Storm Bound, page 10
THE FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE monstrosity came over the crest of the hill with a growl of gears and headed down the path toward the cabin, bringing Gayle Richards’s worst nightmare with it. Professor Nolan Hersch didn’t drive any old SUV to research sites, like normal people did. No, he had to command something hyper-macho, a vehicle one might pilot out into the bush to harass lions.
The trees had stopped dripping after the recent early fall rain, but the ground remained damp, and the ferns drooped with moisture. The redwood duff, which in summer had consisted of a fine powder that coated everything that touched the ground, now made an equally fine mud. Hersch’s vehicle followed the path her own tires had made until he pulled up in front of the cabin and turned off the engine.
Dressed in khakis and with his sandy hair attractively tousled, he resembled a big game hunter more than what he was—an evolutionary biologist with an ego almost as big as his reputation. She instinctively took a step backward as he climbed out. She would have wrapped her arms around her ribs, too, but he’d have to recognize that as a defensive gesture, so she let them hang by her sides.
He gave her his usual killer smile—perfect teeth and all—and extended his hand. “Professor Richards.”
She gave him her own hand and shook firmly. Business-like. Assertive. “Welcome, Professor Hersch.”
Somehow, despite Northern California’s notorious fog, his arms were tanned and covered with bleached golden hairs that set off the silver band of his heavy watch. His wrist made hers appear tiny as his hand engulfed hers. Appealing and intimidating all at once. When she’d satisfied the bounds of collegiality—and stopped staring at his skin—she pulled back.
“Good of you to have me,” he said. “I enjoyed your last paper.”
Oh, he had, had he? Despite the fact that it blew a hole the size of his SUV through his own last journal article? Courtesy would suggest she compliment his work in return. She didn’t.
He put his hands on his hips and glanced up at the cabin, which gave her a view of his Adam’s apple and the gap of his shirt where he’d opened the top two buttons to reveal more tanned skin.
“Good-looking facility,” he said.
“Room for four,” she answered. “Where are the others, by the way?”
“There’s a road washed out back a few miles. I barely made it through,” he said. “Dave and Susan should make it here in a couple of days.”
“Days?” she repeated. She’d arranged for four researchers on this trip. She’d written that specifically into the grant proposal. She might need this man’s collaboration on her research to win herself more visibility in her field and therefore more advancement at her university. She sure as hell hadn’t arranged a vacation for the two of them. Especially not one that involved watching large animals having sex.
Elk might not be closely related to humans, but the males had penises and they did the deed doggie-style with a lot of grunting and snorting. No, she hadn’t planned on watching animal porn alone with Nolan Hersch.
“Something wrong?” he asked.
“There’s a lot of work,” she said. “There’s supposed to be four of us.”
“It’s only a few days,” he said. “The mating season will last longer than that.”
“I know how long mating season is,” she said. “I just didn’t think . . . you and I . . .”
Oh, brother. That wasn’t a sentence she could finish any time soon, if ever. She wouldn’t tell him about where her mind wandered during his presentations at conferences. She wouldn’t mention her delusions that every time he mentioned receptive females his gaze lingered on her. She wouldn’t share the fact that every time he turned to a chalkboard she re-memorized the curve of his ass.
Just because she didn’t bring any of those things up didn’t prevent him from watching her whenever she became uncomfortable in his presence. Like right now. There was that pleasant expression—the half smile—that did little to hide the fact that he was assessing her with as much care as he used in studying his research subjects.
She lifted her chin and smiled right back. “I guess we have enough supplies.”
He gestured with his head toward his SUV. “I have more than enough for myself. We can share.”
“No need. I’m well stocked. Come on inside.” She turned and climbed the stairs to the cabin. Because he still had to unload his things, it would take him a while to follow, and she could catch a breath before having to allow Nolan Hersch into her space. She’d spent the last two days alternating between steeling herself for his arrival and telling herself it was no big deal.
The others were supposed to come with him. His two graduate students would have acted like a buffer, always underfoot, always between them. She wouldn’t have had to imagine him alone in the next bedroom because he’d have a roommate, as would she. And when he spouted some bit of sexist bullshit from his research, she’d have support from at least one other woman. Alone, she’d end up wanting to tear him apart one way or another in an hour. Two, tops.
She went to the kitchen area of the cabin, poured herself a glass of water from the tap, and turned to lean against the counter to drink it. After a minute or two, Hersch entered with more than enough stuff for a season in the field. He needed several trips to haul it all in. Among the boxes and cases stood one of those canvas carriers wine stores sold. The necks of six bottles stuck out the top.
“A treat,” he explained. “You and I can share a bottle before the others get here.”
“I don’t think—”
“Say, that’s a fine genealogy you’ve done.” He walked to the wall where she’d unrolled butcher paper so that she could create a visual display of the relationships between the animals they’d be observing.
He lifted a hand to trace one particular family’s line. “You have three generations here.”
“I’ve been studying these guys for years.”
“So why did you invite me?” he asked.
An innocent question. A logical one. She could lie and tell him that she’d come around to his way of understanding animal sexual behavior. Or she could give him the truth . . . that he was top in the field and papers they did together had an easy shot of getting into the best and most-read journals. She wouldn’t add that spending time with him in the forest was supposed to be chaperoned by the others.
“I thought it was time we collaborated,” she said.
“Instead of yelling at each other at conferences?” His eyes took on the gleam of challenge she’d seen in them so many times. The blue of his irises always seemed to darken, as they did now.
“I don’t yell.”
He made a noise that was half humph and half snort. Maybe more than half snort.
“All right, I raise my voice,” she said. “But your theory ignores the female in the mating equation.”
He crossed his arms over his chest. “I promise you, I’ve never ignored the female.”
Cute. Double entendre. His typical ploy to make his presentations “sexy.”
“But you do. You make it sound as if the cows stand around, grazing, while the bulls do all the work. Fighting with each other. Then she has no choice and the winner climbs on and slam-bam-thank-you-ma’am.”
He laughed. “I don’t think I ever put it quite like that.”
“That’s what you mean.”
“You think I believe that?” he said. “That females have no sex drive at all?”
She glared at him, using every bit of willpower not to grind her teeth. “We’re talking about animals here.”
“I am. What are you talking about?”
“The way you look at things,” she said. “You’re completely androcentric.”
“Shall I translate into English?” One of his sandy brows quirked upward. “I’m fixated on the male point of view and incapable of understanding the female.”
“Something like that.” Damn it all, it hadn’t even taken an hour for him to get under her skin. Not even half an hour.
“And I imagine you’re going to show me how females look at things,” he said.
“Animals.”
“Animals,” he said. “Should be interesting.”
NOLAN COULDN’T HELP chuckling to himself as he sat at the long trestle table, setting up his laptop. To say that he made the woman uncomfortable was an understatement. Every time he got near to her, she either backed away or vibrated with nervous energy. He really shouldn’t enjoy nettling her so much, but Professor Gayle Richards made such a delicious opponent. She didn’t hang back from a debate, pretending detachment and citing references. She charged into the argument, intellectual fists flying.
The fact that her skin flushed and her dark eyes seemed to shoot sparks only added to the fun. She probably wasn’t aware that her lips pursed and her hair—curls the color of dark chocolate—fell into her face as she lit into his ideas. This afternoon, Nolan would have tucked her hair behind her ear for her, but that would most likely have gotten his hand slapped. So he’d stood there smiling in the way he knew would most irk her and enjoyed the view.
Finally, she’d huffed and stalked off to disappear inside her room. Before she’d left, he’d gotten another view of the fun side of her. A truly voluptuous figure hidden inside worn blue jeans and a t-shirt from her university. She obviously had no idea what the faded denim did for her hips and butt or how it made her legs seem to go on forever. And if she’d wanted to hide the swell of her breasts, she should have bought a larger shirt.
Intellect, body, and the most kissable mouth this side of the continental divide. He hadn’t lied when he’d told her it was going to be an interesting few days.
He was probably invading her space more than necessary by putting his computer right next to hers where they’d share body heat if they tried to get some work done together. They had quite a history, although they’d never worked together. They sparred in scientific papers, and every time they ended up in the same room they forged a physical connection. Sometimes arguing, sometimes avoiding each other, but each of them always knew where the other was. Just as he now felt her every movement in his bones as she moved around the corner of the room that served as a kitchen.
Something smelled really good back there, and he’d sneaked a look long enough to see her put a large pot of water on the stove to boil. Dinner would be pasta of some kind, and if he could think up a good one-liner, he’d needle her about her domestic skills.
Smiling to himself, he searched through the file of videos on his laptop until he found the one he wanted. After turning up the speaker, he clicked the play button. An image of a fully grown elk with impressive antlers appeared. After a few seconds with no sounds but bird calls, the male threw back his head and bugled loudly enough to echo off the trees.
Back in the kitchen, something crashed, and Gayle muttered, “Shit.”
Nolan had to stifle a chuckle. He turned to find her bent over the remains of her coffee mug. A brown stain was crawling over the wooden floor.
“Did I startle you?” he asked as innocently as he could manage.
“Yes.” She straightened. “That is, no.”
“You’re sure?”
“I dropped my coffee,” she answered, as if that explained everything.
“It’s just the elk’s mating call.”
“I know what it is. I’ve heard it often enough.” She tossed the pieces of her mug into the trash and got a few paper towels from the dispenser.
“Magnificent, isn’t it?” He turned back to his computer and played the video over, nudging the volume up a bit. “The male in full rut. This bad boy must have quite a harem.”
“I’m sure.” Sarcasm dripped from her voice. If she didn’t approve of harems, she should have studied another animal. She could have gone into psychology, where she could show people ink blots or make up questionnaires. She was far too good a scientist to deal in anything but facts, though, even if they contradicted her view of how the world ought to be.
“Have you seen one this big?” he asked.
Her head snapped around, and her eyes went round.
“The bull,” he said. “Have you seen one this big?”
Her shoulders almost—not completely—sunk back to where they belonged. “Why are men so hung up on size?”
“Sexual selection, probably. To attract mates.”
“Oh, brother.”
“You think size has nothing to do with a male’s appeal as a mate?” he asked.
“I think I’m going to grate some cheese.” With that, she opened the refrigerator and stared inside. When she bent to look on one of the lower shelves, she gave him a great view of her backside. A perfect upside-down valentine—slender at the waist and flaring into every ass-man’s wet dream, including his.
Pretending to ignore him, she pulled out a hunk of what looked like the really good parmesan, took it to the cutting board, and proceeded to pass it along the fine side of a square grater.
“You do that yourself?” he asked.
“It tastes better than the stuff in the box.”
“All the comforts of home.” He put his hands behind his head and leaned back in his chair. “I should have brought a woman along on one of these trips long ago.”
There went the flash of anger in her eyes. “I brought you along. This is my grant, remember?”
“You’re right. My apologies.” Of course, he knew that. He hadn’t forgotten for an instant. Her name would appear first on any articles they might produce. He wasn’t the Neanderthal she thought he was, but he also wasn’t above playing one if it got a reaction from her.
“Besides, you’ve taken women on field assignments before,” she said.
“You noticed.”
“Well, sure . . . everyone knows . . . I mean . . .” She sputtered to a stop.
“Like Susan,” he supplied.
“Exactly. Like Susan,” she said.
“But as you said, I’ve had female colleagues before now.” Actually, he sponsored more women for degrees in the field than most men and even some women professors. He took his female colleagues as seriously as he did the male, and it would frankly irk him that this particular female didn’t believe it—except for the fact that he had so much fun irking her in return.
“It isn’t any of my business,” she said. “Why don’t you open a bottle of that wine?”
“Good idea.”
The sun had set a while before, and darkness closed in quickly under the towering redwoods. Because power came from a generator, only a few small lamps illuminated the room. They might as well be having a candlelight dinner. Romantic. A scene for seduction, if he’d planned any such thing. Of course, he hadn’t. Just a little bit of wordplay to pass the time.
Although they worked at different universities, they were still too close in an insular field to have an affair. Tongues would wag. Anything one of them said about the other’s work would be attributed to their sexual relationship, not honest evaluation. No, he’d have to keep the mental pictures of having her ride his cock to his fantasies, where they belonged. Damn it all to hell.
By the time he’d found his corkscrew, sorted through the red wines to select a zinfandel, and poured two glasses, she had the rest of dinner on the table. Small dishes of green salad stood on either side of a platter of spaghetti topped with thick tomato sauce with chunks of sausage, and meatballs. The perfume of garlic and basil floated all around them.
“Sorry I didn’t bring a baguette,” he said as he handed her a glass and took his seat.
“You didn’t know the menu,” she said. “Enjoy. We’ll be eating out of cans before we leave.”
“Dave and Susan will be here in a couple of days. I’ll call and tell them to bring more wine.”
“Can’t.” She lifted her glass in a toast. “No cell towers out here.”
He clinked his glass against hers. “We really are isolated.”
“So it would seem.” In the dim light, her eyes seemed fixed on his face, her gaze full of interest or curiosity. There was the connection he’d felt before. More than once, he’d glanced across a reception or a lecture hall to find her staring, only to look away when he caught her at it. That’s what had told him she never lost touch of him any more than he did of her.
Finally, she took a sip of her wine. “Wow.”
“The good stuff.” He held up the bottle so she could read the label. “Rosenblum.”
“Rockpile Vineyard, the really good stuff.”
“So’s the food.” He put a heap of pasta on the plate in front of him, added a meatball and some sausage, and passed it to her. Then he took her dish and served himself.
They ate in silence for a while—not the companionable silence of people who’ve talked long into the night and already knew each other’s stories, but the sort where hands felt too large and objects moved awkwardly. They’d had this awareness for a couple of years now but had never had to spend time alone together. They’d always had colleagues around and escape routes into other rooms. Staying in this cabin together, they’d confront each other wherever they turned. Sharing a bathroom, scheduling showers—the intimate things lovers did but with nothing resolved between them.
The discomfort even got to him, and he kept his eyes more or less fixed on his food. They took turns keeping each other’s wineglasses full. Finally, though, he’d stuffed himself and didn’t have the meal as a diversion any longer.
“That was delicious,” he said around his last bite of meatball. “I didn’t know you were Italian.”
“My mother is.”
“Traditional family upbringing. I should have guessed,” he said.
She put down her fork and stared at him. “Why do you assume that?”
“Because children thrive in two-parent families. They go on to achieve, as you have.”
“What if she’s a single mother?” she said. “Would that disqualify me somehow?”
