Heart of Fire (30 page)

"A week, maybe less," she said.

"You feel like another trip?"

"I can make it."

"But this time we'll have a double tent."

"Sounds good to me."

He glanced at the clock. "We have another appointment. Damn, I didn't mean to get you wrinkled."

"What now?" she wailed. "Ben, I can't take another surprise."

"We're getting married," he said, getting to his feet and hauling her up. "Well, maybe not today. I've never done it before, so I don't know how long it takes. But we'll get the ball rolling, at least."

She froze. "Married?"

He gently engulfed her in his arms. "Yeah, married. I'm as shocked as you are. I'd been planning to ask you, but then you found that damn diamond. I knew you wouldn't say yes with that rock standing between us, so I got rid of it." Then, slowly, an anxious expression crept over his face. "You will marry me, won't you? I know I'm not the best husband material in the world—hell, probably not even on this floor of the hotel—but I'm a lot of fun."

"Lots," she agreed weakly. She thought her knees would give out, and her head fell forward to rest against his chest.

"So what's the answer?"

"Yes."

She felt his chest expand beneath her head as he took a deep breath of relief, and she said, "I love you, you know."

"Yeah, I know." He rubbed her back and kissed the top of her head. "I love you too. I have to love you a hell of a lot, to give up a diamond like that for you. Remember that the next time you're giving me hell."

The telephone rang. Jillian was sitting cross-legged on the bed, a pile of newspapers on her lap. Ben was stretched out beside her, absorbed in a soccer game on television. The Brazilian announcer was shouting with excitement. She leaned over to lift the receiver.

"Jillian Sherwood… Lewis," she added as an afterthought. She still wasn't used to her new name, having been married only one day. She had thought about not taking Ben's surname; then she'd considered hyphenating it. Ben frankly didn't care. He had what he wanted; she could call herself anything she liked. She thought Jillian Sherwood Lewis had a nice ring to it.

She listened to the caller for a moment, then said, "I tried to interest the foundation in the expedition, but was laughed at."

She listened for a while longer. "But I'm not here as a representative of the Frost Foundation. I had to take a leave of absence and make this trip on my own."

She listened some more. Brazil had just scored, and the fans were screaming in jubilation. She said, "Just a moment. Let me speak with my husband."

Mischief sparkled in her eyes as she held the phone a little away from her mouth and said, "Ben, this is the director of the Frost Archaeological Foundation. Since I'm technically still an employee of theirs, they want me to state that the expedition was done under their aegis. In exchange, of course, I would get a wonderful promotion. What do you think?"

Knowing exactly what his response would be, she thrust the receiver out toward him. He didn't see it; his eyes never left the television screen. "Tell them to fuck off," he said.

She managed to stifle her laughter as she put the phone back to her ear. "My husband doesn't think it's a good idea," she said gravely. "Good-bye, Mr. Etchson. I'll mail you a formal letter of resignation… Yes, I do think it's necessary. Good-bye." She hung up, glowing with satisfaction, and went back to her reading.

When they settled down to sleep later on, Ben said, "Do you regret resigning?"

"Not in the least. I love archaeology, and I won't be leaving it behind. The Brazilian Department of Antiquities has offered me a position and I'm going to take it. Think you might be interested in going on another dig?"

"Why not?" he asked lazily. "My first one was a real piss-ripper."

"And we'll go on guide trips, too."

"Yeah," he muttered. "To wind down." He yawned, and thought of something that had intrigued him. "So your dad's code was based on the Lord's Prayer, huh?"

"I'll show you how it works," she said, turning her face into his shoulder. His warm male scent made her want to burrow closer, so she did and was instantly rewarded by the possessive tightening of his grip. "In the morning. It's a little hard to memorize."

"The Lord's Prayer? I've known it since I was a little kid."

"Well, this version is a little different."

"How different?"

"It's in Old Scots."

"Old Scots?" he repeated faintly.

"It goes like this." Lying in his arms in the dark hotel room, she began to recite: " '
Uor fader quhilk beest i Hevin, Hallowit weird thyne nam. Cum thyn kinrik. Be dune thyne wull as is i Hevin, sva po yerd. Uor dailie breid gifus thilk day. And forleit us uor skaiths, as we forfeit themquha skaith us. And feed us nauntill temptatioun. Butanfre usfra evil. Amen.'"

"Good Lord," he muttered.

She smiled in the darkness. "Exactly."

"Senhor Lewis!"

Ben turned, searching the crowded docks for whoever had called his name. Jillian was on the boat they were in the process of loading for a return trip to the Stone City, seeing to the storing of her own supplies. She looked up and gave a sudden shriek, then bounded off the boat and raced past Ben, her arms outstretched. A black scowl knit his brows as she grabbed a man and hugged him enthusiastically. Then he recognized not only the man Jillian was hugging but the one behind him, too, and the scowl changed to a grin.

Jillian released Jorge and threw her arms around Pepe, who looked alarmed. By then Ben had reached them, and he shook hands with both of them. "When did you get back?"

"Last night," Jorge said, still blushing at Jillian's greeting. "All the talk on the docks was about you and the senhora. We learned that this is your boat, so we knew we would find you here today."

"Let's find a quiet place where we can talk and have a beer," Ben said, and by mutual consent nothing more was said about their adventures until they were all sitting in a dim bar.

"Did all of you make it back?" Jillian asked.

Jorge nodded. "Except for Vicente. We buried him and your brother, senhora, before we left. The other one, Kates, we did not worry about."

"What happened to Kates?" Ben asked.

"Dutra killed him, there at the camp."

"I wondered. Since Dutra was alone when he caught up with us, I figured Kates was either dead or had been injured and Dutra had left him. Either way, I wasn't worried about him anymore."

Jorge's dark eyes were serious. "What about Dutra, senhorr

Ben shrugged, his blue eyes clear and cold. "I'm not worried about him, either."

From that, Jorge correctly guessed that Dutra would never be seen again, a prospect that he seemed to find most pleasing.

"We're resupplying to go back," Jillian said softly. "I had thought I'd try to bring Rick's body out, but now I think I'll let him stay where he is." It was there, in the Stone City, that her brother had finally reached out to her, there that he had made the one caring gesture of his life. The professor hadn't made it to the Stone City, but his children had; it was fitting, in a way, that a Sherwood should be buried there, becoming part of the legend that had lured them all.

Ben's arm was draped across the back of her chair, and now she felt him rubbing her shoulder blade in silent comfort, a light, automatic touch that didn't need words. Their days had passed in frenzied activity as they organized the expedition, which seemed much more complicated now that the government was involved, but whenever she got frustrated or tired, or when the inevitable moments of sadness would creep up on her, he instinctively knew, and his touch would tell her that she wasn't alone.

"I'm going to be expanding my operations," Ben said. "I'll have steady work for you on my crews if you're interested." He grinned. "Most trips
aren't
like this last one."

"Thank you, senhor," Jorge said. He looked delighted by the offer. "I will tell the others."

Pepe had said very little, and now he murmured something to Ben in his own language before sliding silently out of his chair and leaving the bar.

"What did Pepe say?" Jillian asked.

Ben leaned back in his chair. "Well, Pepe has worked for me a few times before. The gist of it was that he prefers to stick to the rivers, thank you very much. If I want to help you find empty dead places, he will happily stay behind."

They all laughed, and the conversation drifted into the reminiscing common after a shared adventure. Then Jorge had to take his leave, and Ben and Jillian had to get back to the boat.

"I have a surprise for you," Ben said as he and Jillian walked back to the docks.

That alone made her suspicious. "You know I don't like surprises."

"Have I disappointed you yet? Just trust me."

She hooted with laughter, which earned her a hard, quick kiss. Ben kept his arm around her as they continued. "Have you ever done it in a hammock?" he asked slyly.

She wasn't about to be caught in her own trap. "Define 'it,'" she said warily.

He did, graphically.

"You know the answer to that."

He had a very satisfied expression. "You will tonight."

"Oh, yeah?" Since they had just that afternoon loaded hammocks onto the boat, she stopped dead and crossed her arms. "I'm not sleeping on that boat tonight."

"Of course not. It's at home."

Home was now Ben's place; she had decided the hotel was too expensive, and he had decided that there were too many interruptions there. His place would never grace any magazine covers, but it had all that they needed: a kitchen, a bed, and functional plumbing.

"Let me be very clear on this," she said. "Exactly what is at home?"

"The hammock. I had one delivered today."

"I see." She did, and her imagination was already getting her excited. One look at Ben told her that he was feeling the same way. "But why bother with a hammock when we have a nice big bed?"

He grabbed her and kissed her again, and this time there was nothing quick about it. "We'll start out in the hammock," he said. "Who knows where we'll end up?"

She laughed, throwing her head back with sheer delight. With Ben, everything was an adventure.

Marlie jerked the door open on his fifth knock. She stood squarely in the doorway, her posture plainly denying him admittance. "It's ten thiry, Detective," she said coldly. "Unless you have a search warrant, get off of my porch."

"Sure," Dane replied easily, and stepped forward. She wasn't prepared for the maneuver, automatically moving back to give him room before she caught herself. She tried to recover but it was too late; he was already over the threshold.

He didn't take his eyes off her as he shut the door behind him. She was wearing a pair of cutoffs and a flimsy old T-shirt that draped over her braless breasts as faithfully as her own skin. Very pretty breasts, he noticed, making no effort to hide the direction of his gaze. High and pointed, with small, dark nipples peaking the fabric. His loins tightened, the same reaction he had every time he was in her company. The casualness of her clothing jolted him, making him suddenly aware of the prim facade she normally projected. The more he knew about her, the more intriguing she became. She had more layers than an onion, but she was determined to keep them hidden beneath that prickly shield she had developed. Instinctively he knew that was part of the reason she was so hostile right now; she was naturally angry at his suspicions and less-than-gentle questioning, but part of her dismay was caused by the fact that he was seeing her like this, without the armor of her bland disguise.

Marlie flushed angrily as he continued to stare at her breasts. She crossed her arms in a half-belligerent, half-defensive gesture. "If you don't have a good reason for this, I'm going to file a complaint about you," she warned.

"I've been to Denver," he said abruptly. "I just got back an hour or so ago." He paused, watching for any flicker of expression. She didn't give much away, but he was learning to read her eyes. She hadn't quite learned how to shield her eyes. "I talked with Dr. Ewell."

Her pupils flared wildly, and there was no disguising the dismay in her expression. She stood stiffly, glaring at him. "So?"

He moved closer to her, so close that he knew she could feel his heat, close enough to intimidate her with his size. It was a deliberate tactic, one he had used before in interrogation, but he was acutely aware of a difference this time in his own attitude. Questioning her was still important, but underlying it was a powerful sexual need to make her aware of him as a man. The closeness of his body shocked her, he saw her waver, saw the sudden color in her cheeks, saw the alarmed flicker of her eyes. She didn't allow herself to retreat, but she went very still, her nostrils flaring delicately as the heat of his skin reached her.

Her own feminine scent wrapped subtly about him, drawing him even closer. It was a clean, soapy odor that told him she wasn't long from her bath, mingled with the warm sweetness of woman. He wanted to lean down and nuzzle her neck, to follow that faint scent to its source, investigate all the intriguing places where it might linger.

Later. "So, the good doctor had a lot interesting things to say," he murmured. He began to slowly circle her, letting his body brush hers, the light touches tingling through his nerves like electricity. "It seems you're some kind of miracle of ESP. If you believe in that kind of stuff."

Her lips tightened. She had herself under control again, not even glancing at him as he continued to circle her, ignoring the fleeting contact of his arm, or his chest, or his thigh. "You don't, of course."

"Nope. Unless you can prove it to me. Why don't you give it a try? Come on, Marlie, read my mind or something." Slowly, slowly, around and around.

"There has to be something
in
your mind."

"Nice shot, but it doesn't prove anything." He kept his voice low. "Make me believe it." "I don't do parlor tricks," she snapped, goaded.

"Not even to prove yourself innocent of murder? This isn't a party, babe, in case you haven't noticed."

Her head whipped around and she gave him the full force of her glare, blue eyes narrowing. "I
could
change you into a toad," she said speculatively, then shrugged. "But someone has already beaten me to it."

He gave a bark of laughter, startling her. "You've seen too many old 'Bewitched' shows; that's witchcraft, not ESP."

The slow circling finally got to her. Abruptly she bolted, toward the kitchen; he let her go, following closely behind her. "Coffee," he said blandly. "Good idea."

She hadn't planned on making coffee, but seized gratefully on something to do, as he had known she would. She was rattled, and fighting it every inch of the way. He was beginning to realize how important control was to her.

She halted with the coffee in her hands, her back to him. "I don't read minds," she blurted. "I'm not telepathic."

"Aren't you?" That wasn't what Dr. Ewell had said, exactly. He felt a tinge of triumph. Finally, she was starting to talk to him, rather than resisting him. He wanted to put his arms around her and hold her close, shelter her from the trauma of her own memories, but it was too soon. She was physically aware of him now, but she was still frightened, still hostile.

"Not—not a classic telepath." She looked down at the coffee. He could see her hands shaking.

"So what are you?"