Crazy is as crazy does . . . : Part 4

Pearl Jinx
by Sandra Hill

(Page 4 of 7)

Uh-oh! Are we gonna have a pissing contest over who's in charge? I can guarantee it's not gonna be her. If we have to vet every little anal thing, we'll be here in the boonies for months instead of weeks. He put his face in his hands and counted to ten. When he glanced her way again, he said, "We have to find a way to work together. Truce?" He extended a hand.

She hesitated, but then agreed, "Truce," and placed her hand in his. Her hand was small compared to his, with short, unpolished nails. He could swear his heart revved up at just the feel of her calloused palm pressed against his calloused palm. Am I pathetic or what?

"Are you hungry?"

That question caught him by surprise. Was her new strategy torture by niceness? Or erotic, calloused palm handshakes? "Yeah," he answered suspiciously.

"Good. I picked some wild blueberries yesterday and have muffins cooling inside."

He didn't immediately follow her but sat down on one of the chairs to take off his wet shoes and socks. Meanwhile, the delicious aroma of baked goods wafted out to him. The rat dog trotted over and eyed his shoes. Just as it was about to take a chomp out of one of them, Caleb grabbed the shoes and set them up on the arm of the chair. When he turned, he saw the dog running off with one of his wet socks in its mouth.

"Boney!" Dr. Cassidy yelled out through the screen door at the thief. Four cats of various sizes were rubbing themselves against her ankles. The fat calico wasn't among them.

To his surprise, the dog stopped, peered back at its mistress dolefully, dropped the sock, and trotted off the porch and into the brush.

"You named your dog Boner?"

She made a clucking sound of disgust. "Not Boner. Boney. You know. Napoleon Bonaparte. Little dog. Napoleon complex."

Well, at least she has a sense of humor. "Did you know that Napoleon had a fear of cats? Ailurophobia."

"No. Seriously?"

"Yep. Learned it in a history-of-war class. An aide found the general one time in his bedroom with a cutlass in hand, trembling, because he thought there was a cat behind a drape."

"Fascinating."

Yep, that's me. Mister Fascination. Okay, I see five cats so far and one semi-dog. What next?

What next, he soon learned, was Indian tom-tom music, along with some guttural chants, coming from a tape deck inside: "Ay-yi-yi-yi! Ay-yi-yi-yi-yi . . ." Two cages in one corner, one holding what looked like a porcupine with a splint on its leg and the other holding a bird with mangled feathers. And the good doctor taking off her T-shirt, whose sleeves were wet, leaving her with just a sports racerback running bra kind of thing. Nothing scandalous. It was midway between a granny-type cotton undergarment and a hoochie mama Victoria's Secret scrap of sexiness, but still . . . It was pink. And there was all that skin. Bare arms. Bare midriff. Bare collarbones. Plus, she was ripped, which would explain the exercise mat and hand weights over there. Not weight-lifter ripped, but female-athlete ripped. And worst of all . . . or best of all . . . she had breasts that could make a grown man weep.

Good thing I'm not looking. Nope. I. Am. Not. Looking. And I'm not getting turned on.

"It's hot in here, don't you think?" she asked, belatedly explaining her striptease, he supposed.

She began to set a tray with supersized muffins, butter, mugs of coffee, sugar, and cream, unaware of how tempting she looked. Forget muffins. He'd like a taste of -

To his surprise, she gave him a once-over, too. A once-over that paid special attention to his wet shorts. Then, with a bland expression, giving no clue to her assessment, she said, "It feels like today will be a scorcher."

Tell me about it! "It's probably your oven." Could I sound any more dorky?

She glanced at him again, and this time she smiled.

While she continued to set the tray with small plates and napkins, he studied her cabin. It was either that or ogle her body, which would not be smart. Pink? What kind of serious archaeologist wears pink?

The cabin was nice. Dried herbs hung from the low rafters of the kitchen, giving it a fragrant, cozy atmosphere. Colorful suncatchers at the windows caught and reflected the light like prisms. He assumed that a bedroom and bathroom were off to the left. To the right was the addition, which was completely open, making a combination kitchen/library/office/living room. A huge stone fireplace was flanked on one side by a half-dozen baskets, some woven, others coiled, and on the other by a rustic, low, armless rocking chair that looked homemade. Two log walls of the addition held floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a built-in PC desk in the corner. The shelves overflowed with books, many of them related to the Lenni Lenape tribe of the Delaware nation. Also, Indian relics: an impressive arrowhead collection, a peace pipe, several tomahawks, and framed photographs. And a small flat-screen TV.

Copyright © 2007 by Sandra Hill

About the Author

Sandra Hill is a USA Today, New York Times extended and Waldenbooks bestselling author of fifteen novels and four novellas. All of her books are heavy on humor and sizzle.