“I’m getting fleeced.” And he didn’t feel anywhere close to bad enough about it.
“Does that mean we have a deal?” Her face said she already knew she’d won.
And she had, because Clark’s breathing had finally slowed, his vision clearing. He’d have done worse, he realized with no small sense of terror, in the hopes of protecting her from herself.
“We have an accord.” Clark held out his palm. “Please don’t spit in your hand to seal it.”
He’d seen that in a Western once and wasn’t entirely sure Americans hadn’t maintained it as a custom.
“No need.” Her grip was firm, the handshake as easy and confident as her smile. “We’ve already kissed.”
Chapter Seven
As the sun set, Riley entered enemy territory.
“It’s a restored Airstream from 1978.” Clark opened the door to his camper, gesturing for her to climb in.
He’d insisted she review his research here, in his home, rather than letting her take books back to her own room at the inn. Apparently she couldn’t be trusted not to damage them.
They entered into the “living room.” Against the wall, he’d arranged a merlot two-seater sofa with a floor lamp beside it. There was even a little navy rug over the laminate flooring.
He’d furnished the place in clean, sharp angles and rounded lines. In dark wood and pops of color. He even had art—old, framed maps and a black-and-white shot of a canyon that made Riley ache in that specific way that came from seeing something beautiful that nature made, something that people, with all their tools and innovation, could never quite capture.
“Wow. This is . . . actually nice.” Riley didn’t know what she’d been expecting—maybe something stark to prove he didn’t need comfort or something hopelessly retro, a relic of the camper’s previous life, to prove he never bothered to make things his own, but the interior suited him somehow.
“Your surprise is noted,” Clark said without smiling.
Against the opposite wall sat a workspace, clearly very much in use. A table folded down from the wall like a Murphy bed, scattered with pens and notebooks, two cameras, and a set of binoculars, as well as playing cards laid out in the middle of what looked like a game of solitaire.
It felt strangely intimate, seeing his home, his things. Like accidentally walking in on someone half-dressed.
An abandoned mug, with a dried tea bag still pressed to the enamel side, sat on a coaster next to a book left face down to mark the page. Riley could picture Clark letting the tea cool at his elbow, distracted by reading some scintillating recap of yet another medieval battle.
“Would you mind taking off your shoes?” Clark bent to untie his own boots, stacking them neatly on a little stand by the door. He wore thick green socks, made of that heavy wool blend that cost a fortune, that you could only find at specialty stores like Patagonia or EMS. Riley had gotten her mom a pair for Christmas one year. She wore them every winter, wiggling her toes in Riley’s lap while they watched the Great British Bake Off.
Telling herself to stop staring at his feet, she followed his lead.
Since her second, “appropriately constructed” fire hadn’t yielded any indication of the type of curse she faced, as usual, she was flying without a map. Getting access to Clark’s research was more important than ever. Even if that meant working under his supervision.
He flicked on a set of recessed lighting that went all the way to the back of the camper.
“Did you, uh, want a tour?”
Apparently those posh British manners would not be suppressed.
“Why not?” Her mom had always said the best way to get over a crush was to picture them on roller skates. The more Riley learned about Clark, the better her chances of squashing her inconvenient, lingering attraction to him.
It wasn’t even like that many horny feelings remained. Her body was just confused from the whiplash of meeting him, kissing him, swearing to exact revenge, and then having him kinda sorta save her from, if not death, then at least disfigurement. It was fine. Just some wonky brain chemicals. All she needed was to see his toothpaste-stained mirror and the pile of dirty socks next to his bed to nip the last of it in the bud.
“This is the kitchenette,” Clark said, awkwardly gesturing at the sink and then the small two-burner stove with the mini fridge beside it.
He’d made good use of the tight space, with hanging shelves that held neat glass jars filled with things like rolled oats, dried fruit, whole-grain pasta, and assorted nuts. He probably mixed himself a bowl of muesli every morning—reciting all the health benefits of fiber between bites.
“Would you like a drink?” He opened the mini fridge and peered inside. “I have water, or I could put the kettle on for tea?”
“No, thanks, I’m all right.” It was weird, having him be nice to her. Riley knew he resented the bargain she’d gotten out of him, but clearly he couldn’t bring himself to be flat-out rude to a guest. “I’ve got my water bottle in my bag.”
Closing the fridge with a nod, he led her forward to the other end of the camper, where he had a queen-sized bed, neatly made with a sober, dark plaid comforter and an impressive four （matching!） pillows. A big step up from the distressingly large number of men she’d slept with who, even into their early thirties, still kept their mattresses on the floor and offered her half of a single bare pillow.
But the bed didn’t hold her interest for long. No, it was the bookshelves that arched above it, curving toward the emergency hatch in the ceiling in carefully designed angles that kept the books straight.
“Whoa.” She stepped forward to thumb across the spines on the nearest shelf, careful for some reason not to let her knees brush the end of the bed.
Clark had built himself—or more likely paid someone else to build him—a library on wheels. Amid the expected textbooks and journals were pulpy mysteries, the covers worn and fading but obviously well cared for. It hit her then—he was a filthy little hypocrite.
“Hey! You claim not to believe in anything supernatural, but these books, they’re all like Creature from the Black Lagoon and shit.”
Clark folded his arms, leaning his back against the wall between the bedroom and the kitchen. “It’s called knowing the difference between fact and fiction.”
She had a reply poised like a dart on her tongue, but her gaze snagged in that same moment on something—a picture frame—shoved into the small space between the bed and the bookcase, the only thing she’d seen so far that seemed noticeably out of place.
“Something fell.” She reached for it, pulling out the picture—what looked like a hand-drawn sketch of a temple, twin columns guarding the entrance. In the bottom corner was a label.
“What’s the Lost Temple of Hercules?”
Clark’s breath hitched. “It was once one of the most important sanctuaries in the Western world,” he said, voice stilted. “According to ancient accounts, it’s the place where Julius Caesar wept after seeing a depiction of Alexander the Great.”
He held out his hand and Riley forfeited the frame.
“It’s sort of a holy grail for archaeologists. People have been looking for it for centuries.” Clark stared down at the sketch. “My dad was obsessed with it when I was a kid.” He thumbed across the hastily scrawled label. “He drew this.”