“But I’m not sure you have the guts.”
“Excuse me?”
“Hmm.” He traced the edge of his patch with a long tanned finger. “’Tis not enough,” he said, dropping his voice to a gravelly rumble that she could easily picture coming from Blackbeard himself, “just to wear a patch over yer eye, lassie.” He leaned closer. “Ye have tae pick yer teeth with the ribs of a Spanish captain ye knocked off yerself.”
Cora stared at him wide-eyed. “I beg your pardon.”
He leaned back in his chair. “Captain Pigleg Torstenson wrote that to his grand-daughter in 1783.”
“How charming.”
His smile was lazy and seductive. “I like to think he was making a general statement about life. It’s not enough to simply look the part. You have to have the stomach for it, as well.”
He was mocking her, she realized. He thought she was an intellectual, unadventurous, narrow-minded snob and she’d turned down his request because she lacked vision and foresight. She saw the condemnation and condescension clearly written in his smug expression. “While this little philosophical dissertation is quite charming, Dr. Adriano, I think you should know that I’ve never liked arrogant men—especially not self-impressed scientists whose only goal is career advancement and public recognition.”
That effectively knocked the smile off his lips, but instead of the angry retort she’d expected, she saw his eyebrows lift with marked curiosity. “I’m not arrogant, Professor. I’m simply flagrantly dedicated to my research and cognizant of my considerable talent.”
Obnoxious, she told herself. Except that it happened to be true. “Aren’t you the man who said you were the most impressive voice in ocean research today?”
His mouth twitched again. Why in hell, she wondered, couldn’t she manage to keep her gaze from the firm contours of that mouth? “I might have,” he conceded.
“You did. I saw the interview.”
“You’ve been watching my interviews? Should I be flattered?”
“Ha. You’ve been on every major network for the last few weeks. I’d have to hide in a cave to have missed the sight of you. It seems the whole world is fascinated by the pirate archeologist from the Underwater Archeology Unit.”
He sprang his trap by laughing. The sound did funny things to her insides. It was a low, mellow kind of laugh. The kind that said it was used often and well. The kind that ensnared every nerve ending in her body in a web of awareness.
Awareness, she had learned, that was not to be trusted. He’d make her want things if she wasn’t careful. He was danger—in huge capital letters. If she had an ounce of intelligence left in her brain, she’d throw him out on the street and make sure he stayed there.
But he tricked her with that laugh. It took the edge off his presence—made him approachable. And likable. Just what she needed—to like the man. She reminded herself that she found his ego insufferable and his love of public spectacle unbelievably annoying.
Amusement danced in his eye. “The match is yours, Professor,” he conceded as he leaned forward. His faint scent of fresh air, sea salt and testosterone tickled her nose. “I can see why Jerry is so enchanted with you.”
She didn’t take the bait. “You are not getting unrestricted access to my house. I’ve got a life to run.”
“That house is more than just your private property.” As if his energy for the project physically drove him, he levered himself out of his seat and began pacing her office. “Don’t you see? There’s no doubt in my mind that if I can find the rest of Abigail Conrad’s diaries, I’ll have a vital clue to the location of del Flores’s ship.”
“There may not be any more,” Cora pointed out.
He slanted her a telling look. “Didn’t you say there are gaps of several months between the volumes you found?” She didn’t respond. “Has it been your experience,” he pressed, “that journal writers allow months to pass between writings?”
Cora had no answer so she shrugged.
“I’m this close—” his thumb and index finger measured the inch “—are you really going to deny me?”
The sight of him in passionate discourse twisted her stomach. Forcibly she dismissed the thought. Nothing good would come of picturing him in passionate anything. “I’m sorry to disappoint you, Dr. Adriano,” she said softly, “but my answer is still no.”
His face registered his frustration. He planted his hands on her desk and loomed over her. The sunlight glinted off the tiny hoop in his left ear, and in that moment he looked truly barbarous. Cora tested the description, then rejected it. No, not barbarous. Glorious, perhaps. Her gaze dropped to his long-fingered, bronzed hands. Large. He had large, beautiful hands. Damn him.
“I’m not giving up so easily,” he warned her. “You should know that.”
She looked at his face. A mistake, that. He was too close, his hard-angled features at eye level with hers and mere inches away. She clenched the edge of her chair and hoped he wouldn’t notice. “I’ll consider myself warned. But whatever Jerry told you, I seriously doubt you can change my mind. I have to consider—”
She broke off when the door of her office slammed open. Leslie, Cora’s baby-sitter of less than six hours, rushed into the office with a harried look in her eyes. Cora abruptly stood, filled with the oddest sensation that she’d been discovered and compromised. “Leslie—” she started.
Leslie frantically shook her head. “I’m sorry, Dr. Prescott. I can’t. I thought I could take it, but I can’t.” Without sparing Rafael a glance, she dropped a wad of keys on Cora’s desk. “I just can’t take care of them for you.”
Cora held out a beseeching hand. “Leslie, I’m sure if we—”
A loud crash sounded from the outer office. High-pitched voices mingled with the distinct sound of a barking dog. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I quit.” The girl fled the room.
Rafael stepped back a scant second before Melody, Cora’s large but exuberant collie, vaulted into the room and onto her desk.
“Melody,” she chided. “Get down.”
“Aunt Cora, Aunt Cora. Don’t let her get away.” Kaitlin rushed into the room holding a leash. “We chased her all the way from the parking lot.”
“Kaitlin,” Cora looked at the nine-year-old as she struggled to get the dog off the desk. “What happened? What are you doing here?”
Before the glowering Kaitlin could answer, Jerry Heath ushered six-year-old Molly and four-year-old Liza into the room. Each had liberal splashes of black ink staining their hair, faces and clothes. “They’re destroying the copy machine,” Jerry announced. “That’s what they’re doing.”
Melody barked in affirmation. With a frustrated oath, Cora pulled on the dog’s collar. “Down, Melody. Get down.”
She wouldn’t budge. Rafael chuckled, then held out his hand to the dog. He whispered a few words, and Melody obediently leaped to the floor where she flopped at his feet. Cora gave him a disgruntled look. “How did you do that?”
“I’ve had a lot of experience with temperamental females,” he said, and sat back in his chair. Melody thumped her tail on the floor.
Exasperated, Cora rubbed her eyes with her thumb and forefinger. She’d been right the first time. He was obnoxious. “Jerry,” she said, “what’s going on?”
Jerry guided the two girls toward Cora’s desk. “As far as I can tell, your nieces decided to help Becky make some copies. Somehow that led to an investigation of the toner cartridge.”
Cora’s nieces