Expedition of Love (12 page)

"It is quite beautiful here,” he said. “I hadn't envisioned all of this greenery.” He motioned with his hand, and her gaze followed hungrily. “How far from the river does this extend?"

Focusing on his question and not on her body's desire to be touched by him, she searched her mental catalog of information for an answer. “Far enough to support vast amounts of cattle and sheep. Alfalfa is the predominant crop, but there is a push for others such as fruit and plans for irrigation, but the country is still too underdeveloped for that."

From the corner of her eye she saw his nod. They stood for several minutes in silence, enjoying the view. She could feel energy hovering between them, but wasn't sure how to put it to use. She was rather new at vying for a man's attention, but as her father said, she was always one for a challenge.

He turned and rested his hip against the railing. “Miss Peterson, I must ask if—well—Mr. Walters seems to be having some difficulty with his clothing."

She lifted her hand to cover her smile. “I'm sorry to hear that. Is there anything I can do?"

He grinned in return. “No, I'm sure he can handle the dilemma, but I'm afraid his roommates aren't too pleased with him. He reeks, you see. Of goat's milk."

She choked back a chuckle and cleared her throat. “Really? How dreadful for him."

"Miss Peterson, I beg you to tell me if he has behaved improperly. My mind has fabricated—let's just say, I need to know."

She took a deep breath, pleased with his need to protect her, and yet disappointed that they were discussing Geoffrey Walters instead of something more pleasant. But by the grim frown he wore, she could see that was impossible.

"He said some things that I found offensive. I'm afraid my temper took action before my common sense."

His back snapped straight. “I won't ask you to repeat what he said, but I surmise it had something to do with the—with the scene on the dock."

She dropped her gaze and studied the railing, her finger tracing a tiny invisible line over its edge.

"Yes.” She couldn't allow him to see how much she wanted to complete the scene on the dock. At least, not yet.

Stealing a glimpse at him, she watched his broad shoulders sag with a new weight.

He swiped his hand down his face, upsetting his spectacles. “This is all my fault.” Taking a deep breath, he adjusted the wire frames until they'd been reseated properly. “Again, I'm sorry, Miss Peterson. I've behaved most abominably. I hope you can forgive me for bringing about this unfortunate incident."

She lifted her hand and pressed it against his jacket, secretly wanting to feel his warmth. “But it wasn't your fault."

He wrapped his hand around her wrist. “Miss Peterson, I—"

She edged closer, her other hand firmly gripping the rail. That was the only thing holding her back from completing that interrupted kiss. “Yes?"

He searched her face as though his eyes were taking a photograph. Inching closer, her plan to wait and seduce him became a memory. His head dipped closer and closer. She could feel his uneven breath fanning her cheek, and she shivered with anticipation. What would his kiss feel like? Somehow, deep inside her, she knew it would be one to remember.

Just as her lids started to slide closed, he suddenly dropped her hand and stepped back.

She let out a long frustrated breath. Sorely disappointed in his retreat, she felt a glimpse of satisfaction that she'd been correct in surmising he was attracted to her, but what had stopped him this time?

Clenching his eyes closed, he rubbed at his forehead. “I should have never agreed to this arrangement. It was doomed to fail from the beginning,” he muttered.

Her head snapped up. “What, exactly, are you suggesting?"

He sighed. “That your presence here has become rather trying."

She clasped her hands firmly in front of her. “I'm sorry to be such a nuisance.” She could practically taste the vinegar in her mouth as she spoke, but it couldn't be helped. He had managed to strike a firm blow to her womanly pride by first retreating from her obvious wish for a kiss, then suggesting she was a burden.

"You misunderstand, Miss Peterson."

"No, sir, I don't think I do. Perhaps, in the future, it would be best if we kept a distinct distance from one another. Then I shan't try your patience!"

In a rustle of skirts, she spun around and returned to her cabin, soundly slamming her door.

So much for seduction! She wouldn't kiss him now if he were Adonis personified!

"Oh, if only I had another crock of milk,” she growled.

Chapter Seven

The boat chugged along for most of the day and part of the night until they pulled into Confluencia, quietly sleeping beside the river. From there they would take three wagons to reach the site. A local rancher, an old acquaintance of Edwin's, would be supplying them with a guide and assisting them with their supplies.

It would be several more hours before the team would disembark and begin their trek deeper into the wilds of Argentina, but Stephen couldn't sleep. He glanced about the boat wondering if Kristina was asleep.

She hadn't come out of her cabin since she'd slammed it in his face. She had even taken her dinner alone in her room. He could only assume she was still upset, and she had every right to be. But he couldn't help wishing she would step out of her cabin now and take in the stars with him.

He snickered softly. Why would a beautiful woman like Kristina Peterson want to spend anytime with a stuffy, boring scientist like him beneath a lovers’ moon? But it did look as if she wanted to be kissed, didn't it?

Unable to discern whether the look in her eyes was fact or his own wishful imaginings, he went back to his cabin where his friend snored rather loudly in his bunk. As Stephen lay down on his bed, he mentally walked through their itinerary, pushing thoughts of Kristina from his mind.

By midday tomorrow they would be setting up camp and staking out their territory. A fossil lay waiting to be unearthed, and he had no intention of allowing anything, not even a beautiful woman, to interfere with his work. He had waited to long, worked too hard, and come too far to lose everything now.

This was the first expedition he'd ever led and failure was not an option. His reputation as a paleontologist was at stake, his future hinging on its success. The university put a vast amount of money into this venture and expected great things in return. If he failed, he would be lucky if they'd allow him to continue teaching. Not to mention his journals and papers would be worthless.

He floated lightly in and out of sleep until the morning sun cut a path through the haze of dawn. Eager to begin the next and last leg of their journey, he quickly dressed and headed for the dock and the awaiting wagons. Their success foremost in his mind.

In the light of day, Confluencia bustled with people, not unlike Viedma but on a much smaller scale. Vendors bartering with customers over the price of wool and leather along with various forms of produce lined the streets. In the distance he heard the ring of a church bell and the distinct sound of children laughing.

Argentina was so much more than he imagined. Just as Kristina had said it would be. He wondered how many times she had visited the country and what other fascinating places she'd seen with her father. He envied her extraordinary childhood.

His had been average, for the most part. Nothing like the adventurous life she'd obviously led. Only his studies filled his youthful days, taking up most of his time. Sometimes by choice, other times out of loneliness.

Not until college had he made any real friends, some of which he managed to remain in contact with since graduating. But for the most part his work, dull as it was to some people, was his life.

He smiled. Work, that was at the moment, a grand new adventure even with all its problems. Shedding his coat, he rolled up his shirtsleeves and assisted the men in loading the crates into the wagons. Hard work always cleared his head, and he hoped it would rid his mind of her, if only for a few minutes.

Sweat formed on his brow as he hefted crate after crate of supplies. It felt good to be outside working with his hands even if it wasn't in pursuit of fossils.

"Should I place my bags here, Doctor Baxter?"

He turned at the sound of Kristina's voice and nearly fell off the back of the wagon.

"Good God,” he rasped.

"My bags, Doctor. Should I place them here or are they to go in one of the other wagons?"

He jumped down and looked her over from top to bottom to top again, unable to believe his eyes. Clad in trousers, fairly snug trousers that displayed every curve and mound, and a white cambric shirt with the top button undone, allowing a glimpse of her creamy skin, she stood before him as if nothing were amiss.

"What the devil are you wearing?” he sputtered.

Eyeing him from beneath a man's large-brimmed hat that had seen better days, she dropped her bags at his feet. Flipping her long, ginger braid back over her shoulder, she rested her fists on her hips.

"Clothes."

Her flat reply turned up the fire on his simmering temper, along with the wide-eyed stares from his assistants and a notable leer from Mr. Walters.

Had the woman lost her mind? “Those are not clothes. Those are—are—"

"They're called dungarees. I always wear them when I'm working. Now, where do I put these?” She bent over and retrieved one of her bags, causing several mouths to fall open. He could only imagine the view of her backside displayed in tight pants.

He flinched as the image assaulted his brain. “You'll take those back on the boat where you'll change into something suitable!"

She tossed her bag to the ground, barely missing his foot, and crossed her arms beneath her ample bosom. “What I'm wearing is perfectly suitable for the work I'll be doing, and I don't intend to change simply to satisfy your antiquated opinions about women's clothing. Therefore, Doctor, I suggest you get used to it."

He leaned closer, his throat tight with fury. “When the earth sees another ice age,” he hissed.

With a harrumph, she lifted her bag, stepped to the side, and hoisted it up onto the wagon.

He grabbed her shoulders and spun her around. Snatching up his discarded jacket, he tugged it around her and held it tightly closed in front with both fists. Thankfully, it reached just below her waist, covering some of her disarming figure.

"You will not parade around dressed like that,” he snarled.

"I am not parading around.” She tried to squiggle free, but he held her tight.

"You are not going anywhere let alone on my expedition looking like a hoyden!"

"I'll wear what I damn well like, and go where I damn well please!"

He heard a deep rumbling cough from her father, hovering nearby, but dismissed it as he concentrated on lowering his voice. Their shouting at one another only fueled his anger and drew more curious stares.

"You will get out of those ridiculous clothes and into a dress or I'll put you back on that boat and send you home."

She lifted her chin regally. “I won't go."

"You'll go if I have to throw you over my shoulder and put you there."

Her gaze narrowed. “You wouldn't dare."

His fists still clutching the jacket, he yanked her closer until their noses nearly touched. “Don't tempt me, Miss Peterson."

"That sounds like a challenge, Doctor,” she said huskily.

With her so close, his hands fisted against her lush breasts, her rapid breaths teasing his beard with her throaty murmur, blood pumped hard and fast through his veins as his anger turned to desire. His hands quivered with the need to open and cup the soft mounds beneath them, but he forced himself to release her and step back.

Tearing his gaze from her flushed face, he looked to his friend for help. “Edwin, do something about this."

The cagey old professor laughed heartily. “Sorry, old boy. She has a mind of her own. Stubborn as her mother."

Stephen's shaking hand pointed at the maddening woman standing before him. “But she can't possibly go about wearing those—things."

"I hate to disagree with you, my friend, but she'd be absolutely miserable in all those female contraptions. Wouldn't want her to have a heatstroke, would we?"

Tilting her head at a victorious angle, her lips turned up in a smug grin. Oh, how he'd like to wipe that expression from her face. And he knew just how he'd do it, too.

"Hell and damnation,” he muttered and spun around. The woman was going to drive him insane! “Mr. Anderson, Mr. Thomas, get the rest of those supplies. Mr. Walters, bring around another wagon."

He wouldn't think about her clothes. He wouldn't think about how her shapely form filled out her trousers leaving his mouth dry. He wouldn't think about her at all. He would load the wagons and concentrate on the expedition. It was either that or throw her over his shoulder and put her back on the boat.

But he knew once he put her there, he wouldn't be able to leave her cabin without doing more than just kissing her.

"Kris!"

All eyes turned to the new voice.

"Antonio!” she called.

Taking off in an unladylike run, she launched herself into the waiting arms of the newcomer. Laughing, he twirled her around before bringing her safely back to the ground.

Stephen did his best to ignore them. Simply because she threw her arms around the man's neck didn't mean anything. It only proved she could behave like a hoyden as well as dress like one, and yet he couldn't help wishing she were leaping into his arms instead of some stranger's.

The newcomer removed his hat and kissed Kristina's cheek.

Bile rose in Stephen's throat as he took the man's measure. Tall, broad shouldered, wearing a white billowy shirt, black vest, and brown trousers tucked into black riding boots. This gaucho was obviously more than just an acquaintance.

"You've filled out quite a bit since I saw you last,” Stephen heard her say.

"You have grown up also, Little Mule."

"Grown up enough to give you a few pains if you call me that dreadful nickname again.” She playfully pinched his arm.