Forbidden

Nick, however, had followed his own agenda. Dana seriously doubted anyone could tell him what to do. He had spent the night camped out at the dig, lying in wait should the attacker return. Nothing untoward had happened, and Nick had come back to the village to announce that work would proceed as usual. He’d seemed determined to have the excavations progress–no matter what.

And so he had made sure that Dana was very busy all morning. They’d thoroughly gone over the charts of stratum analysis she’d be updating in minute detail, as well as other complex field notes that would be her responsibility. Nick had also introduced her to the actual tools she’d be using. Screens, brushes, plumb lines, rods, trowels, shovels–and yes, her bare hands. Archaeology was definitely a hands-on experience.

All in all, it had been a most instructive morning–but a tense one, too. Dana couldn’t seem to relax around Dr. Nicholas Petrie. His presence was simply too…forceful. At the moment, for instance, he sat across from Dana, frowning over the rim of his own orange soda, lost in thoughts she couldn’t even begin to imagine. She felt edgy in his proximity, yet her gaze kept straying to him, tracing the bold, hard lines of his face. Dana didn’t understand her confusing reactions to Nick. She far preferred more straightforward feelings. Usually, either she liked someone or she didn’t, and that was that. But with Nick Petrie, the words like and dislike were much too tame. After all, Dana couldn’t very well say that she merely disliked the uneasiness that Nick caused her, or that she liked his unquestionable virility. More potent words were needed….

Dana shifted uneasily at the direction of her thoughts, and this seemed to prompt Nick from his own musings. He gave her a disparaging look.

“Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me you’d never worked on a dig before?” he asked.

“I can’t be responsible for the lack of communication between you and the Institute,” Dana said, immediately on the defensive. “Besides, you need a soil expert–and I’m a soil expert.”

“The way you tell it, you’ve spent the last six years cooped up in a lab. That’s no experience for the type of work we do here.”

The disgust in his tone rankled her, and she treated him to a frown of her own. “Look, I have the knowledge you need. I received my master’s from Adams College in Missouri, a very respectable school. And the Simonson Labs in Saint Louis are at the very forefront of agricultural research.”

He didn’t say anything, but he didn’t need to. His expression was more than eloquent, seeming to convey the opinion that her stint at the labs had been one step above a jail sentence.

Maybe Dana was so annoyed because that was how she’d felt at her job. She’d been simply one more employee in a large impersonal firm, facing the same routine day after day. Yes…it had been a jail sentence of sorts.

Dana tightened her grip on the soda. “You should be aware that I also grew up on a farm in Missouri. I know soil as well as anyone you’ll find–farm soil. Considering that you’re trying to prove Mayan farmers actually made a go of it on this island–don’t you think I’m qualified for the job?”

He didn’t answer. He just went on studying her. For some reason, all he wanted to do was point out her deficiencies. He wanted to think the worst of her.

“Why did you decide to come here?” Nick muttered at last. “You just wanted some type of diversion, is that it? An adventure, as you keep putting it.”

Dana cursed herself for growing too voluble during the course of the morning. She’d confided in Nick her need for new experiences in her life…in other words, adventure. But maybe it was time to give him something else to think about.

“Do you want to know why I really tossed everything aside and came flying down to Mexico? I’ll tell you why. It’s because…because I proposed to a man and he turned me down flat.”

She certainly appeared to have captured Nick’s interest. He stirred a little. “You’re here because of your love life?”

“Exactly. I asked Alan to marry me, he said no–and here I am.” She took a thoughtful sip of her soda. “I wasted a lot of effort on that proposal, you know. I planned everything out so carefully. The flowers, the candles, the music. Scented beeswax candles, of course, and a centerpiece of blue clematis.”

“I suppose you’re going to tell me what kind of music you used to serenade the guy,” Nick said in a long-suffering tone.

Dana sighed. “Alan’s always been partial to country music. Not that it did me any good. He simply ate his chicken fricassee and told me he’d be perfectly happy if he went on sleeping over at my place four nights a week. I suppose after that I just snapped. I knew I had to change my life. I applied to the Mesoamerica Institute, quit my job at the lab, dumped Alan. Pretty much in that order.” Dana started to wish she hadn’t blurted this out, after all. It was rather a pathetic story–proposing to a man and having him turn you down. It didn’t make her sound particularly on top of things, and Nick was contemplating her as if he couldn’t believe what he’d just heard.

Yet breaking off with Alan was one of the best things Dana had ever done. It was proof that she knew how to start a new life…a better life. She was proud of herself for that, but she didn’t know how to explain it to Nick Petrie. Maybe, where Nick was concerned, it would be better not to explain. Everything she said only seemed to make him more skeptical about her.

She tried to be businesslike. “I think I’ve had enough of a break. We ought to get back to work–and I want to return to the village as soon as possible to check on Jarrett.”

Now Nick’s expression became inscrutable. “Jarrett again,” he commented. “You keep mentioning him.”

“I have to admit he’s foremost on my mind. After what happened to him yesterday, it seems we have to be aware of danger.”

“There are dangers on this island, all right,” Nick said quietly. His tone of voice seemed ominous to her, and she gave him a quick glance.

“What do you mean?”

“For one thing, Ms. Morgan…you’re sitting under a coconut palm. A stiff breeze and the hazards should be obvious.”

Dana glanced up and saw the cluster of coconuts dangling fifty feet above her head. Nick Petrie’s unexpected sense of humor manifested itself at the most exasperating times. She scrambled to her feet and stalked away from the palm.

“Dammit, I wonder if you take the attack on Jarrett seriously at all.”

He rose to stand beside her, his face suddenly grim. “I take it very seriously, Dana. Until we know what happened, I want you to be careful. Stay aware of what’s going on around you.”

“Yes…of course I will.” But it was another type of awareness that concerned her at the moment. Much to her dismay, she was feeling it again–that connection to Nick. All her senses seemed attuned to him. She saw the steady rise and fall of his chest under the sweat-dampened cloth of his shirt and suddenly she knew that she had to get away from him. She didn’t understand why he affected her this way. She didn’t want to understand.

And then it happened. Nick raised his hand and touched her cheek. His fingers were very warm, his skin roughened from digging in the earth. And so his touch was warm and rough and gentle all at once. But there was nothing gentle about her reaction. Heat rippled through her, a heat that had nothing to do with the tropical weather.

Nick’s gaze held hers–intense, uncompromising. And she knew of a surety that he, too, felt what she did: an attraction that was sexual and yet something more, as if they’d met in some other lifetime and only now had stumbled across each other’s path again.

Dana felt afraid in a way she’d never known before. She pulled away from Nick and hurried to find work to do–any work.

There were dangers on this island, indeed. The greatest danger of all was Nick Petrie.

* * *

SEVERAL DAYS LATER someone stole Nick’s machete. Nick went through the tools one more time, just to make sure. But he already knew it wasn’t there: his machete, the only one he used. He always brought it back to the hut, along with the other tools. This project operated on such a meager budget that he couldn’t afford to lose anything, no matter how basic. And there was something else to consider. After the unexplained attack on Jarrett, any unusual incident had to be noted and investigated.

Nick straightened up, trying to stifle his irritation. A few minutes earlier, he’d questioned the others. Everyone, including Dana, said they hadn’t seen the machete.

Nick felt something tighten in his gut, just thinking about Dana Morgan. She’d now been on the island almost two weeks, and she’d proven herself to be a hard, efficient worker. Maybe she’d never been on a dig before, but she was a quick learner. He couldn’t fault her there. No…what really bothered him was the way her presence permeated the damn place. No woman had ever had quite this effect on him, not even his ex-wife. It was an aberration. Lord, they always said alcohol killed your brain cells. Maybe that had happened to him, after too many years of drinking. He’d killed off any sense he had, and now he spent his time daydreaming about his soil scientist.

There was another possible explanation. He hadn’t had sex in so long, no wonder he was overreacting to Dana. She was beautiful and innocently sensual enough to disturb all his concentration. He couldn’t figure out why she seemed untouched in some basic way. She’d made it clear that she’d had at least one lover–the guy who hadn’t been swayed by her marriage proposal. Therefore she wasn’t inexperienced….

He had to stop speculating about Dana, sexually or otherwise. He had enough problems as it was. Then it occurred to Nick. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had sex and been sober at the same time. For all he knew, he couldn’t even function without alcohol in his bloodstream. That was a joke, all right. Not a humorous one, but he almost laughed.

Daniel poked his head into the hut just then. “I’ve looked everywhere, Señor Petrie. No machete.”

“Figures. Thanks for checking, anyway, Daniel. Have a seat.” Nick tossed the kid a can of pineapple juice and popped one open for himself. He settled down behind his rickety field desk, while Daniel appropriated one of the camp stools and they shared several moments of companionable silence. Daniel was only thirteen, but already he’d learned the art of keeping his mouth shut. As far as Nick was concerned, it was a skill more people needed to master.

Nick studied the boy. Daniel claimed to live in the village, although he was always vague about his family’s identity. Nick suspected the kid was on his own. He was too darn skinny, for one thing. And every day he wore the same clothes: a rumpled plaid shirt with two buttons missing, a pair of threadbare shorts and sandals with frayed straps.

Nick tore open a bag of potato chips and offered some to Daniel. The kid shook his head. Maybe he’d drink some juice now and then with Nick, but he seemed to make it a point of honor to decline food. Evidently being too skinny was part of his independence.

“I had breakfast before I came,” he said.

“What did your mom fix for you?” Nick asked casually. “Or maybe your dad does the cooking.”

Daniel looked wary. “I had plátanos fritos–fried plantains. They were pretty good.”

The kid was smart, all right. He didn’t overexplain, didn’t invent elaborate stories about a family–stories that might be too easily detected as falsifications. Instead he offered as little information as possible, stubbornly and persistently protecting his own privacy.

Nick tried another tactic. “You do good work around here, Daniel. I could use you more often, if you have the time.”

The boy’s expression grew more wary still. “I’m busy, Señor Petrie. I come here as often as I can.” Now Daniel made it clear he was the one who required silence, swigging his pineapple juice with concentration.