Читать книгу Twelfth Sun - Mae Clair - Страница 6

Chapter 1

Wind and rain battered the roof of the tiny waterside inn. Reagan Cassidy was thankful to be indoors, out of the storm that had dogged her trip for the last eight hours. When she’d agreed to drive to Shipwright Landing for her uncle, she hadn’t counted on narrow, winding roads or near gale-force winds. The frontal system hanging over the entire New England coast wasn’t scheduled to dissipate until morning. It coaxed protesting creaks and groans from the timbers of the old inn, a brooding two-story surrounded by chestnut trees.

Mrs. Keller, the matronly gray-haired lady who owned the North Shore, had given her a key for room No. 1 before pointing her toward the stairs. Dripping wet, lugging her overstuffed suitcase behind her, all Reagan could think of was stripping off her sodden clothes and soaking in a hot bath. It was already after eleven PM and she was scheduled to meet her uncle’s friend, Dr. Elijah Cross, in the morning for breakfast.

Early.

Stifling a yawn, she dragged her suitcase up the final step and located room No. 1 around a corner in the hall. As she moved to insert her key in the lock, she brushed the door and it drifted open on its own. Mrs. Keller had prepared the room for her, even turning on a bedside lamp to provide a cozy glow. What a sweet lady.

Reagan set her suitcase on the floor, pausing to study the decor. Interior design was her business so it was easy for her to appreciate the contrasting shades of blue, cream and brown that supported the inn’s nautical theme. The bedside lamp had a brass ship’s wheel mounted at the base, and the walls were paneled with planks of walnut-stained barnboard. A closed door on the adjacent wall led to what she guessed was the bathroom. Heaven!

The mere thought of soaking in a heated tub made her toes curl. She kicked off her shoes, shed her coat, and dropped it over a chair. Unpacking could wait. Circling the bed, she headed for the bathroom, unbuttoning her wilted silk blouse as she went. The knob turned before she could touch it and the door yawned unexpectedly wide, revealing a man on the threshold.

Her eyes dropped.

A completely naked man.

“Oh, God!” She backpedaled violently, bumping into the wall, trapping herself in the corner. Too stunned to scream, too frightened to move, she clamped her mouth shut. Even when she squeezed her eyes closed, she couldn’t block the sight of him emblazoned behind her lids. Every sheer, startlingly masculine inch of him. A strangled squeak slipped past her lips, shattering the spell. In the space of a single heartbeat, fear, anger and adrenalin ricocheted through her. She grabbed the first thing within reach–the bedside lamp–and wielded it like a club.

“Get out of my room before I call the police.” Her voice quavered and she was certain she looked absurd, her long red hair dripping wet, the ridiculous lamp with its shiny spoked wheel clutched threateningly in front of her. Too late, she remembered her unbuttoned blouse.

The man’s eyes settled on the lacy edge of her shell pink bra, then dipped lower to her plunging cleavage. Reluctantly, he tore his gaze away and motioned to the lamp. “How about putting that down before you hurt someone?”

Taken aback by the non-threatening trace of humor in his voice, Reagan gave the lamp a jerk. She raised it above her head in what she hoped was a convincingly intimidating pose. At the last second the cord snapped taut and popped from the wall, plunging the room into shadow. Frightened by the sudden darkness, Reagan tried to shimmy farther away, but her knees collided with the nightstand. Off balance, she struggled to button her blouse, fumbling one-handedly. “Stay where you are. I’m calling the police.”

“To tell them what?” His voice was nearer and she realized he’d stepped closer to the bed, completely eliminating any chance she had of breaking for the door. “The last time I checked, taking a shower in my room was perfectly legal.”

“Your room?” She kept the lamp poised, her body tense. He seemed rational enough, but, for all she knew, he could be wired on alcohol or drugs. And he was still blocking her path to the doorway. He looked young enough to have come from Battinger College, forty-six miles to the south. Maybe a grad student or one of the research assistants. At most he couldn’t have been more than twenty-six, an age supported by every toned and muscled line of his body. Her cheeks flamed crimson. “This is my room. And would you please put on some clothes?”

He grinned in the darkness, revealing even white teeth. “Something more suited to conversation?”

Reagan looked away. With a chuckle, he padded barefoot to the dresser and rooted through the top drawer for a pair of jeans. A sexual predator wouldn’t have stored clothes in the nearest bureau, but the thought didn’t make her breathe easier. Only when she heard the closing snick of his zipper, did she look again.

“Better?” He flicked on the wall switch, activating a lamp on the dresser.

In the sudden flare of brightness, she saw him clearly. His hair wasn’t quite black, but dark-brown, the color of deep-roasted chestnuts. Still wet from his shower, it curled in loose, wayward strands against the back of his neck. Long jet lashes framed remarkable blue eyes, offsetting features more striking than rugged. If she’d met him on the street, she would have discreetly turned her head for a second glance, intrigued by an aura of understated sex appeal. As it was, she wanted him out of her room. She lowered the lamp, but didn’t loosen her grip. There was still the possibility he was drug-crazed or psychotic.

“I want you to leave. If you go now, I won’t tell the police.”

Bullshit on that. She’d call as soon as he was out the door, but didn’t plan on broadcasting her intent. A man lurking naked in the bedroom of an unsuspecting woman deserved whatever he got.

Unconcerned, he crossed his arms over his chest and propped his hip against the dresser, making himself comfortable. “What’s your name?”

“None of your business.” She was exhausted, frightened and wet. If he left, maybe she could breathe normally again. It wasn’t every night one found a naked man in their bedroom. Well, unless you happened to have a sizzling love life.

Which she didn’t. If anything, she was accustomed to dry spells, interspersed by periods with macho idiots who spent their time scheming up ways to get her into bed. She’d dumped the last one three months ago, swearing off men indefinitely. At thirty-five, with a flourishing interior design business, upscale condo, two cats and a goldfish, she didn’t need a man to complicate her life.

Sucking down an unsteady breath, she tried to gather her wits. She shot a glance at the door, silently calculating the odds of reaching it unharmed. He’d positioned himself in such a way that she’d have to sprint directly past him to escape. Even though he appeared non-threatening, she wasn’t ready to take the chance.

“If this is your room, why would you leave the door unlocked?”

The man shrugged, sending a ripple of muscle across his bare shoulders and chest. He’d donned a pair of faded jeans, but that didn’t lessen his simmering sex appeal. The soft denim was frayed at the edges and ripped at the knees, but fit him exceptionally well. Reagan hated herself for noticing.

“I didn’t. The lock’s broken. I already reported it to Mrs. Keller. If you don’t believe me, ask her.”

She didn’t move.

“You seem uptight.”

If the situation weren’t so preposterous, she would have laughed. “You’d be uptight too if you found a naked man in your room.”

“More than uptight.” He grinned sharply as if he knew even men would find him attractive, and moved toward the closet.

Alarms went off in Reagan’s head, pinging through every strained nerve of her body. She wrenched the lamp higher, brandishing it like a baseball bat. “What are you doing?”

“Looking for something.” He pulled a battered travel bag from the closet and plopped it on the bed. “You’re welcome to stay, but only if you don’t snore, and only if you keep your hands to yourself.” He sent her a cocky grin. “I’ve got an early appointment tomorrow, so I don’t have time for anything else.”

Reagan flushed. Apparently her intruder had gone through life with an overly inflated opinion of himself. Suddenly too angry to be afraid, she choked on words, struggling to get them past her lips. “You should be in jail. I’m calling the police now!”

Incensed, she snatched the phone from the nightstand. Forgetting the lamp, she jabbed out the local emergency number. Across the room, her bare-chested intruder whistled nonchalantly as he dumped a series of tablets, folded maps and well-thumbed notebooks on the bed.

“Be sure to tell them I’m in room ten.”

“I know exactly what to tell–” Reagan stopped suddenly, the brittle ring of the phone cycling in her ear. “This is room one.”

“Ten.”

She slammed the receiver down, overtaken by a dreadful thought. Mister sure-of-himself was rifling through his books, head bowed, brown-black hair spilling forward to hide his expression.

“If you don’t believe me, look on the door,” he said distractedly.

She hadn’t been that stupid. She couldn’t have made such a foolish, embarrassing mistake. Steeling herself, Reagan crossed the room and wrenched open the door. In the weak lamplight filtering from the hallway a brass-plated number No. 1 was plainly visible on the surface. She felt an exhilarating rush of victory that quickly faded when she spied the ghost outline of a zero on the wood. The barely visible oval marked the space of a missing numeral.

The blood drained from her face. Mortified, she looked across the hall, noting the closest room was number nine, the one adjacent, number eight. She heard footsteps and turned to discover her near-naked companion behind her.

“For the record, I normally enjoy having a beautiful, disheveled woman in my bedroom. Especially one with pink lingerie.”

He was despicable. A wretch. A cad.

Considerably younger, he had the disconcerting ability of making her feel sophomoric and unbalanced. She wanted to spit a reply, but he brushed the sodden hair from her shoulder, striking her mute. His touch was too intimate, boldly unsettling for a stranger.

Reagan felt her pulse quicken. He stood uncomfortably close, his eyes the electric blue of a sun-drenched sea. Unnerved, she looked away. She was tired and confused. There could be no other explanation for her odd attraction to someone she’d only just met. Someone who’d seen her make a complete fool of herself.

Her face burned at the thought of her blunder. How could she fault his sexual innuendo after she’d barged in on his privacy? She wanted to sink through the floor. Too embarrassed to meet his eyes, she pushed past him and hastily gathered her coat and suitcase. “I’m sorry. I’ve made a terrible mistake.” She slipped into her shoes and hurried into the hallway, walking as quickly as she could to escape.

“Don’t be a stranger,” he called after her with an amused chuckle.

A moment later she heard his door click into place. It wasn’t until she was in her own room that she breathed easier. She locked the door behind her and slumped gratefully against the wall. She’d done stupid things in her life, but this eclipsed them all. With any luck, she could avoid the man in room ten for the duration of her brief stay. Tomorrow morning she’d meet Dr. Elijah Cross and they’d find Eric Sothern. The history of the Twelfth Sun and her uncle’s PhD friend would keep her occupied for days. Nothing like a stodgy marine archeologist, probably as gray-haired and wizened as her beloved uncle, to keep her focused on why she was there. The man in room ten and the startling quicksilver attraction she’d felt would become nothing more than an embarrassing memory.

Reagan exhaled, smiling slightly. If nothing else, she’d given the dark-haired stranger something to talk about for a long time to come.

* * * *

The previous night felt disjointed and hazy like the flotsam of a dream. The storm continued in the morning, less severe, but sufficient enough to make Reagan bundle into a sweater at the breakfast table. She’d chosen The Bluff, a waterside cafe, as the place to meet Elijah Cross.

Her uncle had suggested it when he’d planned the trip weeks before. It wasn’t just anyone who could talk her into abandoning her business at the start of an early summer season, but Gavin Cassidy had an inborn knack for wheedling her into doing almost anything. Now that illness confined him to his home, she was more susceptible than usual. Even when it involved something as off-the-wall as tracking down the ship’s log of a nineteenth-century frigate.

With the help of Elijah Cross.

Reagan had never met her uncle’s friend, but he’d told her enough to make her realize Cross was well-qualified for the task.

“Elijah has a doctorate in marine archeology,” he’d explained when he first approached her with the crazy idea. “He’ll be able to verify the authenticity of the journal and assure it came from the Twelfth Sun. He’s written several books on underwater excavation, plus a handful of historical accounts on American and British shipwrecks. Most academics consider him a leading authority in the field.”

Reagan swirled a spoonful of honey into a cup of lemon-laced tea as she recalled the conversation. Her uncle’s friends tended to fall into one of two categories: brilliant academics or crackpots. Despite that extreme difference, all had reached their physical prime twenty or thirty years in the past. She expected Dr. Cross would be no different.

Relaxing, she glanced about the cafe. At 7:10 AM, it was nearly deserted, a middle-aged couple and a lanky blond-haired man the only other occupants. The couple quietly conversed over pancakes and sausages while the man was content to nurse a cup of coffee and a bowl of oatmeal.

Cozy and quaint, the eatery sported round tables with barrel-back chairs, a massive stone hearth, and colored glass lanterns. Framed prints of whaling ships and storm-tossed seas graced the walls. She could almost smell the brine of lobster pots, feel the wind-driven crash of waves against unforgiving rock. She’d come to Shipwright Landing to find the answers that had driven Samuel Storm from his home over a century ago, and sent his ship on a last fateful voyage across the Atlantic.

Reagan glanced at her watch. She’d dragged herself from bed hours before any civilized person should be up, for the sole purpose of meeting Elijah Cross. The marine archeologist was already ten minutes late–not a brilliant way to begin a working relationship. She’d learned through firsthand experience many of her uncle’s friends were as unreliable as they were eccentric. Foolishly, she had hoped Dr. Cross wouldn’t fall into the same category.

Resigned to passing the time, she added hot water to her tea. From the corner of her eye she spied movement at the door of the cafe. A man stepped inside, shaking rain from his jacket. The door banged shut behind him, ensnaring her full attention. He wore a battered black fedora and worn jeans with scuffed dock shoes. There was something oddly familiar about him. He turned slightly and she caught his profile, realizing he was the man from room ten. Self-conscious, she looked away, hoping to sink through the floor. He spoke briefly with the hostess and then headed in her direction.

She tensed. What were the odds of encountering him now when she was scheduled to meet Dr. Cross, a highly-respected and, no doubt critical, academic? How would it look to her uncle’s friend if he walked in on a conversation revolving around naked men and the color of her undergarments?

Chagrined, she bowed her head over her teacup. Her hair spilled forward, concealing her face behind curtains of red-gold. With any luck he’d go away. With any luck, he’d leave her alone.

“Hi.”

Reagan raised her head fully convinced mischievous imps had tracked her to Shipwright Landing and were even now performing rituals of bad luck. “Hi.” She pressed her lips together. “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m expecting someone.”

“Yeah, I know.” He grinned. “You’re Reagan Cassidy.”

She blinked. She’d given the hostess her name only because she was expecting Dr. Cross and neither had any idea what the other looked like. She certainly hadn’t expected the woman to share her name with any longhaired Lothario who asked for it. “The hostess told you.”

He nodded. Removing his hat by the crown, he dropped it on the table. “Some storm.” He shrugged out of his jacket and hooked it over the back of the nearest chair. “Good thing it’ll be over soon.”

Reagan watched flabbergasted as he sat across from her and picked up a menu. “Excuse me.” Her voice rose sharply, edged like a knife. “I didn’t invite you to sit. I told you I’m expecting someone.”

“Yeah, I know.” He flashed that same irritating grin. “I’m Elijah Cross.”

She balked. She couldn’t possibly have heard right. The insanely gorgeous man seated across from her wasn’t even thirty years old. No way could he be a noted marine archeologist with an accredited PhD. A sinking sensation hit the pit of her stomach. “That’s impossible!”

“Why?” He flipped open the menu. “Because I’m twenty-five, or because you saw me naked last night?”

“Oh dear God.” She lowered her head. Heat spread rapidly across her cheeks. “This is never going to work.”

“Your uncle will be disappointed.” Elijah righted his coffee mug and motioned for the waitress. “Not to mention a number of marine historians. Your uncle’s agreed to give the journal to the Maritime Museum in Charrington after he’s reviewed it. This might not work for you, but it’s got to for me. I have a host of academic and non-profit organizations counting on it.” He sent her a non-threatening glance. “I’m harmless. Really. Like the geeky kid you knew in school who always had his nose in a textbook.”

She doubted that. For one thing he didn’t look remotely similar to the boys she and her popular friends had routinely avoided. The ones more interested in science, computers and math. This self-professed geek had the long, curling hair and electric blue eyes of a male model, the deliciously toned body of a track athlete. Why hadn’t her uncle told her he was so young? And so distressingly good-looking?

“If the ‘Doctor’ tag on my name is bothering you, let’s just say I was in college when most kids were still busy being kids.” Elijah leaned back in his chair, entirely too relaxed. “The only time I use it is when I write or lecture. It’s pretentious, but it lends credibility, and at my age that’s a necessity. Most of my contemporaries are considerably older.”

“Morning, folks.”

The waitress arrived with Elijah’s coffee. With a bright smile, she asked if they were ready to order. Reagan mumbled a request for a whole-wheat bagel and mixed fruit, then retreated into a state of shock. Certainly her uncle wouldn’t expect her to work with this man after what happened last night. In the span of eight hours, her companion had gone from potential sex fiend to respected academic.

“Excuse me.” She pushed her chair back and stood. “I need to use the rest room.”

What she needed was time to think, gather her scattered wits and start acting like a professional businesswoman rather than an intimidated adolescent. In the bathroom she splashed warm water on her cheeks, trying to restore a hint of color to her pale complexion. She looked at herself critically in the mirror. The long hours of the past few days had taken a toll. Her green eyes were overly large beneath the loose waves of her red-gold hair, her face drawn and pinched, certainly not ideal for projecting poise and confidence.

So what if she’d seen Mister PhD Marine Archeological Expert naked? It was a tantalizing memory, but they were both adults and sex had nothing to do with their roles in obtaining the log of the Twelfth Sun. Elijah Cross was far younger and sexier than she’d anticipated, but he was only twenty-five. As the more mature adult, she should have no problem setting boundaries for their relationship. She owed it to her uncle to make the best of the situation.

He’d been there for her through many of the hurdles in her life, taking on the role of substitute father when she’d lost her own at fourteen. He’d cheered for her at softball games and dance squad, changed the flats on her bike, packed her and her mother off to the movies at least once a week, and encouraged her starry-eyed dreams of owning her own business. When the bank had insisted her fledgling interior design firm have a secure partner, it was her Uncle Gavin who stepped forward and took the risk. Six years later when the business became solvent, he signed his share over as a gift. She owed it to him to ride out the rough spots, even if it involved working with a flippant, stuck-on-himself egghead.

An egghead who looked like an Adonis.

It didn’t matter. She’d tough it out, get Dr. PhD to do his thing with the logbook, then chalk the whole thing up to a learning experience. Feeling better, she returned to the dining area. The waitress had already brought their food by the time she arrived.

“Welcome back.” Elijah was busily slathering butter on a heaping stack of pancakes. “I was thinking of sending out a posse.”

She overlooked his attempt at humor and came straight to the point. “It seems we’re stuck together for a while, so I’d appreciate it if you didn’t make any more comments about last night. Let’s do what we came for. In a few days we’ll be able to go our separate ways.”

“Which is?”

Reagan picked up her fork and prodded the fruit in her bowl. “What do you mean?”

“Your separate way. Home. Where do you live?”

“Oh.” She saw no reason to tell him it was Baltimore. “It doesn’t matter. I’m more interested in how you met my uncle.”

“He attended a lecture I gave last summer. A mutual acquaintance introduced us and we’ve been friends ever since. He talks about you a lot.” He grinned extravagantly and reached for his coffee. “But he never mentioned your fondness for pink.”

She bit her tongue. Friend of her uncle or not, he deserved to be skewered and roasted over an open pit. Slowly. Keeping her voice cool, she sent him what she hoped was a frosty glare. “I’m sure you find it humorous to keep dwelling on what happened last night, but any mature adult would have moved on by now. Then again, you are only twenty-five.”

“Ouch!” His lips curled upward in a crooked grin. “And I suppose you’re ancient? Fossil material.”

The man had no concept of tact. “Dr. Cross.”

“Elijah. And I should probably mention I have a tendency to be immature.”

“That’s obvious.” Reagan made a show of looking at her watch, relaying her impatience. “Maybe we could discuss the Twelfth Sun, since we’ll be meeting Eric Sothern in a few hours.”

“Fair enough.” Elijah reached for a bottle of maple syrup. He drenched his plate in a sea of liquid sugar, then used his fork to break off a chunk of soggy pancakes. “What did your uncle tell you about the ship?”

Reagan watched as he made short work of the pancakes, his appetite as extensive as his cache of irritating remarks. At least he was focused, ready to discuss business rather than continuing his game of innuendo. How could anyone so cavalier be so gifted? He’d obviously held his doctorate degree for more than a few years, which placed his intelligence on a genius level. Yet here he sat, downing pancakes and tossing around veiled remarks like a high school adolescent.

Geek.

Reagan cleared her throat. “Uncle Gavin didn’t tell me much.” That wasn’t entirely true. Her uncle had rambled on about the Twelfth Sun, but she hadn’t paid attention. She’d simply agreed to drive to Connecticut and retrieve the logbook from Eric Sothern. She’d been more concerned with completing the task, so she could return to the roster of customers she’d put on hold. “I don’t know much about the ship other than it was a frigate.”

“A schooner. A frigate was a warship. And when you’re referring to a vessel, you should use the gender-specific ‘she.’ Sailors and seamen are particular about that mode of address.”

Reagan pressed her lips together but didn’t reply. She had the feeling he enjoyed correcting her.

Swallowing a mouthful of coffee, he craned his neck to glance at her plate. Half of the fruit she’d ordered remained untouched. “Are you going to eat that?”

“Yes.” Deliberately, Reagan speared a chunk of pineapple and popped it into her mouth.

“Nice.” Elijah mimicked a salute. “Next time try to do it without the fire-breathing dragon stare.”

“Dr. Cross.”

“Getting back to the Twelfth Sun,” he continued as if her interruption were of no consequence. “She was built in the 1790’s when Baltimore led the nation in shipbuilding, and came out of Fells Point like most clippers.”

“I thought you said she was a schooner?”

“Pretty much an interchangeable term. The Twelfth Sun was owned by the Wheeler Shipping Company and captained under Samuel Storm. During the war of 1812 she turned privateer and was responsible for single-handedly sinking or capturing ten British vessels. When the war ended, she floundered. The clipper era was on the wane. Changing maritime conditions and economic trends combined to make it almost obsolete.”

Reagan tilted her head. She vaguely recalled her uncle saying something along the same lines. She’d always viewed old sailing ships as poetic, romantic images, but had never taken the time to learn their history.

“Wheeler Shipping fell on hard times and sold to a pair of brothers out of Massachusetts,” Elijah continued. “The Rooks were wealthy, but inexperienced. Samuel Storm stayed on as captain of the Twelfth Sun and continued making cargo runs. In 1836, Chester Rook sent his younger brother Jeremiah along as the shipping company’s onboard representative.”

“The Twelfth Sun sank in 1836.” That much she did know.

Elijah nodded. He eyed her fruit again. “Are you really going to eat that?”

Exasperated, she pushed the plate across the table to him. He grinned broadly and attacked the pieces of cantaloupe, honeydew and pineapple with relish. Munching contentedly, he continued his tale.

“The voyage was doomed from the start. Chester Rook ordered the ship to launch on a Friday in direct opposition to Samuel Storm’s wishes.”

Reagan waited, expecting to learn there’d been a horrible gale or unstable weather conditions.

Elijah simply let the sentence hang.

“So?” she prompted, annoyed by the lapse.

“Friday, Reagan. Anyone familiar with sailing lore knows you never begin a voyage on a Friday. It’s bad luck.”

She bristled. “Ms. Cassidy, please.”

“A little too proper for first names?”

“Just tell me what happened.”

He finished the last of the fruit and drained his coffee. Slumping back in his chair, he folded his arms over his chest and stared at her across the table. The thick black line of his lashes made his eyes intensely blue, as vibrant as cut glass caught in the sun. Dark brown hair curled in long, riotous waves against his collar.

For one unsettling minute, Reagan had the insane desire to lace her fingers through it. Disturbed, she sat straighter and lowered her eyes. She’d always had a weakness for men with tousled, unkempt hair, but so what? Elijah Cross might be good-looking, but he was also a royal pain in the posterior.

She pretended interest in her tea. “I know the Twelfth Sun sank when it struck the wreck of a submerged frigate off Horsehead Island. I also know the only one to survive was Jeremiah Rook, who escaped in a lifeboat.”

“With a personal journal.” Seeing the waitress across the room, Elijah waved her to the table. “Could we have the check, please?” Once she had gathered their plates and left, he turned back to Reagan.

“Samuel Storm’s log was never found, so there’s no account leading up to the wreck. It’s not the captain’s logbook we’re after, but Rook’s journal. He survived at sea for forty-five days before he was picked up by a cutter out of Gloucester. Rumors–credited rumors,” he corrected, “indicate Rook had a personal journal with a detailed account of the Twelfth Sun’s voyage. For over a century there’s been no knowledge of its whereabouts.”

“And now Eric Sothern claims to have it?”

“Exactly. Why Sothern would offer it to your uncle isn’t exactly clear. I’m guessing his reputation as a collector of maritime artifacts is what prompted Sothern to make contact.”

Reagan spared another glance at her watch. They had a fairly lengthy drive ahead of them to reach Eric Sothern’s estate, located on a bluff overlooking the Atlantic Ocean. The solicitation to purchase Jeremiah Rook’s log had come with an attached invitation to lodge at Sothern’s expansive, and reputedly sumptuous, seaside estate for the weekend. Reagan still had to check out of the North Shore and guessed Elijah did as well.

“Should I meet you at Sothern’s home, or follow in my car?” She was all business again, crisp and efficient. His gaze had grown too friendly and inviting. “I still have to check out of the North Shore.”

“Room No. 1.”

She refused to rise to the bait. Fishing through her purse, she removed a handful of bills and placed them on the table. “That should cover my part of the tab. Wait for the check if you want, but I’m going to the inn. I’ll meet you in the lobby in an hour.” This time she did look at him.

He grinned slyly. “A morning rendezvous. I like the sound of that.”

He was an impossible man, vain and self-centered. “Get over yourself,” she snapped.

Elijah laughed. “If only I could.”

She turned and strode briskly from the restaurant. Seething, she stepped outside and ducked beneath her umbrella. Every hour she’d be forced to spend in Elijah Cross’s company was an hour too many. Her uncle was going to owe her more than his standard I’m in your debt, lass, for this particular favor. Fortunately, once Elijah verified the authenticity of Jeremiah Rook’s log, she could bid the egoistical marine archeologist a permanent goodbye.

That moment couldn’t come soon enough.