Praise for Diana Palmer

“Nobody does it better.”

—Award-winning author Linda Howard

“Palmer knows how to make the sparks fly…heartwarming.”

—Publishers Weekly on Renegade

“A compelling tale…[that packs] an emotional wallop.”

—Booklist on Renegade

“Sensual and suspenseful.…”

—Booklist on Lawless

“Diana Palmer is a mesmerizing storyteller who captures the essence of what a romance should be.”

—Affaire de Coeur

“Nobody tops Diana Palmer when it comes to delivering pure, undiluted romance. I love her stories.”

—New York Times bestselling author Jayne Ann Krentz

“The dialogue is charming, the characters likable and the sex sizzling.”

—Publishers Weekly on Once in Paris

“This story is a thrill a minute—one of Ms. Palmer’s best.”

—Rendezvous on Lord of the Desert

“Diana Palmer does a masterful job of stirring the reader’s emotions.”

—Lezlie Patterson, Reading Eagle, on Lawless

Diana Palmer
Before Sunrise

MILLS & BOON

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For Doris Hunter Samson

June 14, 1941–June 13, 2004

My friend

BEFORE SUNRISE

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

Knoxville, Tennessee, May 1994

THE CROWD WAS DENSE, but he stood out. He was taller than most of the other spectators and looked elegant in his expensive, tailored gray-vested suit. He had a lean, dark face, faintly scarred, with large, almond-shaped black eyes and short eyelashes. His mouth was wide and thin-lipped, his chin stubbornly jutted. His thick, jet-black hair was gathered into a neat ponytail that fell almost to his waist in back. Several other men in the stands wore their hair that way. But they were white. Cortez was Comanche. He had the background to wear the unconventional hairstyle. On him, it looked sensual and wild and even a little dangerous.

Another ponytailed man, a redhead with a receding hairline and thick glasses, grinned and gave him the victory sign. Cortez shrugged, unimpressed, and turned his attention toward the graduation ceremonies. He was here against his will and the last thing he felt like was being friendly. If he’d followed his instincts, he’d still be in Washington going over a backlog of federal cases he was due to prosecute in court.

The dean of the university was announcing the names of the graduates. He’d reached the Ks, and on the program, Phoebe Margaret Keller was the second name under that heading.

It was a beautiful spring day at the University of Tennessee at Knoxville, so the commencement ceremony was being held outside. Phoebe was recognizable by the long platinum blond braid trailing the back of her dark gown as she accepted her diploma with one hand and shook hands with the dean with the other. She moved past the podium and switched her tassel to the other side of her cap. Cortez could see the grin from where he was standing.

He’d met Phoebe a year earlier, while he was investigating some environmental sabotage in Charleston, South Carolina. Phoebe, an anthropology major, had helped him track down a toxic waste site. He’d found her more than attractive, despite her tomboyish appearance, but time and work pressure had been against them. He’d promised to come and see her graduate, and here he was. But the age difference was still pretty formidable, because he was thirty-six and she was twenty-three. He did know Phoebe’s aunt Derrie, from having worked with her during the Kane Lombard pollution case. If he needed a reason for showing up at the graduation, Phoebe was Derrie’s late brother’s child and he was almost a friend of the family.

The dean’s voice droned on, and graduate after graduate accepted a diploma. In no time at all, the exercises were over and whoops of joy and congratulations rang in the clear Tennessee air.

No longer drawing attention as the exuberant crowd moved toward the graduates, Cortez hung back, watching. His black eyes narrowed as a thought occurred to him. Phoebe wasn’t one for crowds. Like himself, she was a loner. If she was going to work her way around the people to find her aunt Derrie, she’d do it away from the crowd. So he started looking for alternate routes from the stadium to the parking lot. Minutes later, he found her, easing around the side of the building, almost losing her balance as she struggled with the too-long gown, muttering to herself about people who couldn’t measure people properly for gowns.

“Still talking to yourself, I see,” he mused, leaning against the wall with his arms folded across his chest.

She looked up and saw him. With no time to prepare, her delight swept over her even features with a radiance that took his breath. Her pale blue eyes sparkled and her mouth, devoid of lipstick, opened on a sharply indrawn breath.

“Cortez!” she exclaimed.

She looked as if she’d run straight into his arms with the least invitation, and he smiled indulgently as he gave it to her. He levered away from the wall and opened his arms.

She went into them without any hesitation whatsoever, nestling close as he enfolded her tightly.

“You came,” she murmured happily into his shoulder.

“I said I would,” he reminded her. He chuckled at her unbridled enthusiasm. One lean hand tilted up her chin so that he could search her eyes. “Four years of hard work paid off, I see.”

“So it did. I’m a graduate,” she said, grinning.

“Certifiable,” he agreed. His gaze fell to her soft pink mouth and darkened. He wanted to bend those few inches and kiss her, but there were too many reasons why he shouldn’t. His hand was on her upper arm and, because he was fighting his instincts so hard, his grip began to tighten.

She tugged against his hold. “You’re crushing me,” she protested gently.

“Sorry.” He let her go with an apologetic smile. “That training at Quantico dies hard,” he added on a light note, alluding to his service with the FBI.

“No kiss, huh?” she chided with a loud sigh, searching his dark eyes.

One eye narrowed amusedly. “You’re an anthropology major. Tell me why I won’t kiss you,” he challenged.

“Native Americans,” she began smugly, “especially Native American men, rarely show their feelings in public. Kissing me in a crowd would be as distasteful to you as undressing in front of it.”

His eyes softened as they searched her face. “Whoever taught you anthropology did a very good job.”

She sighed. “Too good. What am I going to use it for in Charleston? I’ll end up teaching…”

“No, you won’t,” he corrected. “One of the reasons I came was to tell you about a job opportunity.”

Her eyes widened, brightened. “A job?”

“In D.C.,” he added. “Interested?”

“Am I ever!” A movement caught her eye. “Oh, there’s Aunt Derrie!” she said, and called to her aunt. “Aunt Derrie! Look, I graduated, I have proof!” She held up her diploma as she ran to hug her aunt and then shake hands with U.S. Senator Clayton Seymour, who’d been her aunt’s boss for years before they became engaged.

“We’re both very happy for you,” Derrie said warmly. “Hi, Cortez!” she beamed. “You know Clayton, don’t you?”

“Not directly,” Cortez said, but he shook hands anyway.

Clayton’s firm lips tugged into a smile. “I’ve heard a lot about you from my brother-in-law, Kane Lombard. He and my sister Nikki wanted to come today, but their twins were sick. He won’t forget what he owes you. Kane always pays his debts.”

“I was doing my job,” Cortez reminded him.

“What happened to Haralson?” Derrie asked curiously, referring to the petty criminal who’d planted toxic waste and in one fell swoop almost cost Clayton Seymour his congressional seat and Kane Lombard his business.

“Haralson got twenty years,” he replied, sticking his hands deep in his pockets. He smiled coldly. “Some cases I enjoy prosecuting more than others.”

“Prosecuting?” Derrie asked. “But you told me last year in Charleston that you were with the CIA.”

“I was with the CIA and the FBI, briefly,” he told her. “But for the past few years, I’ve been a federal prosecutor.”

“Then how did you wind up tracking down people who plant toxic waste?” she persisted.

“Just lucky, I guess,” he replied smoothly.

“That means he’s through talking about it,” Phoebe murmured dryly. “Give up, Aunt Derrie.”

Clayton gave Phoebe a curious glance, which she intercepted with a smile. “Cortez and I are friends,” she told him. “You can thank his investigative instincts for saving your congressional seat.”

“I certainly do,” Clayton replied, relaxing. “I almost made a hash of everything,” he added, with a warm, tender glance toward Derrie, who beamed up at him. “If you’re going to be in town tonight, we’d love to have you join us for supper,” he told Cortez. “We’re taking Phoebe out for a graduation celebration.”

“I wish I had time,” he said quietly. “I have to go back tonight.”

“Of course. Then we’ll see you again sometime, in D.C.,” Derrie said, puzzled by the strong vibes she sensed between her niece and Cortez.

“I’ve got something to discuss with Phoebe,” he said, turning to Derrie and Clayton. “I need to borrow her for an hour or so.”

“Go right ahead,” Derrie said. “We’ll go back to the hotel and have coffee and pie and rest until about six. Then we’ll pick you up for supper, Phoebe.”

“Thanks,” she said. “Oh, my cap and gown…!” She stripped it off, along with her hat, and handed them to Derrie.

“Wait, Phoebe, weren’t the honor graduates invited to a luncheon at the dean’s house?” Derrie protested suddenly.

Phoebe didn’t hesitate. “They’ll never miss me,” she said, and waved as she joined Cortez.

“An honor graduate, too,” he mused as they walked back through the crowd toward his rental car. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

“Anthropology is my life,” she said simply, pausing to exchange congratulations with one of her friends on the way. She was so happy that she was walking on air.

“Nice touch, Phoebe,” the girl’s companion murmured with a dry glance at Cortez as they moved along, “bringing your anthropology homework along to graduation.”

“Bill!” the girl cried, hitting him.

Phoebe had to stifle a giggle. Cortez wasn’t smiling. On the other hand, he didn’t explode, either. He gave Phoebe a stern look.

“Sorry,” she murmured. “It’s sort of a squirrelly day.”

He shrugged. “No need to apologize. I remember what it’s like on graduation day.”

“Your degree would be in law, right?”

He nodded.

“Did your family come to your graduation?” she asked curiously.

He didn’t answer her. It was a deliberate snub, and it should have made her uncomfortable, but she never held back with him.

“Another case of instant foot-in-mouth disease,” she said immediately. “And I thought I was cured!”

He chuckled reluctantly. “You’re as incorrigible as I remember you.”

“I’m amazed that you did remember me, or that you took the trouble to find out when and where I was graduating so that you could be here,” she said. “I couldn’t send you an invitation,” she added sheepishly, “because I didn’t have your address. I didn’t really expect you, either. We only spent an hour or two together last year.”

“They were memorable ones. I don’t like women very much,” he said as they reached the unobtrusive rental car, a gray American-made car of recent vintage. He turned and looked down at her solemnly. “In fact,” he added evenly, “I don’t like being in public display very much.”

She lifted both eyebrows. “Then why are you here?”

He stuck his hands deep into his pockets. “Because I like you,” he said. His dark eyes narrowed. “And I don’t want to.”

“Thanks a lot!” she said, exasperated.

He stared at her. “I like honesty in a relationship.”

“Are we having one?” she asked innocently. “I didn’t notice.”

His mouth pulled down at one corner. “If we were, you’d know,” he said softly. “But I came because I promised that I would. And the offer of the job opportunity is genuine. Although,” he added, “it’s rather an unorthodox one.”

“I’m not being asked to take over the archives at the Smithsonian, then? What a disappointment!”

Laughter bubbled out of his throat. “Funny girl.” He opened the passenger door with exaggerated patience.

“I really irritate you, don’t I?” she asked as she got inside the car.

“Most people are savvy enough not to remind me of my heritage too often,” he replied pointedly after he was inside with the door closed.

“Why?” she asked. “You’re fortunate enough to live in an age where ethnicity is appreciated and not stereotyped.”

“Ha!”

She lifted her hands. “Okay, okay, that isn’t quite true, but you have to admit that it’s a better society now than it was ninety years ago.”

He started the engine and pulled away from the curb.

He drove as he seemed to do everything else, effortlessly. His hand went inside his jacket pocket and he grimaced.

“Looking for something?” she asked.

“Cigarettes,” he said heavily. “I forgot. I’ve quit again.”

“Your lungs and mine appreciate the sacrifice.”

“My lungs don’t talk.”

“Mine do,” she said smugly. “They say ‘don’t smoke, don’t smoke…’”

He smiled faintly. “You bubble, don’t you?” he remarked. “I’ve never known anyone so animated.”

“Yes, well, that’s because you’re suffering from sensory deprivation resulting from too much time spent with your long nose stuck in law books. Dull, dry, boring things.”

“The law is not boring,” he returned.

“It depends which side you’re sitting on.” She frowned. “This job you’re telling me about wouldn’t have to do with anything legal, would it? Because I only had one course in government and a few hours of history, but…”

“I don’t need a law clerk,” he returned.

“Then what do you need?”

“You wouldn’t be working for me,” he corrected. “I have ties to a group that fights for sovereignty for the Native American tribes. They have a staff of attorneys. I thought you might fit in very well, with your background in anthropology. I’ve pulled some strings to get you an interview.”

She didn’t speak for a minute. Her eyes were on her hands. “I think you’re forgetting something. My major is anthropology. Most of it is forensic anthropology. Bones.”

He glanced at her. “You wouldn’t be doing that for them.”

She stared out the window. “What would I be doing?”

“It’s a desk job,” he admitted. “But a good one.”

“I appreciate your thinking of me,” she said carefully. “But I can’t give up fieldwork. That’s why I’ve applied at the Smithsonian for a position with the anthropology section.”

He was quiet for a long moment. “Do you know how indigenous people feel about archaeology? We don’t like having people dig up our sacred sites and our relatives, however old they are.”

“I just graduated,” she reminded him. “Of course I do. But there’s a lot more to archaeology than digging up skeletons!”

He stopped for a traffic light and turned toward her. His eyes were cold. “And it doesn’t stop you from wanting to get a job doing something that resembles grave-digging?”

She gasped. “It is not grave-digging! For heaven’s sake…”

He held up a hand. “We can agree to disagree, Phoebe,” he told her. “You won’t change my mind any more than I’ll change yours. I’m sorry about the job, though. You’d have been an asset to them.”

She unbent a little. “Thanks for recommending me, but I don’t want a desk job. Besides, I may go on to graduate school after I’ve had a few months to get over the past four years. They’ve been pretty hectic.”

“Yes, I remember.”

“Why did you recommend me for that job? There must be a line of people who’d love to have it—people better qualified than I am.”

He turned his head and looked directly into her eyes. There was something that he wasn’t telling her, something deep inside him.

“Maybe I’m lonely,” he said shortly. “There aren’t many people who aren’t afraid to come close to me these days.”

“Does that matter? You don’t like people close,” she said.

She searched his arrogant profile. There were new lines in that lean face, lines she hadn’t seen last year, despite the solemnity of the time they’d spent together. “Something’s upset you,” she said out of the blue. “Or you’re worried about something.”

Both dark eyebrows went up. “I beg your pardon?” he asked curtly.

The hauteur went right over her head. “Not something to do with work, either,” she continued, reasoning aloud. “It’s something very personal…”

“Stop right there,” he said shortly. “I invited you out to talk about a job, not about my private life.”

“Ah. A closed door. Intriguing.” She stared at him. “Not a woman?”

“You’re the only woman in my life.”

She laughed unexpectedly. “That’s a good one.”

“I’m not kidding. I don’t have affairs or relationships.” He glanced at her as he merged into traffic again and turned at the next corner. “I might make an exception for you, but don’t get your hopes up. A man has his reputation to consider.”

She grinned. “I’ll remember that you said that.”

He pulled the car into the parking lot of a well-known hotel restaurant and cut off the engine. “I hope you’re hungry. I missed breakfast.”

“So did I. Nerves,” she added.

He escorted her into the sparsely occupied restaurant and they were seated near the window. When they finished looking at the menu and gave their orders, he leaned back in his chair and studied her across the width of the table with quiet interest.

“Is my nose upside down?” she asked after a minute.

He chuckled. “No. I was just thinking how young you are.”

“In this day and age, nobody is that young,” she corrected. She leaned forward with her chin on her elbows and watched him. “Don’t fight it,” she chided. “You might never run into anyone else who’d make you so uncomfortable.”

“That’s a selling point?” he asked, surprised.

“Of course it is. You live deep inside yourself. You won’t let yourself feel anything, because it’s a form of weakness to you. Something must have hurt you very badly when you were younger.”

“Don’t pry,” he said gently, but the words warned.

“If I hang around with you very much, I’m going to pry a lot more than this,” she informed him.

He considered that. He had cold feet where Phoebe was concerned. She wasn’t the sort of person who’d settle for a shallow relationship. She’d want to go right to the bone, and she’d never let go. He was like that, too, but he’d been burned badly once, by a woman who liked him because he was a curiosity

“I’ve been collected already,” he said quietly. “Do you understand?”

She saw the brief flash of pain in his eyes and nodded slowly. “I see. Did she want to show off her indigenous aborigine to all her friends?”

His jaw tautened and something dangerous flashed in his eyes.

“I thought so,” she murmured, watching the faintest of expressions in his face. “Did she care at all?”

“I doubt it very much.”

“And you found out in a very public way, no doubt.”

His head inclined.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Life teaches painful lessons.”

“Have you had any yet?” he returned bluntly.

“Not that sort,” she admitted, toying with her fork. “I’m rather shy with men, as a rule. And boys I went to school with either saw me as one of them or somebody’s sister. Digging isn’t very glamorous.”

“I thought you looked cute in mud-caked boots and a jacket three times your size.”

She glared at him. “Don’t start.”

His dark eyes slid over her dress. It wasn’t in the least revealing. It had a high lace collar and long sleeves gathered tight at the wrists. It cascaded down in folds to her ankles and under it she was wearing very stylish granny shoes. Her platinum hair was in a neat braid down her back. She wore a minimum of makeup and there was a tiny line of freckles right over her nose.

“I know I’m not pretty,” she said, made uncomfortable by the close scrutiny, “and I’m built like a boy.”

He smiled. “Are you still naive enough to think that looks matter?”

“It doesn’t take much intelligence to see that pretty girls get all the attention in class.”

“At first,” he agreed.

She sighed. “There are so few boys who like to spend an evening listening to exciting discoveries like a broken bowl of charred acorns and half a soapstone pipe.”

“Mississippian,” he recalled, from their discussion about the find last year.

She beamed. “Yes! You remembered!”

He smiled at her enthusiasm. “I did a few courses in cultural anthropology,” he confessed. “Not physical anthropology,” he emphasized. “And so help me, if you say anthropology should be right up my alley…!”

“You didn’t tell me that in Charleston,” she said.

“I didn’t expect to see you again,” he replied. He hadn’t even planned to come to her graduation. He wasn’t sure if he regretted being here or not. His dark eyes searched her pale ones. “Life is full of surprises.”

She looked into his eyes and felt a stirring deep in her heart. She looked at him and felt closer than she’d ever been to anyone.

The waitress brought salads, followed by steak and vegetables, and they ate in silence until apple pie and coffee were consumed.

“You’re completely unafraid, aren’t you?” he asked as he finished his second cup of coffee. “You’ve never really been hurt.”

“I had a crush on a really cute boy in my introductory anthropology class,” she said. “He ended up with a really cute boy in Western Civ.”

He chuckled. “Poor Phoebe.”

“It’s the sort of thing that usually happens to me,” she confessed. “I’m not terribly good at being womanly. I like to kick around in blue jeans and sweatshirts and dig up old things.”

“A woman can be anything she wants to be. It doesn’t require lace and a helpless attitude. Not anymore.”

“Do you think it ever did, really?” she asked curiously. “I mean, you read about women like Elizabeth the First and Isabella of Spain, who lived as they liked and ruled entire nations in the sixteenth century.”

“They were the exceptions,” he reminded her. “On the other hand, in Native American cultures, women owned the property and often sat in council when the various tribes made decisions affecting war and peace. Ours was always a matriarchal society.”

“I know. I have a B. A. in anthropology.”

“I noticed.”

She laughed softly. Her fingers traced a pattern around the rim of her coffee cup. “Will I see you in D.C. if I get the job at the Smithsonian?”

“I suppose so,” he told her. “You put me at ease. I’m not sure it’s a good thing.”

“Why? Are you being tailed by foreign spies or something and you have to stay on edge because they might attack you?”

He smiled. “I don’t think so.” He leaned back. “But I’ve had some experience with intelligence work.”

“I don’t doubt that.” She searched his eyes. “Is it expensive to live in D.C.?”

“Not if you’re frugal. I can show you where to shop for an apartment, or you might want to double up with someone.”

She kept her eyes on the coffee cup. “Is that an invitation?”

He hesitated. “No.”

She grinned. “Just kidding.”

His fingers curled around hers, creating little electrical sparks all along the paths of her nerves. “One day at a time,” he said firmly. “You’ll learn that I don’t do much on impulse. I like to think things through before I act.”

“I can see where that would have been a valuable trait in the FBI, with people shooting at you,” she said, nodding.

He let go of her hand with an involuntary laugh. “God, Phoebe…! You say the most outrageous things sometimes.”

“I’m sorry, it slipped out. I’ll behave.”

He just shook his head. “I’ll never forget the first thing you ever said to me,” he added. “‘Do you have shovel-shaped incisors?’ you asked.”

“Stop!” she wailed.

He caught her long braid and tugged on it. His dark eyes probed hers. “I hate your hair bound up like this. I’d like to get a handful of it.”

“I know how you feel,” she murmured, glancing pointedly at his own ponytail.

He smiled. “We’ll have to let our hair down together again some time,” he mused, “and compare length.”

“Yours is much thicker than mine,” she observed. She pictured it loose, as she’d seen it, when they were tracking people around the toxic waste site last year. She remembered standing on the riverbank with him while they kissed in a fever that never seemed to cool. If they hadn’t been interrupted, anything could have happened. She flushed as she remembered how his hair had felt in her hands that last few minutes they were together as he crushed her down the length of that long, powerful body…

“Cut it out,” he said, glancing at the thin gold watch on his wrist. “I have to catch a plane.”

She cleared her throat and tried not to look as hot and bothered as she felt. And he tried not to see that she was.

They finished their meal and he drove her back to the hotel where Clayton and Derrie were staying. He parked the car in a parking space a healthy walk from the hotel door, under a maple tree, and turned to her. The difference in their heights was even more apparent when they were seated. Her head barely came up to his chin. It excited him. He didn’t understand why.

“I have my own room,” she said without looking up. “And Derrie and Clayton won’t be back yet.”

“I won’t come in,” he said deliberately. “I don’t have much time.”

“I wish you could stay and have supper with us,” she remarked.

“I left a case hanging fire to come here. It was all I could do to manage one day.”

“I don’t know anything about you, really,” she told him honestly. “You said you were FBI when you were in Charleston, and then you told Derrie you were CIA, then you turned out to be a government prosecutor. You keep secrets.”

“Yes, but I don’t lie as a rule,” he said. “I would have told you more if I’d been around long enough. It wasn’t necessary, because I wasn’t going to be around, and we both knew it. I came here against my better judgment, Phoebe. I’m too old and too jaded for a woman your age. You haven’t even reached the stage of French kissing, while I’ve long passed the stage of Victorian courtship.”

She felt her cheeks burn, but she met his eyes levelly. “In other words, if you stayed around long enough, you’d want to sleep with me.”

His dark eyes ran slowly over her face. “I already want to sleep with you,” he said. “There’s nothing I want more. That’s why I’m going to get on a plane and go straight back to D.C.”

She wasn’t sure how she felt. Her eyes searched his. “You might ask,” she said.

“Ask what?”

“If I’d like to sleep with you,” she said.

“I might not like the answer.”

She studied his hard, lean face. “Would any woman do?”

He touched her cheek. “I’m old-fashioned,” he said quietly. “I don’t play games. I’ve only had a handful of women in my life. They all meant something to me at the time, and most of them still speak to me pleasantly enough.”

She sighed gently and her eyes were sad as she smiled up at him. “I wish you’d stay,” she said honestly. “But I wouldn’t try to make you feel guilty about it. Thank you for coming to my graduation,” she added. “It was kind of you.”

He was watching her hungrily and hoping it didn’t show. “It’s just as well that you’re bristling with principles,” he said. “Our cultures won’t mix at close range, Phoebe. They’re too different. You’ve studied anthropology for years. You know the reasons as well as I do.”

“Good Lord, I’m not proposing marriage!” she burst out.

“Good thing,” he mused. “I’m married to my job. But if you’re ever in the market for a lover, I’ll be around.”

She gave him a pointed look. “Thanks bunches.”

“Just a thought,” he returned thoughtfully. “All the same, you might consider me a friend, if you ever need one. D.C. is a big, exciting place. I’ll be close by if you ever get in trouble.”

She studied his hard face, seeing the maturity in it. He was devastating at close range like this, and she’d never wanted anything so much as she wanted a chance to have him in her life. But they were already at an impasse, just as they’d been last year. There was a conflict of principles as well as cultures between them, and complicating it all was that formidable age difference. But, oh, he was sexy. She smiled faintly as her eyes roamed over his lean face possessively.

He cocked a heavy eyebrow. “Looking at me that way will bring you to grief,” he chided softly.

She shrugged. “Promises, promises.”

He touched the tip of her nose with his forefinger. “If I ever make one to you, I’ll keep it. Congratulations. I’m proud of you.”

She sighed. “Thanks again for coming all this way to watch me graduate. It meant a lot to me.” Her eyes searched his and she smiled wistfully. “I hate public places.”

He caught her long, thick braid and tugged her closer, so that her head went back against the seat and her face was under his. “This isn’t public,” he whispered against her mouth.

She barely got over the shock of his warm, hard lips on hers before he drew back and released her. He was already cursing himself for that lapse. He hadn’t meant to do it. This whole trip had been against his better judgment, but he couldn’t help himself.

She was watching him like a blue-eyed cat.

“Something on your mind?” he prompted.

“Yes. Is that it?” she asked pertly. “That’s the best you can do?”

“Excuse me?” he asked.

She sighed and touched his chin lightly with her fingers. “I can’t help but compare that very anemic peck with the unbridled, passionate kiss you gave me last year on a riverbank,” she said outrageously.

He looked down his long, straight nose at her. “That was last year. Things were less complicated.”

Her eyebrows went up. “Yes?” she prompted.

He traced her small ear with his forefinger and seemed to be brooding at the same time. “I have a brother, Isaac,” he replied. “He’s fourteen years younger than I am. About your age, in fact. My parents and I managed to get him through high school, but ever since, he’s had one brush with the law after another. Now it’s woman trouble. My mother has a bad heart and my father and I are afraid that all this is going to kill her.”

She was sorry for his situation, but flattered that he’d be so honest about a personal matter with her. “I’d have liked a brother or sister,” she remarked. “Even one who had problems.”

He smiled gently. “I know your father is dead. What about your mother?”

“She died of cancer when I was eight,” she said simply. “My father remarried and six years later, he died in Lebanon in the Marine barracks attack. My stepmother remarried. I haven’t seen her in years. My grandparents and Aunt Derrie are all I have left.”

He scowled. She wasn’t asking for sympathy, and he didn’t offer it. But he felt sad for her. His family was dear to him. He’d do anything for them.

“Heavens, I didn’t mean to run on like that!” she exclaimed, laughing self-consciously. She looked up at him with raised eyebrows. “Wouldn’t you like to come inside with me and have wild, unprotected sex on the carpet?”

His eyes twinkled with suppressed humor. She was outrageous.

“Listen, I heard a girl say one time that if you used plastic wrap…!” she persisted.

He held up a big hand. “Stop right there,” he said firmly, still fighting laughter. “I am not using plastic wrap for birth control.”

She sighed theatrically. “What’s going to become of me?” she asked the dashboard. “You’re condemning me to ridicule when I have to fill in employment forms.”

He leaned forward. “What?”

“There’s this place where it says sex, and because I’m an honest person, I’ll have to fill in that I can’t have any because the only man I want refuses to cooperate.”

He did laugh, then, shaking his head. “Get out of here!” He leaned over her to catch the door handle.

She was right up against him, with her mouth a scant inch from his, because she didn’t move, as he expected her to. At the proximity, she could see dark rims around his black irises, she could feel the minty taste of his breath against her parted lips.

Her fingers touched his warm throat gently. They were like ice. “I dated three boys this past semester alone,” she said in a husky tone. “I had to grit my teeth to even let them kiss me good night.”

“Are you making a point?”

Her eyes were eloquent. “I don’t feel anything with other men.”

“Baby, you’re very young,” he said in a soft, tender tone, his fingers lightly brushing her full lips. He wasn’t even aware of the endearment. His face was solemn. “Somebody will come along.”

“He already did, but he keeps leaving,” she muttered.

“I have a job,” he reminded her. He bent to her mouth and brushed it with his, very lightly. It was like electricity between them. “And a backlog of cases. I wasn’t lying.”

“I’ll bet you never take vacations,” she whispered against his lips, tracing them with her own in a desperate ploy to keep him with her.

“They’re rare.” He nipped her upper lip with his perfect white teeth, and then ran his tongue along the underside of it. His heartbeat increased abruptly and he felt his body responding to her with an urgency that he wasn’t used to. Involuntarily his fingers speared into the bound hair at her nape and tilted her face up to his. “This is not a good idea,” he ground out, but his mouth was already on her parted lips, and he was kissing her in a way that made her whole body leap.

She slid her arms around his neck, blind to the possibility of passersby. They were in a secluded area of the parking lot and it was deserted. It wouldn’t have mattered if it hadn’t been. She was on fire for him.

He groaned into her open mouth and his tongue darted in past her teeth. His big hands slid up her rib cage to the firm, soft thrust of her breasts and he took their delicate weight into his palms, his thumbs rubbing tenderly at the nipples until they went hard.

She shivered.

He lifted his head and looked straight into her dazed, misty eyes. His own were blazing with hunger. His hands contracted and he saw her pupils dilate even as she shivered again with pleasure.

“If you were older,” he bit off.

“It wouldn’t matter, because you’re too attracted to me,” she whispered, tightening her arms around his neck. “You’d run like a scalded dog before you’d take me to bed, Jeremiah,” she murmured shakily. “Because you’d be addicted overnight.”

“So would you,” he replied curtly, angered by her perception. The sound of his given name on her lips was strangely intimate, like the way he was holding her.

“I know,” she said huskily. She tugged his head back down and kissed him with all the pent-up longing of a whole year, enjoying the way he kissed her back, roughly and hungrily, with no restraint.

But all too soon, he caught her upper arms and pulled them down. His head lifted and the look in his eyes was suddenly remote.

“I have more personal problems than I can handle right now,” he said, his tone deep and slow. “I can’t manage you as well.”

“You want to,” she said daringly.

His eyes flashed. “Yes,” he said after a minute. “I want to.”

The admission changed her. She smiled, dazed.

“But I have to deal with the issues at hand, first,” he replied. He drew in a steadying breath and looked down at her soft mouth with real longing. He traced it with a long forefinger. “By Christmas, perhaps, things will resolve themselves. Do you spend it with Derrie, in Charleston?”

“Yes,” she replied, beaming, because he wasn’t saying goodbye forever.

“Think about the job opportunity I mentioned, will you? I’ll get some more details and mail them to you. What’s your address?”

Diverted, she fished for her purse and extracted a notepad and pen. She scribbled down Aunt Derrie’s address in Washington, D.C., where she lived working for Senator Seymour—except on holidays—and her Charleston address. “I guess I’ll stay at Aunt Derrie’s place in Charleston for a while, until I know what I’m going to be doing.”

“The job I’m recommending you for pays really well,” he said, smiling. “And I’d see you often, because I spend a lot of time doing pro bono work in the area of their offices.”

Her eyes were bright with hope. “What an incentive.”

He laughed softly. “I was thinking the same thing.” He hesitated, watching her. “I’m not good with people,” he said then. “Relationships are hard for me. Even surface ones. You’re demanding.”

“So are you,” she said simply.

He grimaced. “I suppose I am.”

“I’m not pushing you. I’m not even asking for anything,” she said quietly.

He touched her cheek with his fingertips. “I know that.”

She searched his dark eyes. “I knew you, the first time I saw you. I don’t understand how.”

“Sometimes, it’s better not to try,” he replied. “And I really do have to go.” He bent and kissed her with breathless tenderness, teasing her mouth with his until she lifted up to him. She moaned softly and tugged at his strong neck. He bent, crushing her against his chest with a harsh groan. She felt her whole body throbbing as the kiss went on and on until her mouth was swollen and her heart raced like a wild thing. He lifted his head reluctantly. But then he let her go abruptly and drew back.

He looked as unsettled as she felt. “We’ve got things in common already. We’ll probably find more. At least you aren’t totally ignorant of indigenous customs and rituals.”

She smiled gently. “I studied hard.”

He sighed. “Okay. We’ll see what happens. I’ll write you when I get back to D.C. Don’t expect long letters. I don’t have the time.”

“I won’t,” she promised.

He touched her chin with his thumb. “You were right about one thing,” he said unexpectedly.

“What?”

“You said that if I missed your graduation I’d regret it for the rest of my life,” he recalled, smiling. “I would have.”

Her fingers slid over his long mouth, tingling at the touch. “Me, too,” she agreed, with her heart in her eyes as they met his.

He bent and kissed her one last time before he reached across her and opened the door. “I’ll write.”

She got out, nodding at him. “So will I.” She closed the door and stared down into the car. “I hope things work out for you at home,” she added.

“They will, one way or the other,” he replied. He studied her with turbulent eyes and an uncanny sense of catastrophe ahead. His father and uncles and the medicine men who were his ancestors would have found that perception a blessing. To him, it was a nuisance.

“What’s wrong?” she asked, because the look on his face was eloquent.

He shifted. “Nothing,” he lied, trying to ignore the feeling. “I was just thinking. You take care, Phoebe.”

“You do the same. I enjoyed my graduation.”

He smiled. “I enjoyed it, too. This isn’t goodbye,” he added when she looked devastated.

“I know.” She felt uneasy, though, and she couldn’t understand why. He gave her one last look. His eyes were dark and shadowed and full of misgiving. Before she could ask why he looked that way, he rolled the window up.

He waved, and pulled out of the parking space. She watched him until he was out of sight. Her mouth still tingled from the press of his lips, and her body was aching with new sensations. With a sense of excitement and wonder, she turned and went slowly back into the hotel. The future looked rosy and bright.

CHAPTER TWO

Three years later

THE SMALL NATIVE AMERICAN museum in Chenocetah, North Carolina, was crowded for a Saturday. Phoebe smiled at a group of children as they passed her in the hall. Two of them jostled each other and the teacher called them down, with an apologetic smile at Phoebe.

“Don’t worry,” Phoebe whispered to the teacher. “There’s nothing breakable that isn’t behind glass or a velvet rope!”

The teacher chuckled and walked on.

Phoebe glanced at the board that translated Cherokee words into English. It wasn’t exact, but it was an improvement on the board that had hung there previously. The museum had been so ragged and unappealing that the county was thinking of shutting it down. But Phoebe had taken on the job of curator, and she’d put new life into the project. At the top of the board was the name of the town, Chenocetah, and its Cherokee translation: “See all around.” You really could, she thought, considering the tall, stately mountains that ringed the small town.

Phoebe had completed her master’s degree in anthropology by doing distance education and spending the required few weeks on campus during the summer in order to graduate. She was given the curator’s job in the Chenocetah Museum on the poviso that she was to obtain her master’s in the meantime.

Here, only a few minutes away from Cherokee, North Carolina, land was at a premium. The Yonah Indian Reservation, a small stronghold of native people, reached almost to the city limits sign of Chenocetah. On the outskirts of the small mountain town that boasted more hotels per square inch than Myrtle Beach, South Carolina, three construction companies were racing to put up several hotel complexes. One of the conglomerates was erecting up a Las Vegas-type theme hotel complex. The other two were luxurious tourist resorts with wildlife trails included in the design. They had the added attraction of being located with their backs to a mountain honeycombed with caves, a sure draw for spelunkers.

Two members of the city council had protested violently at the ecological impact of the mammoth projects, but the other three and the mayor had voted them down. The water rates alone would fill the city coffers, not to mention the tourists they would draw into the already tourist-oriented area.

Phoebe, like the two protesting councilmen, was thinking of the cost of enlarging the sewage system and water delivery system to accommodate the added demands of the huge hotels. They were going up close enough to the Chenocetah Cherokee Museum that they would probably impact the water pressure in the museum, already less than she liked with so many visitors. Another problem was going to be the headache of traffic snarls that would accompany the increased traffic near the small town’s city limits at one of the county’s worst intersections. One of the sheriff’s deputies who flirted with her regularly had mentioned that consequence. She didn’t flirt back. Phoebe had a grudge against anyone with a badge these days.

“You frown too much,” her colleague, Marie Locklear murmured dryly as she approached her. Marie was half Cherokee and a graduate of Duke University. She was the museum’s comptroller, and a precious asset.

“I smile when I’m alone,” Phoebe confessed. “I wouldn’t want to upset the staff.”

“My cousin Drake Stewart’s coming by at lunch, again,” she said, naming the deputy sheriff who patrolled the area. “I asked him to bring us a couple of those spicy chicken salads from the new fast-food joint.” Marie added, “He’s sweet on you.”

Phoebe winced. “I’m off men.”

“Drake’s thirty and drop-dead gorgeous,” Marie reminded her. “He’s got just enough Cherokee blood to make him sexy,” she added. “If he wasn’t my first cousin, I’d marry him myself!”

“He’s also a deputy sheriff.”

“That’s right. I forgot. You’re down on lawmen.”

Phoebe went into her office, with Marie right behind. “I’m down on men, period,” she replied.

“Why?”

Phoebe ignored the question. Dragging up the past was just too painful.

“Can we afford to fix that hole in the parking lot?” Phoebe asked. “We’re getting complaints.”

“If we forego fixing the roof, we can,” Marie said demurely.

“Not another leak!” Phoebe groaned. “Where is it?”

“In the men’s bathroom,” Marie replied. “There’s a puddle in front of the sinks.”

Phoebe sat down at her desk and put her head in her hands. “And it’s November already. We’ll have snow and sleet soon and the roof will just collapse under the weight. Why did I take this job? Why?”

“Because nobody else wanted it?”

Phoebe actually chuckled. Marie was incorrigible. She grinned at the younger woman. “No, actually because nobody else wanted me,” she corrected.

“I can’t believe that. You graduated in the top one percent of your class, and you did a great job with your master’s degree, which you completed in record time,” Marie recalled. “I read your curriculum vitae,” she added when Phoebe looked surprised.

“Credentials aren’t everything,” Phoebe replied.

“Yes, but your area of expertise is forensic anthropology,” came the reply. “There must be a lot of jobs going in that area, because it’s so specialized.”

“There were none when I needed one,” she said quietly, pulling a file toward her. “I wanted to get away from my family, from everything. This is an area where I didn’t know anyone, and where I wasn’t likely to run into…” She was going to say Cortez, but she bit her tongue. Marie perched her ample figure on the edge of the desk, pushing back her long, thick straight hair. “I know you don’t talk about it,” she said, “but I think you’re better now, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “Yes. I think I’m over it.”

“You will be when you rush out to Drake’s car and kiss him blind and beg him to take you on a date,” Marie said with a wicked grin.

Phoebe glared at her. “From what you’ve already told me, Drake’s got a girl on every street corner,” she said. “He loves women, all shapes and sizes and ages, and they love him. I don’t want an overused man.”

Marie’s eyes popped.

Phoebe realized what she’d said and burst out laughing. “Well, hypothetically speaking,” she murmured, flushing. “And don’t you dare tell Drake I said that!”

Marie touched her ample bosom. “Would I do that?”

“In a heartbeat,” Phoebe agreed. “Get to work. Find me a way to budget roof repair and pothole repair into our fiscal year.”

“We could go over to the Yonah Reservation and talk to Fred Fourkiller,” she replied. “He can make medicine. Maybe he can influence the board of directors to give us a bigger budget!” Medicine reminded her of Cortez, who was descended from a long line of medicine men. Involuntarily her hand rested on her middle desk drawer. She jerked it back.

“We may have to try that if all else fails,” Phoebe said, turning on her computer. “I’d better get my paperwork done before the school crowd arrives,” she added. “We have another busload at eleven, from the middle school.” She glanced at Marie wistfully. “When I first came here, we were lucky to get two tourists a month. Now it’s busloads of kids every week.”

“A lot of people around here have Cherokee blood, because we’re so close to the reservation,” Marie reminded her with a smile. “They want to learn about their heritage, so history classes like to come here.”

“It’s nice revenue, like all those regional books on local history that we sell in the souvenir shop,” Phoebe had to admit. “I only wish we had a patron.”

“It’s early days yet,” Marie said with a smile. “I’ll get to work.”

She went out, closing the door behind her. Phoebe’s one assistant on staff, Harriett White, was taking the classes through the exhibits. Harriett was widowed, and in her fifties. She’d once been a professor of history at Duke University, but she didn’t want to go back to a full-time job. She’d applied at the museum without any real expectation of acceptance, and Phoebe had phoned her the minute she read the application. At first, she couldn’t understand why someone with Harriett’s credentials would be applying for an assistant’s job, but she learned that Harriett wanted a less demanding position that enabled her to continue in the field she loved. The woman turned out to be a hard worker and much appreciated.

PHOEBE HESITATED for a minute before she opened her middle drawer and took out a small prayer wheel dangling a feather—not an eagle feather, or she’d have been in trouble. It was an odd little gift. Cortez had mailed it to her the week after her graduation. It was one of only two letters she ever had from him. It contained this prayer wheel, wrapped in rawhide, with the feather attached and a blade of sweetgrass woven into the center. Cortez had said that his father wanted her to have it, and to keep it close. She wasn’t superstitious, but it was something of his family…and precious. She was never far away from it.

Next to it was another letter, very thin, with her name and address scrawled in the same hand that had addressed the letter with the prayer wheel. She touched it as if it were a poisonous snake, even after three years. Gritting her teeth, she made herself take out the small newspaper clipping it contained—nothing else had been in the envelope—and look at it. It reminded her not to get sentimental about Cortez.

She read nothing except the small headline—Jeremiah Cortez Weds Mary Baker. There was no photo of the happy couple, just their names and the date of the wedding. Phoebe never forgot that. It was three weeks to the day from her graduation from college.

She tucked the clipping back into the envelope, pushing back the anguish of the day she’d received it. She kept it beside the prayer wheel always, to remind her not to get too nostalgic about her brief romance. It kept her single. She never wanted to take a chance like that again. She’d thrown her heart away, for nothing. She would never understand why Cortez had given her hope of a shared future and then sent her nothing more than a cold clipping about his marriage. No note, no apology, no explanation. Nothing.

She would have written to him, if for no other reason than to ask why he hadn’t told her he was engaged. But there was no return address on the second letter. Worse, the letter she’d written to him at the first letter’s address was returned to her, unopened, as unforwardable. She was shattered. Utterly shattered. Her sunny, optimistic personality had gone into eclipse after that. Nobody who’d known her even three years ago would recognize her. She’d cut her hair, adopted a businesslike personality and dressed like a matron. She looked like the curator of a museum. Which was what she was. Sometimes she could go a whole day without even thinking about Jeremiah Cortez. Today wasn’t one of them.

She shoved the envelope to the back of the drawer and closed it firmly. She had a good job and a secure future. She kept a dog at home for protection in the small cabin where she lived. She didn’t date anyone. She had no social life, except when she was invited to various political functions to ask for funding for the small museum. Sadly, the politicians who came to the gatherings had little money to offer, despite the state of the economy. Probably it was that her small museum didn’t have enough political clout to offer in respect to the funding it needed. They got some through private donations, but most of their patrons weren’t wealthy. It was a hand-to-mouth existence.

Phoebe sat back, looking around the office which was as bare of personal effects as her little house. She didn’t collect things anymore. There was a mandala on the wall that one of the Bird Clan of the Cherokee people had made for her, and a blowgun that a sixth-grader’s father had made. She smiled, looking at it. People were always surprised when they were told that the Cherokee people had used blowguns in the past to hunt with. Usually they were more surprised to find that Cherokee people lived in houses and didn’t wear warbonnets and loincloths and paint, unless they were portraying the historical Trail of Tears in the annual pageant, “Unto These Hills,” on the not-too-distant Quallah Indian Reservation near Cherokee, North Carolina. People had some strange ideas about Native Americans.

THE PHONE RANG while Phoebe was trying to force herself to answer her e-mail. She picked it up absently. “Chenocetah Cherokee Museum,” she announced pleasantly.

“Is this Miss Keller?” a man’s voice asked.

“Yes,” she replied, ignoring her computer screen. The man sounded disturbed. “What can I do for you?”

There was a hesitation. “You can arrange to have a site dated by organic material, can’t you? Don’t you have a small foundation budget to help with that sort of thing?”

“Well, yes, although we can date by tree ring age…”

“I mean skeletal remains,” he added. “I have a skull…I have a whole skeleton, in fact. There’s a great deal of patination, and in situ in a cave with Paleo-Indian lithic specimens, Folsom point if I’m not mistaken…There are two effigy figures that would certainly date from the Hopewell period, very fine…The skull has an enlarged brain case and wide nasal cavities, the dentition is indicative of…well, the skull is possibly Neanderthal in origin.”

She actually gasped. She clutched the phone so hard that her knuckles went white. “Are you serious? We’ve never dated anything back further than ten to twelve thousand years, and that’s at a site in Tennessee, not North Carolina. There simply are no authenticated Neanderthal remains anywhere in North America…!”

“That’s right. But I…found some,” he said. “I think I…found some.”

She sat up straight. “Is this some sort of hoax?” she asked coldly. “Because if it is…”

“I know you’re wary—I don’t blame you.” He paused. “I’m a doctor of anthropology visiting the area. I know what I’m talking about. This is no hoax. But…they’re covering it up,” he added in a rushed whisper. “He said that if this gets out, they’ll kill him, they’ll kill me! They’ll do anything to keep the project going. If we tell, they’ll be shut down indefinitely while the site’s being excavated. Of course, it would mean national publicity as well, and it will bankrupt him!”

“Him, who?” she demanded. “Where’s the site? And who are you?”

“I can’t tell you…not yet. I’ll call you back when I can. They’re watching me…!” On the other end of the line, Phoebe heard a loud knock and the sound of a door opening. There was a woman’s strident voice in the background, but it was muffled. She guessed that he must have put his hand on the receiver. “Yes, I was just…speaking to my daughter! Yes, to my daughter. I’m coming!” he called to his visitor. Then he came back on the line. “I’ll speak to you later…goodbye,” he told Phoebe. There was a sudden noise and the phone slammed down.

She pressed star 69 on her phone to get the number that had called her, but it had been blocked at the source. She ground her teeth together and put down the phone. Maybe it was just a hoax, she thought. There had been several such “discoveries” over the years, including one in California that professed to show a set of human remains, which would predate the Cro-Magnon period—and those so-called Neanderthal findings were dated by one of the most famous anthropologists on earth. But the date was controversial and it was discounted by most authorities. There was a similar story from New Mexico which put forth the theory that a set of remains found in a cave were over thirty-five thousand years old, but they mysteriously vanished before they could be scientifically evaluated. Whether those cases were hoaxes or not could never be proved. The newest archaeological controversy revolved around Kennewick man, a California find, who was purported to be from the Paleo-Indian period, but who did not have predominantly Native American features. That controversy was still raging.

Perhaps this man who’d called her was just some crackpot with time to kill, Phoebe reasoned. But he’d sounded very sincere. And frightened. She chided her own gullibility. It was nothing at all and she was overreacting. She pulled up her computer screen and got back to her e-mail.

THE DOOR OPENED unexpectedly, and a tall, well-built man with a light olive complexion, short black hair and dark twinkling eyes stuck his head in. “Time to eat!” he said.

She looked up from her computer screen, smiling at the deputy sheriff. “Hi, Drake. Marie said you were bringing lunch. Thanks!”

“No sweat. I get hungry, too, Miss Keller, and sometimes I have to eat on the run,” he drawled, moving into the office with two box lunches. “Which is why mine is still in the car. I’m on my way to a call now. I brought these for you and Marie.” She punched a button on her phone. “Marie, Drake’s here with food!”

“I’ll be right there!” she called excitedly.

“At least somebody’s happy to see me, even if it’s just my cousin,” he said with mock disappointment. “You’re preoccupied.”

“I am,” she agreed, closing down the computer program. She looked up worriedly. “I just had a call a couple of hours ago. Maybe he was a crank, or a crackpot. But he sounded scared.”

Drake’s easy smile faded. He moved closer. “What was it about?”

“He said something about human skeletal remains that might date to the Neanderthal period being covered up by some contractor,” she said, boiling the conversation down to its basics. “He hung up abruptly. I tried to get his number, but he had it blocked.”

“Neanderthal remains. Uh-huh,” he said mockingly.

She smiled. She’d forgotten that he’d taken an Internet course on archaeology that had been offered through the museum.

“I suppose it was just a joke,” she added.

“Somebody hoping to graduate from high school. He’ll trip himself up, like that kid who wrote a bomb threat to his school on his father’s letterhead paper,” he added. She nodded. “Thanks for bringing the salads. It’s a long way to food from here,” she pointed out as she dug in her purse to pay him back.

“I can’t get you to come out with me,” he commented on a sigh. “It’s the next best thing to have lunch here,” he added. “I’ve got to go.”

Marie stuck her head in the door. “I’m starved! Thanks, Drake. You’re a sweetie, even if you are my cousin!”

He cocked an eyebrow at her. “At least somebody thinks so,” he said morosely, with a speaking glance at Phoebe.

“Oh, she’s off men,” Marie told him chattily.

He frowned. “Why?”

Phoebe shot Marie a warning glance. She held up both hands, looking sheepish, and changed the subject.

CHAPTER THREE

THE NEXT MORNING, Phoebe heard sirens racing past her small cabin just as she woke up. She hoped there hadn’t been some terrible accident. The mountain roads were narrow and some were dangerous in this part of the area. They’d had flatland tourists go over guardrails occasionally. The drop was inevitably fatal.

She dressed and grabbed a quick cup of coffee before she drove her old Ford to work. The museum parking lot was usually empty at that hour, except for her car and Marie’s. But a sheriff’s car was sitting at the entrance with the motor running.

Frowning, she got out of her vehicle, shuffling her purse and briefcase. At the same time, Drake got out of the patrol car. But he wasn’t smiling, and he looked uneasy.

“Hi,” she greeted him. “What’s up?”

He rested his hand on the butt of his service revolver in its holster as he approached her. “You said you talked to a man yesterday about some skeletal remains, right?”

“Right,” she said slowly.

“Did he give his name?”

“No.”

“Can you tell me anything about him?” he persisted somberly.

She hesitated, thinking back. “He said he was an anthropologist…”

“Damn!”

Her lips parted. She’d never seen easygoing Drake look so angry. “What’s happened?” she asked.

“They found a DB on the Rez,” he said quietly.

She blinked, trying to recall the terminology. “A dead body,” she translated, “on the reservation.”

He nodded curtly. “Just barely on it, about a hundred feet or so from the actual boundary. He appears to be of Cherokee descent, because we also found a tribal registration card, with the name and number missing, and we found part of a membership card from a professional anthropological society, which we assume was his—the part with his name was missing. So was his driver’s license.”

She gasped. “That man who called me…?”

“Looks like it could be. We can’t go on Cherokee land unless we’re asked. And this makes it a federal matter. But I have a cousin on the reservation police force, and he told me. It’s all real hush-hush. The FBI is sending a special agent out to investigate, someone from that new Indian Country Crime Unit they’re forming. I just wanted to warn you that they will want to talk to you.”

“What?”

“You were the last person who spoke to the victim,” he said. “They found your telephone number scribbled on a pad next to his phone at his motel and looked it up in the phone book. That’s when Cousin Richard called me—he knows I hang around the museum a lot.” He studied her worried expression. “Somebody killed the guy, in his motel outside Chenocetah, or on the deserted dirt road where he was lying. The road leads the back way onto some construction sites, near a mountain honeycombed with caves. A jogger found him lying on the side of the road early this morning with a bullet in the back of his head. She’s still being treated for shock at the local clinic,” he added.

Phoebe leaned against a pillar at the front of the museum, trying to catch her breath. She’d never imagined that she might end up involved in a murder investigation. It took a little getting-used-to.

“Maybe I should join her,” she said, and not completely facetiously.

“You’re not in any danger. At least…I don’t think you are,” he added slowly.

She lifted her face and met his eyes. “Excuse me?”

He frowned. “We don’t know who killed him, or why,” he said. “Unless that story of his was concocted. And even if it is, there are three new big construction projects underway in the area. If what he told you is true, there’s no way of knowing where he was looking when he found that site.”

“Who did he work for?” she asked.

“They don’t know yet. The investigation is still in its preliminary stages. There’s one other thing—you can’t tell Marie.”

“Why not?”

“She can’t keep her mouth shut,” he replied quietly. “There’s an investigation going on, and I’m telling you about it because I’m worried for your safety. I don’t want it told all over the county, though.”

She whistled softly. “Oh, boy.”

“Just in case, have you got a gun?”

She shook her head. “I shot a friend’s pistol once, but I was afraid of the noise and I never tried it again.”

He bit his lower lip and drew in a long breath. “You live out in the country. If I can get a target, will you let me come out and teach you how to shoot?”

She felt the world shake under her feet. Drake was happy-go-lucky on ordinary days. But he wasn’t kidding about this. He was genuinely worried about her. She swallowed hard.

“Yes,” she said after a minute. “I’d be glad to have you teach me, if you think it’s necessary.” She gave him a searching look. “Drake, you know something you aren’t telling me,” she murmured.

“A site like that, with an unknown set of possible Neanderthal remains…” he began slowly. “If it existed, it would make it impossible for any developer to build on it. We’re talking millions of dollars in time and materials and labor, wasted. Some people would do a lot to avoid that.”

“Okay,” she said, forcing a smile. “So I’ll learn to shoot.”

“I’ll talk to the FBI agent when he, or she, gets here,” he added, “and see what we can come up with by way of protection.”

But she knew how that would end. Government agencies, like local law enforcement, had the same budget problems that she did. Funding for around-the-clock protection wouldn’t be forthcoming, despite the need, and she certainly couldn’t fund it herself. All the same, the thought of taking a human life made her sick.

“You’re thinking you couldn’t shoot somebody,” he guessed, his dark eyes narrowing.

She nodded.

“I felt that way, before I went into the Army,” he told her. In fact, he’d just come out of it the year before, after a stint overseas. “I learned how to shoot by reflex. So can you. It might mean your life.”

She winced. “Life was so uncomplicated yesterday.”

“Tell me about it. I’m not directly involved in the investigation, but jurisdiction is going to depend on where the murder actually took place. Just because he was found on the Rez is no reason to assume he was killed there.”

“Would a killer really want the FBI involved?” she asked.

“No. But he might not have known he was involving federal jurisdiction. The local boundaries aren’t exactly marked in red paint,” he reminded her with a cool smile. “The dirt road where the body was found looked as if it was close to Chenocetah. But it wasn’t. The reservation boundary sign was lying facedown about a hundred yards from where the tire tracks stopped.”

She pursed her lips, thinking. “The killer didn’t see the reservation sign. Maybe it was at night…?”

He nodded, smiling. “Good thinking. Ever considered working on the side of truth and justice, fighting crime?”

She laughed. “Your department couldn’t afford me,” she pointed out.

“Hell, they can’t afford me, but that didn’t stop them hiring me, did it?” he asked, and grinned, showing perfect white teeth. “You take care of your museum, and I’ll do my best to take care of you,” he added.

She frowned.

He held up a hand. “In a nice, professional way,” he added. “I know you think I’m an overused man.”

She did gasp then. “Marie!” she raged aloud.

He laughed. “I’m not offended, but that’s why I said you shouldn’t share secrets with her.” He lifted both eyebrows. “Actually, it’s a little like peacocks.”

“It’s what?”

“A peacock makes a fantastic display to attract females. His feathers may be a little ragged, and the colors may be faded, but it’s the effect he’s going for. Sort of like me,” he added, smiling faintly. “I’m not Don Juan. But if I pretend I am,” he said, leaning toward her, “I might get lucky.”

She laughed with pure pleasure.

“Didn’t you see that movie with Johnny Depp, when he thought he was Don Juan?” he teased. “It worked for him. I thought, why the hell not? You never know until you try. But I had to lose the cape and the mask. The sheriff wanted to call in a psychiatrist.”

“Oh, Drake, you’re just hopeless,” she said, but in a softer tone than she’d ever used with him.

“That’s better,” he said, smiling. “You’ve been wearing winter robes. Time to look for spring blossoms, Miss Keller.”

“Sometimes you actually sound poetic,” she pointed out.

He shrugged. “I’m part Cherokee. Remember, we’re not just ‘the people,’ we’re, ‘principal people’ in our own tongue.”

Every tribe was “the people” in its own language, she recalled, except for the Cherokee, who called themselves “principal people.” They were an elegant, intelligent people who had their own written language long before other tribes.

“No argument?” he asked.

She held up a hand. “I never argue with the law.”

“Good thinking,” he stated, straightening so that his close-fitting uniform outlined his powerful body.

Before she could reply, the sound of a loud muffler caught their attention. Marie pulled into the parking lot in her old truck, which was pouring smoke from the tailpipe. She cut off the engine and it made a loud popping sound.

Diverted, Drake went to it at once, motioning for Marie to open the hood. He stood back to let the smoke dissipate, waving it with his hand. He peered in over the engine and fiddled with a valve.

He stood up, shaking his head, while Marie waited with a worried look on her face. “It’s carburetor backfire, Marie,” he told her. “If you don’t get it fixed, it could catch the truck on fire.”

“I’m not convinced that would cost less than replacing it,” Marie muttered. “Oh, I hate this thing!”

“It’s just old,” he told her, smiling. “Maybe a little…overused.”

Marie went scarlet. “I’ll go phone my brother at his garage right now!” She didn’t even look at Phoebe as she ran past her, fumbling with her key when she realized the door was still locked. Fortunately she didn’t think to ask why.

Drake and Phoebe were laughing softly.

“I won’t tell her a thing,” Phoebe promised.

“I’ll see what else I can find out. Maybe Saturday, for the lessons?” he added.

She nodded. “I get off at one.”

“I’ll arrange my schedule so I’m off that afternoon,” he promised. He glanced toward his squad car, where the radio was crackling. “Just a minute.”

He strode to the car and picked up the mike, giving his call sign. He listened, nodded and spoke into it again.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “The FBI agent is on his way. They want us to assist,” he added with a grin. “I suppose my investigative abilities have impressed somebody at the federal level!”

She chuckled. “See you Saturday.”

He waved, jumped into the car and sped away.

“WHAT WAS GOING ON OUT THERE?” Marie asked curiously.

“Drake’s going to teach me to shoot a gun,” Phoebe said. “I’ve always wanted to learn.”

Marie was oddly subdued. She moved to the desk and looked across it worriedly. “I know you don’t want to trust me with any important news, after I blabbed to Cousin Drake about what you said. I’m really sorry,” she added.

“I’m not mad.”

Marie grimaced. “My brother says they found an anthropologist dead on the Rez this morning, and gossip is that he spoke to you yesterday. You’re in danger, aren’t you, and now you can’t tell me because you think I’ll tell everybody.”

Phoebe was shocked. “How did your brother know…?”

“Oh, we know everything,” she said. “It’s a small community. Somebody from one clan finds out and tells somebody from another clan, and it’s all over the mountains.”

“Worse than a telephone party line,” Phoebe said, still gasping.

“Really,” Marie agreed. “You could stay with me,” she added. “Your place is way out.”

“Drake’s going to teach me to shoot.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “You didn’t like him.”

“He grows on you.”

She smiled. “He’s my cousin. I think he’s terrific. He may strut a little, but he’s smart and brave. You could do a lot worse,” she added.

Phoebe glared. “He’s only giving me shooting lessons,” she said firmly. “I’m still not ready to get interested in a man, overused or not.”

Marie ignored that. “He’ll look out for you. So will my other cousins and my brother, if you need it,” she told her. “You’ve done a lot for us. We don’t forget favors, especially with family.”

“I don’t have a drop of Native American blood, Marie,” Phoebe said firmly.

Marie grinned. “You’re still family,” she mused, and turned away. “I’ll get to work.”

Phoebe watched her go absently, her mind still on the dead man. It was upsetting that someone she’d spoken to the day before had been murdered. What was also upsetting was the destruction of a potentially precious site. If there were Neanderthal remains at a construction site—although she seriously doubted it—it would rewrite the history not only of North Carolina, but of the continent. Certainly it would shut down the developer, no question. Was that a reason to kill a human being? Phoebe, who had no love of money past being able to pay her bills, couldn’t comprehend what some people might do for great wealth.

SHE WENT ABOUT HER BUSINESS for the next two days. Drake stopped by to tell her that the FBI agent had arrived, but he was oddly reticent about anything else. And he gave her a look that kept her awake. On Friday morning, she understood what it meant.

Just as she was getting ready to welcome a group of elderly visitors from a local nursing home, a black car pulled up at the steps. It had a government license plate. The FBI no doubt, she thought idly, watching for the tour bus.

But the man who got out of the car froze her in her tracks. He had long black hair in a ponytail. He was wearing a gray vested suit and sunglasses. He came up the steps and stopped dead in front of Phoebe. He took off the glasses and hung them by one earpiece from his vest pocket.

“Hello, Phoebe,” Cortez said quietly. He didn’t smile. His scarred face looked leaner and harder than she remembered it. There were new lines around his eyes and mouth. He looked as if he’d never smiled in his life. His black eyes were penetrating, cold, all business.

She lifted her chin. She didn’t scream and throw things, which was how she felt. She forced herself to look composed and professional. “Hello, Cortez,” she replied, with equal formality and deliberately not using his first name. “What can I do for you?”

“A deputy sheriff named Drake—” he pulled out a pad and made a production of looking for the man’s name, which he knew quite well already “—Stewart said that you spoke to the victim the night before his body was found. I’d like to have a word with you, if you have time.”

She swallowed hard. “You’re investigating the case?”

He nodded. “I’m back with the FBI. I’m part of a new unit being set up specifically to investigate violent crime on Indian Reservations nationwide.”

She wanted to ask why he’d given up law, when he loved it so. She wanted to ask why he’d deserted her with nothing more informative than a newspaper clipping, when he’d looked at her as if he loved her. But she didn’t.

“Come into my office. Just a minute, please.” She stopped and called to Harriett, who was taking a break. “Harriett, there’s a busload of people coming from the nursing home. Can you take it? I have to speak to this gentleman.”

Harriett lifted an eyebrow as she looked at Cortez, who towered over both women. “At least the government’s taste has improved,” she murmured dryly, and went out front to meet the bus, which was just pulling into the parking lot.

Cortez didn’t react to the comment. Neither did Phoebe. She went into her office and offered him the only chair in front of her cluttered desk. He didn’t sit down because Marie walked in abruptly with a payroll report, since it was Friday. She paused when she saw their visitor. Her quick eyes took in his long hair and dark complexion, the suit and his businesslike bearing. “Siyo,” she said in Cherokee, a word of greeting as well as goodbye.

He lifted his chin and his eyes were hostile. “I don’t speak Cherokee. I’m Comanche,” he said bluntly.

She colored and cleared her throat. “Sorry.”

He didn’t say a word. He moved aside to let her put the report on Phoebe’s desk.

Marie exchanged a bland glance with Phoebe and beat a hasty retreat, closing the door behind her.

Phoebe sat down behind her desk and looked at Cortez. She folded her hands in front of her on the desk. They were working hands, with short nails and no polish. No rings, either.

“What can I do for you?” she asked professionally.

He looked at her for just a few seconds too long. His eyes darkened. There were shadows in them.

He pulled the notepad out of his pocket, crossed his long legs, flipped the pad open and checked his notes.

“You spoke to the man the day before his body was found,” he repeated. He took out a pen. “Can you tell me what he said?”

“He told me that a construction company was trying to cover up a potentially explosive archaeological site,” she replied. “Neanderthal remains.”

The pen stilled and he lifted his eyes to hers. He didn’t say a word.

“I know, it sounds preposterous,” she replied. “But he was quite serious. He said that the company was deeply in debt and afraid for the site to be discovered, for fear of being bankrupted during the excavation that would follow.”

“There are no recorded Neanderthal remains anywhere in North America,” he replied.

“I have a degree in anthropology,” she replied coldly, insulted by the insinuation that she wouldn’t know that. “Would you like to see it?”

His eyes narrowed. “You’ve changed.”

“So have you,” she bit off. “Back to the subject at hand, please. I know it sounds outlandish, but the man seemed to know what he was talking about. I tried to trace his number. He’d blocked it.”

“They found your number on a pad beside his telephone, in a motel room. he registered under a false name and address. His ID is missing, except for a card designating him as a member of a national anthropological society.”

“If someone stole his credentials, why didn’t they take that, too?” she asked.

“It was under the bed. His wallet was thrown on his bed, empty of everything except a twenty-dollar bill. They must have emptied it there. Maybe they tore up the anthropology society ID card and that piece of it fell and they didn’t notice. Pretty good work otherwise, though. No obvious clues, although I had our crime technician check the room with a blue light for latent prints. There were none. I sealed off the room and I’ve already got our crime unit on the scene,” he added, naming a group whose purpose was specifically to gather and process trace evidence.

“How about footprints? Tire tracks?”

He shifted restlessly. He was recalling, as she must be, their cooperation in tracking down a polluter outside Charleston by following tire tracks. It was a time when she was young and full of life and hope and ambition. It was a different world.

He forced himself not to look back. “It’s early days. We’re checking that out. Had you ever heard his voice before?” he added.

She shook her head.

“He didn’t mention the developer’s name, anything that would help find him?”

She shook her head again.

He grimaced. “There are a number of possibilities, I’m told. Meanwhile,” he added, putting up the pad and pen to pierce Phoebe’s eyes with his own, “you’re the only link we have to a murder.”

“I could be the next victim,” she assumed.

“Yes.” He bit off the word, as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

“I’ve already been told that. I have a dog,” she said. “And one of the deputy sheriffs is giving me shooting lessons tomorrow.”

Something touched his face, something cold and angry. “Do you have a gun?”

“He’s loaning me a pistol.”

He thought for a moment. “I’ll see what I can do about some protection.”

She stood up. “You and I both know that no law enforcement budget is going to provide around-the-clock protection for me. Marie’s cousins have offered to keep an eye on me,” she added.

His eyes narrowed. “This is not a civilian matter.”

“That’s good, because they aren’t civilians. They belong here. They live on the reservation,” she replied sweetly. “And you may have jurisdiction there, but you’re not going to be met with open arms, either. They don’t like feds.”

He glared at her and she glared right back.

“Three years,” he bit off.

“Your choice,” she returned icily. “Haven’t you got a crime to investigate, Special Agent Cortez? Because I’m quite busy myself.”

She walked to the door and jerked it open, her face so hostile that Marie, walking toward her, actually turned in midstep and went the other way.

Cortez unhooked the sunglasses from his vest pocket and shot them over his eyes and nose. “I’ll be in touch,” he said curtly.

She almost made a sarcastic remark, but it wouldn’t help. Nothing would help. Dragging up the past would only make things worse. She had other concerns, not the least of which was her own well-being.

He walked out, apparently not expecting a reply. A minute later, she heard the engine start and the car pull out onto the highway. He didn’t even spray gravel when he left. He was more controlled now than he had been when Phoebe knew him, and that was saying something.

Marie came into the office a few minutes later, watching her boss warily.

“So that was him.”

Phoebe wanted to deny it, but there was no use. “Yes.”

“No wonder you came up here in the middle of nowhere to work,” she replied. “That’s more man than I’d want to try to handle.”

“My sentiments exactly.”

“Drake isn’t going to like him, I think,” Marie mused.

Phoebe wasn’t listening. “I’ve forgotten a lot of my training,” she murmured to herself. “But I do remember that nothing has ever been found in North Carolina older than the last Ice Age, around 10,000-12,000 Before Present Era. The man did mention something about finding the skull in a cave…” she added slowly.

“This whole area is honeycombed with caves,” Marie reminded her. “Don’t you remember those stupid stories about our huge stockpile of lost Cherokee gold? As if we had anything left after we were rounded up like cattle and walked all the way to Oklahoma in 1838!”

“Of all the tragic stories I know—and I know some—that hurts the most,” Phoebe said quietly. “I can’t even walk through the Museum of the Cherokee Indians without being reduced to tears. It was a terrible mistake on the part of Andrew Jackson and local governments.”

“Gold fever,” Marie said. “We were in the way.”

“Yes. But your family escaped,” Phoebe reminded her gently. “So did a few others.”

“Not enough of us did,” Marie said sadly. “But, about that gold—there are lots of caves.”

“Any at those construction sites?”

“There’s a mountain that adjoins all three of them, near a river, and it’s honeycombed with caves,” Marie said. “They were bulldozing near them last week. Chances are that no matter what that man found, if it wasn’t inside a cave, it’s a pile of rubble by now.”

“What if,” Phoebe wondered aloud, “we could get an injunction to halt construction everywhere until we had time to look?”

“What if we got sued by starving construction workers?” Marie asked, putting things into perspective. “Plenty of men from the reservation work for those companies. It’s going to hit a lot of families hard if we shut those companies down. And how would you get the authority to do it, anyway?”

Phoebe grimaced. “I wish I knew.”

They went back to work. Alone in her office, Phoebe tried to come to grips with Cortez’s unexpected presence in her life. It had wounded her to have to see him again with the past lying between them like a bloodied knife.

She wondered why he’d come here. He couldn’t have known she was working nearby. He’d obviously been back with the FBI for some period of time, to be assigned to this case. But where was he working out of?

She tried to recall every single word the murdered man had said. She pulled up a blank file on her computer and started typing. She was able to reconstruct most of their brief conversation, along with putting color into the man’s accent. He had a definite Southern accent, which would help place him. He had a way of talking that sounded like a bad stutter, or a lack of cohesive thought. He’d mentioned two people, a developer and another person who was apparently feeding him information. That might be useful. He’d opened the door and someone had called to him while he talking to her, definitely a woman’s voice. It had been at exactly 3:10 p.m. the day before. None of it was worth much alone, but it might give the authorities something more to go on.

She wasn’t going to phone Cortez. How could she, when she had no idea where he was? But she could give the information to Drake when he came by her house the next morning. He’d give it to the proper people.

She saved the file and went back to her budget plan. Unfortunately she forgot all about it in the sudden arrival of a late group wanting a tour of the facility.

The next morning, she was just finishing her small breakfast when she heard the sound of a truck coming down her long dirt driveway. Jock, her black chow, was barking loudly from his vigil on the front porch.

Phoebe went onto the porch in sock feet, jeans and a sweatshirt, a cup of coffee in one hand. Drake drove up in a black truck and parked at the steps.

“Got some more coffee?” he asked as he dragged out of the truck in boots, jeans, and a black T-shirt under a black and red flannel shirt. “I need fortifying. I’ve just been flayed, filleted and grilled by the FBI!”

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