Twelfth Sun. Mae Clair
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