“I’m not a student,” she said evenly. “I’m here to see Paschal Rousseau. Dr. Morton Gilmore sent me.”
Tight Ass eyed her from head to toe, but his assessment, oddly enough, was purely academic. His eyes reflected no hint of male-to-female interest—which meant he either was gay or possessed inordinate amounts of self-control. Cat didn’t flaunt her body, but reactions to her curves remained constant all the same. Although, clearly, her pink wraparound blouse and loose-fitting, cuffed gray slacks didn’t do it for him. With a sniff that suggested she reeked more than his ancient books, he met her gaze boldly. “Morton Gilmore, you say? What are you, his new research assistant?”
She squared her shoulders. “I’m a colleague.”
“In what? His cooking class?”
Cat realized she was standing straighter than normal, so she shifted her weight to her right hip and huffed audibly. “I’m not some lowly coed, asshole, so your attempts to intimidate me with your superior attitude are a waste of your time and mine. I need to speak with Dr. Rousseau, so could you please tell him I’m here?”
“He’s not.”
“He’s not what?”
“Here,” he replied, a smile teasing his lips.
Either he enjoyed pissing her off or bantering with her gave him some sort of thrill. Must be lonely in the dungeon.
“He’s unavailable,” he explained further. “You’ll need to make an appointment.”
He flipped a business card from his pocket and thrust it toward her. She didn’t accept it.
His mouth tightened into a thin line. “Do you want an appointment or not?”
“Not,” she said. “I want to see him. I need to return to Florida immediately, but first I need to discuss a paper and a diary with Professor Rousseau. Both, according to Dr. Gilmore, reference a Gypsy safe haven called Valoren.”
Had she been a less observant person, she might have missed the flash of emotion behind his eyes—eyes a slate gray that he kept hidden behind glasses she now suspected were only for show. Right down to the tweed jacket with the leather patches on the elbows, his look screamed academic, but in that brief spark of surprise, she caught sight of something more—something interesting. Mysterious, in a “he’s hiding something” sort of way. Glancing down, she noticed a rip across the thigh of his jeans, which he wore loose in the front and slightly snug around the hips. And instead of tasseled loafers or the dime-store sneakers favored by grad students, he wore boots. Scuffed boots. Dusty boots. Boots that had seen action.
“You must have the wrong professor,” he replied.
He stepped back into the office, his hand tight on the edge of the door. He was going to slam her out again. Cat jammed her heavy briefcase into the opening.
“Is there another professor at this university who is a Romani expert? Because I’m thinking most institutions don’t need more than one.”
The man’s scowl might have been intimidating to someone else. Luckily for Cat, she’d been around the block enough to know when a guy was more bark than bite.
Though, so far as bites went, this guy had potential. Once he lost the jacket. Mussed up his hair a bit. Tore off the glasses a la Clark Kent. Or he could keep the gold wire rims. They were sort of sexy, now that she saw them up close and personal. Her mind drifted to images of Harrison Ford as Indiana Jones. When he was in the classroom at the start of the first film. Before he donned the fedora. Before he grabbed his whip.
To his credit, Rousseau’s assistant didn’t back away when Cat pressed closer. The aroma of old books clung to him like musk, but didn’t smell quite so musty when mingled with his woodsy cologne.
“Paschal Rousseau is a leading expert in all things related to Romani culture,” he informed her, “primarily in the British Islands during the eighteenth century.”
“Eighteenth?” she asked. “Well, that narrows down my search.”
“What exactly are you looking for?”
She’d piqued his interest. Leaning saucily against the doorjamb, she licked her generous lips and shrugged prettily, cast her eyes downward, then glanced up from beneath her lashes. “Information, that’s all.”
“And I’ll bet you’re willing to do just about anything to get it, aren’t you?”
“Depends,” she replied, deciding to play the innuendo in his voice to her advantage. “What are you suggesting?”
Unexpectedly, he encircled her arm with his hand. An instantaneous spark crackled through her body. He had rough hands and a strong grip. Evidently, this man did more in his daily routine than turn pages and type on a keyboard.
When he kicked her briefcase out of the office, she yelped. He tightened his grip, then practically dragged her out into the hall. “I suggest a ten-minute head start before I call security and accuse you of stalking.”
“Stalking? For one visit? Sensitive much?”
“You don’t know what you’re dealing with,” he warned. “Go back to Florida. Don’t contact us again.”
The power in his grasp belied his reaction to her presence. He had no reason to fear her—so she had to assume he feared what she sought.
The diary?
Valoren?
With a determined yank, she tore her arm from his hold. “Fine. I get the message.”
“Make sure that you do.” His eyes, while gray, contained a strong hint of blue that turned icier and icier the longer he stared at her. “Someday, you’ll thank me.”
With a curt nod, he shut the door. Seconds later, Cat heard the sounds of classical music. Loud classical music. Straight down to the screaming violins, crashing cymbals and pounding bass drums. If she knocked again, he wouldn’t hear her. Or, at least, he’d pretend not to.
As if Mozart was enough to ward her away.
With a snort, she rubbed the spot where he’d grabbed her, somewhat surprised by the electric thrum on her skin. In those boots and ripped jeans was a man who didn’t scare easily. So why had he reacted so strongly?
“Someday, very soon,” she said to the door, picking up her briefcase and heading back toward the commons, “you’ll learn not to manhandle me. And, that I don’t give up quite so easily.”
Eleven
Ben waited a full twenty minutes before he turned down the head-splitting classical racket his father loved so dearly and checked the hallway. Except for a few coeds chatting with a professor near the front exit, the building was deserted.
She’d left.
With a satisfied nod, he returned to the office. But over the course of the rest of the day, his gaze had returned to the door. Easily, this woman had been the most fascinating distraction he’d had in days. Straight dark hair. Flashing obsidian eyes. A body that tortured his inadvertently celibate self even though she was covered in fabric from neck to toe. Curves like hers were impossible to hide completely. She reminded him of Jennifer Lopez but with half the ass and twice the attitude.
Although…she had given up without much fight, which raised the hackles on his neck. Though he’d tangled with her for only a few minutes, she’d struck him as a woman who didn’t surrender. Her business in Florida must have been important. Still, she could come back. And if information on Valoren was what she sought—she’d return eventually. No one else possessed the secrets she sought.
Not even him.
He’d never anticipated that anyone outside the small circle of Romani academics would come to the university to ask his father about the mythical Gypsy sanctuary. Once was odd enough. But twice?
The topic had been verboten between father and son. Paschal had presented one paper on Valoren early in his career as an academic—and it had nearly destroyed his chances of tenure at any institution with a serious reputation. Ben had questioned his father about why he’d go out on a limb with such a crazy tale, but the older man had reacted to his questions with uncharacteristic anger, and then hadn’t spoken to him for a week.
Clandestinely, Ben had learned that only a select few of Paschal’s colleagues in the study of Romani history, lore and sociology had ever heard of the place, and nearly all had gotten their information, scant as it was, from Paschal himself.
According to legend, Valoren was a Gypsy safe haven tucked into some forgotten region between Germany and Bohemia in the mid–seventeen hundreds. Nothing remained of the place except a few whispered stories about a powerful, deadly curse.
Ben shut off his laptop and tucked it into its case, wondering why Morton Gilmore had chosen to help the woman who’d barged into the office when he knew how protective his father was about this particular topic. Not content to let the mystery lie, he made a phone call.
“Son, are you going to tell me you could resist those eyes?” Gilmore said after the initial pleasantries. “I’d have ducked into another room and forged a diary outlining the details of this Valoren nonsense myself, if I’d thought she’d fall for it. Smart cookie, this Catalina Reyes. Don’t underestimate her resolve.”
Great. The last thing he needed was some sexy woman on a mission. Been there, done that. Had the scars to prove it. Inside and out.
“I couldn’t help her if I wanted to,” Ben admitted. He’d done an independent study under Gilmore during his undergraduate years and respected the man immensely. Because Gilmore was an old friend of his father’s, he didn’t mind admitting the truth. “I’ve never seen this diary. And I never read the paper father wrote all those years ago. Can’t even find a copy anymore. You know Paschal has never told me much about this Valoren myth.”
“Your father claims the myth is real,” Gilmore insisted. “I’m quite certain he has more proof than he’s ever shared with either of us. You can thank a couple of bottles of Crown Royal for the fact that I saw the diary for myself. Took a hell of a time to bring the memory out of this old brain of mine, but Ms. Reyes’s persistence was compelling. Her perfume helped, too. You did notice the exotic, spiced scent, I gather?”
Old coot. With apologies for his haste, Ben ended the call. He preferred not to think about the soft, tangerine scent still lingering on his hand from where he’d touched her, a fragrance potently mixed with exotic spices that lured him, for just a moment, to forget the vow he’d made to his dying mother to protect his father and his work above all else—even his own personal interests.
He checked his watch. Paschal was likely out gardening, but he called the house anyway. As expected, there was no answer. Still, it couldn’t be a coincidence that Catalina Reyes had come looking for the Valoren diary so soon after one of Paschal’s seemingly disinterested undergraduate students had come sniffing around for the same information. Packing up as quickly as possible, he locked the office and headed to his car.
With few evening classes on a Friday, Ben’s car sat in the lot nearly alone. He tossed his bag on the passenger seat, then bent in to turn on the air conditioner and roll down the windows before subjecting his body to the solar temperatures inside the El Camino. Waiting for the car to cool, he glanced around. Other than a few students waiting for a bus inside a covered booth on the corner, no one was around.
So why did he feel like he was being watched?
Casually, Ben strolled to the passenger side of the car and, using the key, unlocked the reinforced glove compartment where he kept his gun, a souvenir from his old life. Before his mother died. Before she made him promise to give up his explorations and return to the university as Paschal’s assistant and, frankly, keeper. Turning his back so no one could see what he was doing, he checked the safety and ammo, then shoved the weapon into his waistband and untucked his shirt to cover the fact that he was armed. He was probably overreacting, but after the scene he’d witnessed between his father and one of his undergraduate students, who was accompanied by a mysterious stranger, just a few days ago, he preferred to err on the side of caution.
The minute the temperature in the car dropped below eighty, Ben roared out of the parking lot. He glanced several times into the rearview mirror but saw no one follow. Once he was embroiled in busy Friday afternoon traffic, he couldn’t be so confident. Something was up. Something weird.
He pulled his cell phone out of his bag and punched the speed-dial number to his father’s house again. Old man wouldn’t carry a cell, though Ben supposed he couldn’t blame the guy. Paschal Rousseau might be in prime physical condition, but he was more than ninety years old. His technical know-how was limited to tools that helped him with his research.
The phone rang several times, with no answer. The voice mail took over, and this time, Ben punched in the codes to retrieve the messages. Nothing new. He accessed the saved messages and nearly wrecked his car.
“Professor Rousseau, this is Amber Stranton. I’m really sorry about that scene the other day on the quad. I know that my cousin is creepy, but he wouldn’t hurt a fly. I wish you’d reconsider looking over the items he told you about. I really think they could help you with your research on Valoren”
Ben had witnessed the scene the girl referred to—cheerleader-sweet Amber leading his father to a man in a dark overcoat entirely too stifling for Texas weather. From a window in the faculty lounge, he’d watched Paschal exchange a few words with the couple, and then, after looking at some item handed to him by the man, he’d grown agitated. Angry. The skin on his face had reddened as if sunburned and his arms flew as he shouted and stormed away.
Amber had looked terrified during the whole exchange, yet by the time Paschal had returned to his office, he’d calmed down to his usual jaunty self and refused to discuss the matter with his son.
So what was new?
Ben had made it his business to track down Amber Stranton and question her about the situation. She’d been tight-lipped, mentioning only that her cousin had been interested in some Gypsy hideaway his father had been researching. Without mentioning Valoren by name, Amber had invoked a sore topic between Paschal and Ben. He’d warned her off broaching the topic again with Paschal, and yet, she’d called his private, unlisted home number. This couldn’t be good.
His father, despite all signs to the contrary, was not going to live forever—especially not with added stress. Ben turned left onto a side street and tapped on the accelerator until the car reached a fast but manageable speed. In less than five minutes, he found himself in front of Paschal’s house. Seconds later, the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. The security pad at the end of the driveway, which, once coded, would allow him past the iron gates, had been smashed to bits.