“Oh. That’s neat.” Obviously Riley knew what it meant to share a family obsession. “Did anyone ever find it?”
“Someone said they did.” Clark hardened his jaw. “About a year ago, a pair of archaeologists went looking for it,” he explained. “They used a newer methodology, digital terrain modeling, to trace a shallow channel in the Bay of Cádiz.”
“What’s digital terrain modeling?” Was the sharp edge in his voice professional jealousy?
“It’s called lidar. It’s basically 3D laser scanning.” Clark dropped his arm, letting the picture fall to his side. “By targeting an object or a surface with a laser and then measuring the time for the reflected light to return to the receiver, you can create high-resolution models of topography.”
Riley whistled. “Sounds fancy.”
“It is. The technique gets used a fair amount now in archaeology, especially for environments that are as marshy and hard to access as the bay. But the technology is advanced, and you need specific training for it.” Clark swallowed. It looked painful.
“Did you study it or something?”
“No, but my—” He pressed his lips together. “No.”
Riley no longer thought the picture had fallen. He didn’t speak with the distance of someone who had read about this discovery or heard about it casually through the grapevine.
“What happened? Someone faked the scans?”
“Yes.” His face had gone strained, his cheeks hollowed. “One of the archaeologists altered the topography mapping to create the impression that a larger structure had been identified.”
He shook his head.
“It was a clever ruse, until it wasn’t. Because of the nature of the terrain and the tides, the laser renderings were printed and circulated six months before digging could begin.”
Dropping his gaze to the floor, Clark sighed.
“You can do a lot in six months—conferences and press, dinners and donors. Finding an elusive, ancient landmark will make you a hero in certain circles. Someone even my famous father couldn’t help but admire. It’s heady. When it’s finally your name printed on the accolades and invitations—at least until people start to notice your story doesn’t add up.”
Pieces slotted together. Why Clark had taken this job. Had needed a referral from his dad. The defensive crouch he’d gone into over his reputation when he found out her occupation. “Was it a big scandal, when the truth came out?”
Clark smiled ruefully, looking out the window to the castle. “Career-ruining, you might say.”
The bitterness in his tone wasn’t just regret. No. There was a deeper wound beneath his words. One that said he’d lost more than his professional status in the fallout. Riley knew she made him uncomfortable in many ways, but what Clark seemed to fear most about her was being deceived.
“Your partner lied to you.”
His eyes jerked back to her face. “What makes you think I wasn’t the duplicitous bastard?”
And she supposed that should have tracked. After all, look at the way he’d treated her. But . . .
“You kept the picture.” Tucked away out of sight, but close enough he could reach for it, even in the dark. “Guilty people don’t like reminders of their crimes. But when you get betrayed,” she said, speaking from experience, thinking of how breathless she’d been the night they’d kissed, and then again, for a different reason, the morning after, “you can’t let yourself forget.”
“He broke my heart.” There it was again. That look. The one that had always made her ache. A fallen angel reaching, rioting against all he’d lost. All that had been stolen from him for daring to strive.
Riley had never had a friend who understood her work. Who she trusted with her reputation. She had clients, sure, but no coworkers. Not since Gran. But it didn’t matter. She had her mom, and she knew what it was like to lose someone you never expected to leave.
“He took a punch for me once.” Clark laughed, the sound jagged. “It was at some terrible house party in Oxford. This guy thought I’d hit on his girlfriend. I hadn’t—I didn’t even know who she was—but he got in my face, hollering about laying me out, and Patrick jumped in to smooth things over.” Clark’s eyes were the gray-green of a forest after a storm. “The next thing I know, he’s on the ground, blood pouring from his nose, asking me if I’m all right.”
Part of Riley wished she didn’t know this. That she could go back to thinking he was nothing more than a privileged rich kid. It had been easier when Clark was simply an asshole who’d hurt her, instead of someone who’d been hurt—had lost his reputation and one of the most important relationships in his life to a con. She had never lied to him, but she understood a bit more now why he couldn’t see that.
Clark bent over his desk, started shuffling papers around. “I’ll clean this up so we have a place to work.”
Right. Trying to give Clark a moment to collect himself, the way she would have wanted, Riley retreated to the remaining door. She assumed she’d find some kind of bathroom through here, but she didn’t expect the large orange tabby that hissed at her from the lid of the closed toilet seat, as if to say, Can’t you see this is occupied?
“Oh, god. Sorry,” Riley blurted out before she could think better of it. And then, turning to Clark, “You have a cat?!”
“No.” He looked up innocently.
“Umm . . . hello?” She swept her arm toward the very large, still-hissing feline.
“Oh.” His gaze softened a few degrees. “That’s not mine.”
“And yet you don’t look surprised to see it.” The cat licked its paw lazily. It was missing half of one ear. A fellow scrapper if Riley ever saw one.
“She lives around here somewhere.” Clark gestured to the surrounding woods. “I feed her occasionally, when I have leftover tuna, and sometimes she naps inside when the weather is unpleasant.”
“Uh-huh.” Riley closed the door slowly. Clark as a cat person made sense. He too was prickly, standoffish, and arrogantly territorial. Personally, Riley preferred dogs. They were simple and devoted. You always knew where you stood with a dog.
A few minutes later, as she made herself comfortable at his desk—upon closer inspection, she saw he’d missed an opportunity to stack his jack on the queen of spades—Clark started taking down books from different shelves, opening cabinets to pull out maps and blueprints. The task seemed to anchor him, his movements sliding into something familiar. He proceeded to mount all his research in front of her until the pile grew so high, Riley couldn’t see over it.
“I’ve selected a representative sample from among relevant texts for us to start with,” he said, unfolding a battered folding chair from behind the fridge to sit beside her.
“A representative sample.” Riley stared at the stack and swallowed. “This isn’t all of it?”
Clark smiled, as if she were joking. “Hardly.”
It felt a bit like homework, which Riley had never been particularly good at. Her grades had been fine, solid, in high school, but she’d spent most of her study time angsting over a series of boyfriends—all of whom treated her like dirt—while painting her fingernails with Wite-Out.