“I understand that you’re upset.”
“No.” Clark got to his feet. “I’m not upset. I am . . .” Shaken. Unmoored. “. . . irate.”
“Oh boy,” Riley muttered, standing herself.
“I’ll never be able to get my work done”—he tried to instill every ounce of authority he possessed into his tone—“if I’m constantly babysitting you.”
“Babysitting? Are you fucking kidding me?” Riley threw up her hands. “How about this—just stay away from me.”
As much as he’d like to agree to such a simple suggestion, Clark couldn’t. “I won’t be able to stop worrying about you.”
“You don’t even like me.” She barely bit out the sentence around her mounting fury.
“That’s not the point.” It also wasn’t completely true. Not that Clark needed her knowing how difficult he found it to write her off. “If we’re sharing a site, you have to follow basic safety procedures. It’s nonnegotiable.”
“Oh really?” She opened her mouth, presumably to tell him exactly where he could shove his demands, but then something seemed to occur to her. “Wait a minute. Maybe there’s a way for both of us to get what we want here.”
“I’m sorry. What is it that you want?” Besides to send him to an early grave.
“I want your help.”
His help? With what?
“I’m afraid I don’t have any magical powers.”
“Cute.” She scoffed. “But what I meant was I want your research on Arden.”
In negotiation, Riley had the calm, relaxed air of an experienced bargainer. He could imagine her at a car dealership, wearing down a salesman until he gave her the employee rate. “That book you had at the bar, I read it last night. It’s useful, but not enough. I bet there’s plenty more where that came from.”
She wasn’t wrong.
Clark had used the research exercise to pull him out of his Long Winter of Despondency. He didn’t just have books and journals, but collections of historical and topographic maps of the region, town and county records, aerial photographs, even soil maps. In the wake of the three dark, numb months that had followed the scandal, Clark had exhausted all available resources on Arden Castle while preparing for his arrival.
He supposed Riley might find his materials useful in her para-normal diagnostics. Since burning them both to the ground hadn’t worked.
“You have access to stuff I could never get my hands on alone,” she continued. “I’ll bet your credentials can get you into any university database or private collection you want. Plus, you had the luxury of time.”
It was an astute assessment born of a keen eye. Once again, he was forced to evolve his understanding of his opponent.
“All right. Let’s say I allow you access to my research. With supervision. What exactly are you offering in return?” Through sheer force of will, he kept his mind blank of any indecent exchange.
“It’s simple. Lend me your research, and I’ll follow whatever safety procedures you want.”
Despite himself, her hook landed. “You’ll wear appropriate protective equipment?”
“Sure, if you pay for it.”
“And I get final approval over your work outfits?”
“No. Weirdo. But you can give me some general guidelines and I’ll consider them.”
It was the most insulting deal he’d ever heard.
“So, you get everything you want, and I get to spend money.”
Riley Rhodes was dangerous in more ways than he’d ever imagined. She’d seen his vulnerability and shrewdly capitalized on it for her own gain, shoring up her weaknesses as she put herself in prime position to sabotage him.
“True, but you are getting peace of mind.” She patted him consolingly on the shoulder. “Can you really put a price on that?”
“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.