her mouth, he’d be screwed. He’d been hired to do a job. He’d do that job. No more. No less.
That meant no fraternizing with the client.
No touching.
No inhaling.
Absolutely no kissing.
“Small enough not to declare when he came through customs? Then they wouldn’t be here,” he pointed out, trying to get out of her gravitational pull, but without success. “The museum wouldn’t countenance—”
“Small enough to have in his pockets when he was knocked out. He had handfuls of small rocks and things in his pockets, notes and little bits of pottery. I didn’t really look. The museum asked that I send them everything. I just tossed the last bits and pieces into a box and shipped it. I’ll look for the box. Maybe they haven’t had a chance to go through it yet.”
“Right.” He checked the map a couple of times, broadening the latitude and longitude for each location to be eliminated, then got to his feet, pulling on the white cotton gloves given to them when they’d been let into the storage area. She was sitting far too close. He’d been attracted to a lot of women—some even at first sight. But never like this. Attraction was a mild word for it. He was in a state of semi-arousal all the time. Uncomfortable as hell. “You can go shopping if you like. We can meet back at the hotel later.” Where, given half a glance of encouragement, he’d have her naked and flat on her back in minutes flat. Mutual satisfaction guaranteed.
No. Fucking. Fraternizing.
What did he need to remind him? A two-by-four across the head? There was somewhere a lot lower where a hard blow would be more effective. Unfortunately, he was far too conscious of that region of his body already.
“I didn’t come all this way to go shopping,” she responded cheerfully. “What?” she asked, when he gave her a pointed look.
“You’re blocking my workspace,” he said briskly, wondering how long before she realized this was a hopeless task and called it quits.
She grinned. “You do your thing, and I’ll see if any of his papers give us a clue.” He waited for her to roll her chair back across the room, then observed her graceful return to her cross-legged position among the boxes.
She left a drift of spicy cinnamon in her wake.
FOUR
Isis adored her father. But Holy Mother of God, the man loved writing notes. Copious, rather dry notes, hundreds and hundreds of pages of them, many of them accompanied by extraordinarily bad sketches. She read until her eyes crossed, then persuaded Thorne to take her to lunch in the cafeteria, since they weren’t allowed to eat in the storage rooms.
He’d been taciturn while they ate, then hurried her back downstairs. “I really appreciate how dedicated you are to helping me; it’s very sweet of you,” she told him as they walked downstairs. His slight limp and the use of the cane didn’t impede his speed, and she suspected that without his injury he’d take the stairs three at a time and leave her in the dust.
He paused midstep to raise a brow. A muscle jerked in his jaw. “Sweet?”
She smiled at his clear distaste at being called that. “Kind of you.”
“I’m neither sweet nor kind. You paid for my services, I’ll do my best to ensure you get your money’s worth.”
“Does your leg hurt?” She knew it hurt—she wanted to know to what degree. Isis was pretty sure he wouldn’t be so bad-tempered and surly if he weren’t in pain.
He glanced at her as they reached the landing. A group of teachers and a gaggle of schoolkids clattered past them, and they stepped aside to let the herd pass. “No,” he told her succinctly when they resumed their descent.
She was worried about him standing for hours, but the only way she could get him to sit down had been to insist she was hungry so they could go upstairs to the cafeteria.
They unlocked the door and turned on the lights. “Why is your injury such a big secret?”
“It’s not a secret. It’s none of your business.”
“Apparently,” she said, unoffended. Her father was grumpy a lot of the time because he was distracted, or hungry, or too hot. “Too personal?”
Thorne took a fresh pair of cotton gloves from the box by the door. “Is anything too personal in your book?” he asked, pulling on a glove while giving her a less than friendly look.
He had nice hands. Big and strong-looking. The bright overhead lights shone on several scars