Excerpt:
Suddenly,
an ominous rumble of the ground beneath her feet. She froze. Listened. What the hell was going on? Earthquake?
Something crashed landed? Which direction? Unfreezing and spinning around
on the spot, she looked intently for a clue as to what was happening. Did someone need help? Her heart beating
wildly, she had no choice but to wait, unsure of which direction the sound had
come from.
A
loud shout. There.
She
took off running, shoving the phone into her pocket, adrenaline coursing
through her veins, feet pounding down the path.
She
raced around a curve in the path to find a sinkhole opening a few feet away,
the ground still tumbling.
“Holy
shit!” she exclaimed, stopping dead in her tracks. Should she move any closer? Would she destabilize it even more? She
backed off a bit.
As
the dust settled a man emerged standing upright in the pit. Not just any man,
but a truly pissed off one. She could only see him from the shoulders up until
she moved in closer for a better view. He appeared unharmed.
“If
you wouldn’t mind lending a hand, darlin’,” he said, his tone suggesting she
was not being very helpful just standing there gawking. “Just in case this
thing decides to settle even more.”
“Oh,
yes, of course.” She extended her arm. The poor guy was covered in dust and
debris. He grasped her hand, she gave a mighty pull, and he scrambled up the
side of the hole. He slipped at the last possible second on the unstable edge and
tumbled forward, landing right smack on top of her.
Fuck. She
went down with a thud, the breath whooshing from her lungs in a wild rush, his
sudden closeness to her person a hell of a shook. The fragrance of his body
wash mingling with his manly aroma washed over her as he lay prone on her body,
his head cradled by her breasts. She starred into the bluest eyes ever as his
startled glance locked with hers. A complete stranger, embracing her. Albeit, a
very handsome and hot one that gave off a tantalizing fragrance if that made it
any better.
The
man had the grace to look even more horrified than her. When he realized his
hands were on her person, and more specifically, squeezing one very sensitive
breast, the nipple pebbling from the intimate contact, he extracted himself,
getting to his feet, and then bending down to give her a hand up.
“My
God, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?” he
apologised.
“I’m
fine,” she croaked, swallowing hard. Her backpack worked to absorb most of the
fall.
He
took a moment to shake and pound the soil off. Her hands trembled as she took
off her backpack to retrieve a water bottle. She drank deeply, offering a
second bottle to him. He took it with a nod of thanks, downed half in one quick
go.
“Wow,”
she finally ventured. “That really was
something.”
“Yeah,
that was something all right,” he
agreed. She got a better look at him as
he emerged from his dust cocoon. Topping six feet two at least he towered well above
her, wide shoulders encased in a blue work shirt, sleeves rolled up to the
elbows, jeans hanging on narrow hips. His blue eyes blazed his square jaw tight.
He reminded Casey of a young Robert Redford from the movie Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Golden Boy. Sweet Jesus.
“Oh goodness, I’m so sorry! What happened?
Are you okay?” A voice intruded as a young man rushed up dressed in a beige uniform,
clip board in hand, expression aghast. Oak Island Tours printed in white on his
red baseball cap blazoned his occupation.
“What
happened is a blasted pit opened up
under my feet. And I nearly hurt this young lady by landing on top of her.”
“I’m
so sorry—” The man looked down at his clipboard. “Professor Harrison. I didn’t
get the chance to warn you. I was running late, oh my goodness—you’re not going
to sue the company or anything? I could lose my job.”
“Weren’t
you off the marked path?” Casey interrupted, glancing over a black backpack lying
at the base of a pine tree at least ten feet off the trail.
“What?
Uh, yes, okay. I did go over to look—”
“Well,
then, you’d better not sue the tour company for your own negligence.”
“What
in the world are you talking about? Who said anything about suing anybody?”
“Well,
it was obviously your own fault.” A devil made her say it. Blame it on the last
few confusing moments. Things needed to get back under control. Her control.
“My
fault!”
“Yes, you strayed from the path, didn’t
wait for the tour guide to give his safety speech.” She crossed her arms over
her breasts, pursing her lips.
His
blue eyes flashed and narrowed. “And you did? Why are you here anyway?”
“I
booked a private tour. A perfectly acceptable reason I believe for being here.”
“I
see you didn’t wait for the tour guide either. Isn’t that a breach of the
rules?” he noted, his jaw tightening.
The
tour guide pipped up. “Oh, I’m sorry about that. Apparently, I’m double booked
for a private tour today.”
“You
sure are sorry about a lot of things today,” he muttered, not letting up on his
scowl.
“Mr.
Harrison,” she began.
“Truman,”
he said.
“Truman
Harrison,” she parroted. That name sounded familiar.
“Precisely,
darlin’. And you are?”
“Uh,
Casey Madison.” She’d appreciated his pronounced southern accent having always
enjoyed Kevin Spacey playing Francis Underwood on House of Cards. Compared to her stark Canadian accent, his sounded
vastly more charming. Even when pissed. Make that royally pissed.
The
tour guide spoke up, glanced her way. “Casey Madison from the U of M. Right?”
“University
of Manitoba?” Truman asked, furrowing his brow. He leaned forward, pulling
something from her hair. He held out a dry bit of twig. She took a step backward,
chewing on her bottom lip.
“Yeah,
so?” she kept up the brave front, smoothing her braid curving its way down her
breast. She regretted tying a bright red ribbon around the blond ends this
morning. She glanced at his hair shining
bright gold in the sunlight. Oh yeah. A real pretty boy. And being a bit of a
jackass.
“Department
of Archaeology?”
“Yeah.”
Casey chewed on a fingernail.
“Don’t
you think it only right and proper to welcome your new department head?”
Casey
pressed her lips together into a grim line. Just. Fuckin’. Great. Of all the
people to run into here, in Nova Scotia, he would have been the seventh billion
in plausible possibilities on her list. Was this payback for stealing Soapy’s
Gold? Her fingers twitched to squeeze the life out of the stress-ball printed
with the Chancellor’s image thoughtfully presented to her by a fellow Ringer at
Christmastime.
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