A Royal Wedding. Trish Morey
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known, searching for an angle, a point of difference with which to elevate their careers out of obscurity. Seldom did people have an opportunity like this, the chance to examine a new discovery practically thrust upon them.
It was really happening.
And now, because the pages were in such amazingly good condition and she didn’t have to spend time stabilising what was left, she could get to work on the translation. Some time this morning the power had been restored and gratefully she snapped on the lamps she’d arranged around the desk.
She’d recognised just an odd word or two as she’d performed yesterday’s tasks and it had been tempting to stop and decipher more. Now she had the luxury of time to study them more closely. So it was with a heart bursting with possibilities that she retrieved the package from the box in which she’d stored it and gently placed the first page in front of her.
It was hours later before she happened to glance at her watch. Excited about her work so far, she knew she had to move, so she stood and did a few stretches before heading to her room across the hall and the jug of water she had left there.
She poured herself a glass and took a long drink, gazing out of the window, musing over the pages, before her eyes caught on a movement below the castle. A boat was nearing the dock—it looked like the same boat that had brought her over yesterday, although she’d got the impression from the way the men spoke that the provisions runs happened no more than once or twice a week. She glanced down and saw Bruno standing ready to meet it. Curious, she waited for it to dock, wondering what they were bringing this time.
Make that who, she amended, as a raven-haired woman was handed by a smiling skipper to the shore. A striking woman too, in a peasant top and skirt that showed off a tiny waist and generous curves. With a laugh and a wave to the skipper, she pulled a scarf around her shoulders and climbed into the Jeep alongside Bruno. Grace lost sight of them as they started up the cliff track.
Who was she? Grace had got the impression visitors weren’t exactly welcome here. She shrugged and drained the rest of the glass. Maybe someone who worked at the castle. And with any luck a cook, given how hungry she suddenly felt.
Barely ten minutes later she was back at work when Bruno appeared, a very welcome tray in his hands. Whatever was on it, it smelled wonderful. She smiled and thanked him as he put it down on a table set a safe distance away from the desk and her work, even though she knew her words wouldn’t make a dent in his grizzled visage.
‘You’re busy today,’ she said. He merely grunted in response, peering at her from under tangled brows that looked like something that had been washed up in a storm. ‘I saw you down at the dock. Who’s the woman? Does she work here?’
He threw her a dark look. ‘The woman is not your concern.’
‘No, of course not. I just thought it might be nice to say hello—’
‘Forget the woman!’ he said, marching back to the door. ‘She is not here for your benefit.’
The door closed behind him with a bang. Okay, maybe his message was none too subtle, but he was right. She should just get on with the job. At least then she could finish up here and leave. God knew, the prospect was tempting.
She was waiting for him. He let himself into the darkened room, the ache in his loins more insistent than ever after a night spent torturing himself thinking about that damned Dr Hunter. He refused to let himself think of her as anything else. He needed to think of her as a cold-blooded scientist and not as a woman.
Which made no sense when all he had wanted last night was have that woman bucking beneath him.
Why was she doing this to him? And how?
He dragged in air. Damn her. He was hard as a rock, his loins aching with need and another woman waiting naked in bed for him. Why was he even thinking about her?
He growled and approached the bed, shucking off his robe and tossing it to the floor, already half dizzy with the heady anticipation of release. His erection rocked free, heavy and hard. He steadied it with one hand to don protection and felt his searing, throbbing heat against his palm. Dio, he needed this.
He pulled back the covers and stared down at her in the dim light. She was smiling knowingly, even though her eyes were dreamily closed, her head tipped back as if she was already in ecstasy, her hands busy at her breasts, tugging at her nipples, making them hard for him. Usually he’d spend some time with those breasts, but today his need was too great.
‘Open your legs,’ he commanded, and if she wondered at his brusque manner she didn’t show it in the way she acquiesced without a murmur. And why shouldn’t she do what he asked she when she was going home with the equivalent of a month’s wages in her pocket? She’d do anything he asked and more.
He gazed down at her, took in the glossy hair splayed over the pillow, her olive skin with its satin-like sheen in the half-light, her breasts plump and peaked. He was rock-hard and wanting and he wondered why the hell he was hesitating and not already inside her.
Until he realised that there was somewhere else he’d rather be.
With a cry of frustration he snapped on the light. ‘Get dressed,’ he ordered. ‘Bruno will take you to the boat.’
‘Did I do something wro—?’
He was reaching for his robe and tugging it on, but not before she’d opened her eyes to plead, no doubt worried she would not be paid. He caught the exact moment of change, when her eyes moved from protest to revulsion, and she pulled the covers back over herself as if to protect herself from his hideousness.
With a roar he ripped the covers straight back off. ‘Just go!’
He could wallow in them if he wanted. He could let those black waves rise up and swallow him whole, sucking him back to that dark time and those dark nights when there was no respite, no relief.
Or he could deal with the problem, get rid of the source of his aggravation, and be able to breathe in his own space again.
He would not be sucked back.
He would deal with the problem.
Because everything had been fine until she had come along. She would just have to leave.
Now.
He headed to her office to tell her exactly that. After all, it wasn’t as if the pages were in terrible condition and too fragile to be shifted. They looked fine as far as he was concerned. And besides, the longer she was here, the more chance someone would talk, someone would stumble on the news of the discovery, and the sharks and parasites of the media world would descend en masse. The story could break somewhere else—anywhere else; he didn’t care—and then the media attention would be someone else’s problem.
So he would tell her. And then she would go.
Nothing could be simpler.
The door to her office was slightly ajar. He pushed it open, still rehearsing his speech. It wouldn’t be a long one. Pack your things and be ready for the next boat, was about the size of it. Still, knowing Dr Hunter and how she liked an argument, he was mentally preparing for a fight.
He was also preparing himself to win.
She was sitting at the desk, so intent on one of the pages she was studying and on the notes she was typing in the notebook computer alongside that she didn’t hear him enter. She looked younger today, even with the frown puckering her brow, or maybe she just looked fresher. She’d dispensed with the ponytail and instead had twisted her hair behind her head so the blonde tips feathered out, and she’d swapped the khaki shirt for a white tank with straps so thin he wondered how they covered her bra straps.
Assuming she was wearing one …
Breath whooshed from his lungs. His blood rushed south. She muttered something, still oblivious to his presence, and jumped out of