing remarkably well if it’s only been three weeks. And that you’ve carved through an impressive amount of work while you’ve been here.”

  She rubbed the lubricant in her hands to warm it, then began to gently stroke it over the bruises. “I think we can all use a change of routine now and again, to step away from what we’ve become steeped in so that we can have a clearer vision of the whole picture.”

  “Maybe.” It was true enough that since he’d come back to the cabin he’d been able to look at the project from angles he’d missed or ignored when he’d been in the middle of it. Such as the money problem.

  “Don’t tense up,” she murmured. “Just close your eyes.” Her fingers stroked, gently kneaded. “Let your mind drift. Did you play in the woods here as a boy?”

  “Sure.” Baseball, he was going to think about baseball. How was he supposed to keep a box score in his head when she kept talking in that exotic, sexy voice.

  “Swim in the pond? Fish?”

  “My mother likes to fish.”

  “Really?”

  Because the image of her, wearing one of her ugly hats, stout boots, ragged shirt and trousers with a pole in her hand made him smile, he closed his eyes.

  Surely thinking of your mother was as good a way to control your glands as sports. Probably better.

  “She never could get me or my father into it. Bores both of us crazy.”

  “I’m afraid I have the clichéd girl response to fishing,” Camilla confessed. “Fish are slimy and they wriggle. I prefer them sautéed in a nice herbed butter. You don’t have brothers, sisters?”

  “No.”

  “Feel this knot here.” She discovered one at the base of his neck. “You carry too much worry. That’s why you’re so irritable.”

  “I’m not irritable.”

  “No, you’ve a sunny disposition. Candy sweet.”

  “Ow.”

  “Sorry.”

  Oh, the man had a back, she thought with sheer delight. Broad and tanned with intriguing scars marring any hope of perfection. A warrior’s back, she thought. Strong and male. She wanted, badly, to slide her lips down the length of it, nibble her way along the ridges. But it wasn’t quite the time to abandon subtlety.

  In any case, she wanted to help, wanted to ease his discomfort. Then jump him.

  Distractions, she decided. As much for herself as for him. “The book there, the mystery novel? I’ve read that author before, but not that book. Is it good?”

  “Yeah, it’s not bad.”

  “You have a small selection of books here, but it’s quite eclectic.”