Full Circle. Shannon Hollis
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the moon had witnessed their first kiss.
She was looking at him as though trying to see under the surface of his skin. “I doubt it,” she said at last. “They’ve probably all bought your book so they can brag about how they knew you when.”
“Except you.”
“I bought it. Tonight. For my friend Anne. And you made a mistake in the inscription.”
No, he hadn’t. “I’ll give you another copy for your friend and sign it properly this time.” He stood and returned the chair to its place in front of the desk. “I was being an ass. Forgive me?”
Every time he moved, she made sure the distance between them stayed the same. He wondered what she’d do if he crowded her up against the sliding glass door. Her room was on the second floor of the main lodge, and he had no doubt that she’d probably rappel over the balcony, bunny slippers and all, if he tried it.
Instead of answering his question, she asked one of her own. “Who are you now, really, Daniel?”
He took refuge in flippancy. “The ‘real Indiana Jones,’ according to Newsweek.”
“Yes, I read that, too. But I’m more interested in what you think, not what Newsweek thinks.”
“I could ask you the same question. I could ask why a successful, attractive associate prof is still single. I could ask why you prefer pajamas to, say, Victoria’s Secret. And I could ask what I really want to know, which is why do your bunny slippers have teeth?”
Waggling a foot, she pretended to admire one slipper the way a woman admires a huge diamond ring. “They’re a feminist reaction to male control of the sexual arena commonly known as the bedroom.”
He stepped back, alarmed, and for the first time, her eyes warmed and her face lit with a grin. “You’re not a Monty Python fan, I take it.”
He shook his head. “You know me. The Webslinger’s my man. Always has been.”
“Some day I’ll explain it to you.”
“How about tomorrow? Over breakfast, say? We can talk about why you like teeth and I like crime fighters.”
“I’m going for a run first thing.”
“I’ll wait. Some geology guy from San Jose State is talking about the mammoth bones he discovered in a riverbed. Not really my thing, so breakfast together would be a good alternative.”
“Let’s see how it works out. Good night, Daniel.”
And somehow—he wasn’t sure how—he found himself out in the hallway without even a kiss, while the door closed quietly between them.
In the morning, Cate proved just as elusive. When she didn’t answer his seven o’clock knock at the door and she wasn’t in the common room swilling strong coffee with a lot of milk—was that still her drug of choice?—he decided to mosey on down to the beach. True, she could have decided that a run under the trees, where the road in to the conference center ran through five miles of thick Monterey pine and live oak, was a good idea, but he doubted it. The woman he remembered would have headed to where there was space and light. In the absence of hundred-foot cliffs, he’d bet she was already a mile down the beach.
He’d have lost his bet, as it turned out. Big Sur was famous for plunging cliffs and crashing breakers, and the beach below the conference center was about fifty yards long and mostly submerged under high tide. A thin ribbon of sand was still left at the base of the cliffs, though. Enough to give a woman access to—aha.
Cate Wells sat on a ledge about forty feet up, her legs dangling in empty space in exactly the way he remembered. The ledge wasn’t very wide, but she made it look as though she were draped on a chaise longue poolside at the Beverly Hills Hotel.
With a grin, he parked himself on a grassy patch at the side of the path down to the cove, and watched her. Did she do this at home in NewYork? Did she have days when she thought, Gee, I’d like some air—I think I’ll go climb out on one of the Woolworth building’s windowsills. Or did she do what normal people did, and go find a climbing wall at the nearest sporting-goods store? More important, did she have a climbing buddy who partnered her? And just who might that be? Some tight-assed stockbroker who thought everything revolved around him? Who only went out on windowsills when the market dipped?
There must be a man in her life somewhere. A woman like Cate wouldn’t be alone. But if there was, how come he wasn’t with her? Was he some kind of stay-at-home guy who did all her cooking and let her boss him around in bed?
A rock dug into his hip and Daniel got to his feet, feeling a little less cheerful than he had a few minutes ago. The movement attracted her attention. Cate’s gaze swung from the pale horizon to him, and he lifted one hand in a wave. She waved back, turned to the side and began climbing down.
Watching Cate descend a cliff without equipment was like being six again and watching the trapeze artists at the circus. He knew she was capable. He knew it wasn’t a vertical slope and she had plenty of handholds. But still, he didn’t really breathe properly until she’d dropped lightly to the sand and begun the walk up to where he stood.
“Good morning.” She loped up the slope and joined him where he once again lounged on the grassy patch overlooking the sea.
“I thought I’d find you down here,” he said, “though I was thinking beach, not cliff. Have a seat.”
“Couldn’t resist.” She flopped down next to him. “I feel as though I’ve been cooped up in my office for months.”
“The academic year is almost over. Got any fieldwork scheduled for the summer?”
She refashioned her ponytail and stretched out those long legs. The way she leaned back on both hands thrust her small breasts into prominence. She was a line of lean strength mixed with an elusive sense of vulnerability that made him want to pull her into his arms and find out what was wrong.
For which she’d probably send him over the cliff.
“I’ve been working pretty hard,” she said. “I was asked to assist on a site in New Mexico, but a friend of mine—Anne—” she shot him a sidelong glance “—wants to do a literary tour of England and asked if I’d be interested. I need to make up my mind soon.”
“That sounds like a snooze. Here I thought you’d be dragging your boyfriend up El Capitan or something.” The granite dome in Yosemite National Park was a magnet for rock climbers. He’d heard you had to schedule your climb the way golfers had to schedule their tee times.
“I’m between those at the moment.” Her tone was calm as she looked out over the ocean instead of at him, but her jaw was tight. “Besides, I’ve already done El Cap.”
“I’m sure you have. Not to mention every other rock face on this continent. You’re going to have to widen your range to Europe at this rate.”
With a smile, she said, “Maybe. I wonder if I can find Anne some literary sites in Switzerland.”
“So what is it about climbing, anyway? Do you just like being on top?”
Her expression didn’t change, but in the clear morning light it was hard to miss the hot color washing into her cheeks. “Does that threaten you?” she asked.
“A woman on top? Not a bit. I’m a big fan of that, in fact.”
“I didn’t know rock climbing interested you so much.”
He grinned, that patented you-slay-me grin that studio audiences ate up. “Oh, I wasn’t talking about rocks.”
This time she looked at him full in the face. “If you’re trying to embarrass me by making sexual innuendos, it isn’t working.”
“Liar. Who’s blushing? Not me.”
“I can’t help my physiological reactions.”