Free Cordinas Crown Jewel by Nora Roberts Page A

imagine it should help the discomfort. Is it your shoulder or your ribs?”
    “Ribs mostly.”
    “I suppose they hurt more as they heal. Why don’t you sit and I’ll make you an ice pack for them.”
    “I don’t need a nurse.”
    “Stop being such a hardhead.” She filled a small plastic bag with ice, then wrapped it in a thin dishcloth. “Sit, drink your whiskey. Tell me about one of your other digs. Something foreign and exotic.”
    It amused her, pleased her, to hear her mother in her voice, the brisk indulgence of it, the tone she’d used to soothe and distract her children during illness.
    “Go away.” The order didn’t have much punch behind it, and he sat down.
    “When I was cleaning I noticed some correspondence to Dr. Caine. I was impressed.” She sat, holding the cloth to her cheek and waiting for it to cool. “Where did you study?”
    She was wearing a robe, the color of copper. He figured it had to be silk, and from the way it clung, shifted, that she had little to nothing on under it. In defense he closed his eyes and let the whiskey slide down his throat.
    “Oxford.”
    “Now I’m more impressed. Delaney Caine, a doctorate degree from Oxford. How did you know you were an archaeologist?”
    It was an odd way to phrase it, he thought. Not how did you become, or when did you decide, but how did you know. And it was exactly right. “I always wanted to know how and why and when. And who. Whenever I’d go on a dig with my parents—”
    “Ah, they’re archaeologists, too.”
    “Paleontologists. Dinosaurs.” He kept his eyes closed, knowing between will and whiskey the ache would ease. “I liked the digs, but it seemed more exciting to me when they’d dig up something human. Pieces of pottery or tools or weapons. Something that said man walked there.”
    He hissed a bit through his teeth when the cooled cloth made contact with his ribs.
    Poor thing, she thought sympathetically. So angry at the pain. “My brothers went through a fascination with dinosaurs. I think all boys do.” She saw the strain go out of his face as the ice numbed the ache. “Were they disappointed, your parents, that you didn’t go into their field?”
    “Why would they be?” He let himself relax, inch by inch. An owl hooted, long, slow calls from the woods beyond the cabin. Her scent drifted over him like a gentle stroke of hands.
    “Oh, tradition, I suppose. It’s comforting, isn’t it, to have parents who understand—at least try to understand—when you have to test yourself, try your own direction? Some of us wait too long to do so, fearing disapproval or failure.”
    He was relaxed, she thought, drifting toward sleep. Odd, he looked no less formidable now than he did when he was alert. Maybe it was the bones of his face, or that prickly shadow of beard. Whatever it was, it had a snake of arousal twining through her to look at him, really look at him when he was unaware.
    Then his eyes opened, and that interesting face was very close to hers. She nearly eased back with instinctive courtesy, but there was a wariness in those deep green depths. An intriguing awareness that nudged her to test her power.
    She stayed close, very close, and lifted a hand to give the rough stubble on his face a testing, and flirtatious, rub. “You need a shave, Dr. Caine.”
    He could smell her, all fresh and dewy despite the lateness of the hour. Her breath fanned lightly over hisskin. And made his mouth water. “Cut it out.”
    “It’d be tricky to shave one-handed.” She trailed a fingertip along his jaw. Down his throat. “I could do it for you in the morning.”
    “I don’t want a shave, and I don’t like you touching me.”
    “Oh, you like me touching you.” Surely this lust that was curling around in her belly wasn’t all one-sided. “You’re just afraid of it. And annoyed that I’m not afraid of you.”
    He grabbed her wrist with his good hand, and his fingers tightened warningly. “If you’re not afraid,