Her Passionate Pirate

“It would never work.”

“Sure it would. I’d move in with you and—”

Cora gasped. “Move in?”

“You want to live here?” Becky said.

He nodded. “This is where Abigail lived, where she wrote.” He gave Cora a piercing look. “Where she made love with del Flores. I can learn from the atmosphere if I move in.”

“Move in, as in your clothes in my closet, your toothbrush in my bathroom?”

The mere thought made his blood pump faster. All he had to do was picture what Cora would look like in the morning—rumpled, warm, addictively soft—to feel himself getting aroused. He could see them stretched languorously amid tangled sheets and scattered pillows, exhausted and sated from an arduous night of sizzling, mind-blowing sex. And it would be with her, he knew. It most definitely would be.

He realized that Cora was watching him, saw the heightened color in her face, the awareness in her eyes, and knew she was thinking along similar lines. She didn’t want to, but couldn’t stop herself. A satisfied smile touched his lips. “I hadn’t planned,” he said softly, “on sharing a bathroom.”

The insinuation that he had definitely planned on sharing other things—like a bedroom—wasn’t lost on her. Her color deepened, but she sat perfectly still.

Becky, sweetly oblivious to the undercurrent, was nodding, thoughtful. “You know, Cora. There is the room on the top floor.” She looked at Rafael. “It has a separate entrance,” she explained.

He knew that already. Cora usually rented the room to a student during the regular term. One of the secretaries in the college administration office had revealed that to him. “Does it?” he asked casually.

“Yes,” Becky assured him. “You’d have some privacy that way.”

Privacy wasn’t what he’d planned, but he and Cora could argue about it later. “I’m sure I would.” He kept his tone bland.

Becky turned to Cora. “You haven’t rented it for the summer, have you?”

Cora frowned. “Becky—”

“It could work,” Becky insisted. “You do need help.”

Rafael added, “You’d have more time for research.”

Becky had warmed to the idea. “Think about it, Cora. If you didn’t have to constantly worry about coordinating schedules and transportation, you could work all day.”

“How much time do you lose by not being able to run off to the library for an hour or two because you have to worry about what you’re going to do with the girls?” Rafael asked.

“I’ve worked it out,” Cora said tightly.

“And how many times have you been totally immersed in Abigail’s writing and had to stop to resolve a sibling crisis?” he went on.

“That’s not—”

“There are three of them and one of you.” He pressed his hands to his thighs and leaned forward to drive home his point. “You need help. And I can give it to you.”

“By living with me?”

“I don’t have to.” He watched her closely. “I could live in town and come by during the days, but it suits my purposes better to be here, and it helps you more if I am. We both win.”

She shook her head. “I don’t think it’s a good idea.”

“I do,” Becky said.

“It’s an excellent idea,” Rafael insisted. “I could be there during the day while you’re tied up in classes. And face it, you’ve got to do something with the girls before they drive you crazy.”

“Something like turn them over to you? What could you possibly know about three little girls?”

“I’m the second oldest of thirteen children. I have nine sisters—all younger. I know a lot about girls.” He leaned closer. “Of all ages.”

Cora snorted. “You know, if you ever decide to give up ocean archeology, you might want to consider stand-up comedy. You’ve got a comeback for just about everything, don’t you.”

Becky looked at Cora. “This is the perfect solution, Cora. You know it is.”

She visibly wavered, then looked at Rafael. “This is exactly why I said no to your first letter,” she told him. “I didn’t want this kind of disruption.”

“It’ll work out, Cora. You’ll see,” Becky assured her. “In the long run, if he’s handling the media, you’ll have more time for the diaries. Everyone wins.”

He saw her indecision and realized he was holding his breath. Finally she sighed, a weary sigh of surrender. “Since there’s no reasonable way to stop this now,” she told him, “then I at least want your promise on one thing.” She paused. “I haven’t had the chance to fully examine the diaries, but they’re…intensely personal. I’d prefer not to see Abigail’s private thoughts printed for public consumption without my consent.”

Rafael felt a surge of satisfaction. She had a strong desire, he realized, to protect Abigail’s privacy. Dared he hope that she felt a connection to Abigail and del Flores similar to his own? “Fine,” he agreed.

She held his gaze a moment longer, then dropped her head into her hands. “Oh, God,” she groaned. “What have I done?”

Chapter Three

She always charms me, this passionate, consummate lady of mine. How they misread her, I’ll never know. The lot of fools sees only what they look for. I’m grateful, really. The world may see her proper outward appearance, but I, alone, have seen the fire beneath the ice.

Juan Rodriguez del Flores

Captain’s Log, 10 April 1861

“Dr. Prescott,” the wiry-looking man in the front row of the university auditorium clutched his notepad with journalistic fervor, “why the change in policy? Sources say you’ve turned down over a dozen other joint projects on the Conrad diaries.”

Cora could practically feel Jerry gloating as she faced the roomful of inquisitors the following morning. He sat behind her on the dais, flanked by Henry Willers and the chairman of the Rawlings College board of trustees. Rafael and Becky had left her home at two o’clock that morning. After too little sleep, Jerry’s phone call had awakened her. He’d informed her of the press conference in a gratingly cheerful voice that had Cora wanting to spit nails. By the time she’d gotten the girls ready—amid Kaitlin’s complaining, Molly’s incessant questions and Liza’s insistence that Benedict Bunny come along—Cora’s mood had disintegrated from bad to rotten. She had a pounding headache and a serious inclination to tear Jerry’s head off.

Summoning her dignity, she glanced at her nieces where they sat in the front row with Becky. They’d seen enough episodes, she reminded herself, of their mother, sans dignity, to last them a lifetime. They didn’t need to see it from her.

The only person conspicuously absent from this circus was Rafael. He was late, and when she got the chance, she’d kill him for it.

Cora gripped the edge of the podium and forced herself to concentrate on the question. “My priority,” she told the young reporter, “has always been to conduct my study of the Conrad diaries in a manner that will glean the most information in the most responsible manner. On consideration of Dr. Adriano’s proposal, I decided—”

“—that she can’t live without me,” came his low drawl from the wings of the stage. He flashed her a bright smile as he strode toward the podium.

Predictably his arrival caused a flurry of interest. Cameras popped. Reporters began hurling questions at the stage. A microphone, suddenly adjusted too high, squealed feedback into the house. Rafael seemed oblivious to the commotion as he walked toward Cora in long, ground-eating strides. He stopped when he reached her.

“You’re late,” she said in a taut whisper.

He gave her a heated look “Miss me?”