Outlaw Carson (6 page)

“Nobody except you,” Jenny said knowingly.
“What does he look like?”

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” She
switched the phone to her other ear as she shrugged out of her robe
and hung it on a hook. A moment later it slid to the floor, but by
then her hands were full with juggling the phone and trying to pull
on her jeans.

“Try me,” Jenny said.

“Well, he’s got this auburn braid hanging
down to his shoulder blades and—”

“Red?” Jenny interrupted.

“No. Darker, more chestnutty. When he stands
in the sun you can see the red highlights, but in the shadows or
inside the house it’s mostly dark brown.”

“Hmm. What color are his eyes?”

Kristine snapped her jeans and thought for a
moment, staring off into space. “Cinnamon. Just like cinnamon, and
really soft, and really old.”

“Hmm-mmm.”

“And he’s got these gold bracelets, a couple
of pounds of them.” She broke contact with the phone for a moment
to pull a black sweatshirt over her head. “I think they’re
Scythian, if you can believe it.”

“I see,” the older woman said in a clipped
tone.

“So what do you think, Jenny? Will you cover
for me for a week?”

“I will if you’ll make darn sure you cover
yourself. Is Mancos there?”

“Alive and drooling.”

“Good. I’ll call you if anybody on this end
decides to forego their reputation long enough to take an interest
in Fratz’s Folly.”

Kristine sat back down on the bed and
reached for a tennis shoe. “The last I heard it was Richard’s
Ramble Through the Ruins.”

“Well, yes,” Jenny admitted, then added,
“The bets are running five to one against you coming up with
anything publishable by the end of the summer. Half the department
doesn’t think Carson is going to show up at all. He’s never left
Asia before.”

“He did this time,” Kristine said.

“And the other half doesn’t think he did the
job he was funded to do.”

“I’ve got seven trunks full of journals and
photographs and—and other things that say otherwise.” She was glad
Jenny couldn’t see her grin. “Don’t worry. Come September, you
might be working for the head of the department.”

No idle boast, Kristine realized ten minutes
later as she prowled through the one trunk he’d allowed her access
to. This one was made of plain wood and held only legal research,
no forbidden treasure. The man’s documentation was meticulous.
Notes and photographs were collated and color-coded, dated,
numbered, and inventoried into a master list with a backup file,
and his knowledge was astounding. He’d made inferences and
conclusions she would never have dreamed of making. A quarter of a
way through a preliminary review of his journals, she stopped long
enough to call Jenny back. He’d practically written the book
himself.

“I’ll meet any bet dollar for dollar, double
for Harry,” she said.

“He’s in for twenty,” Jenny said.

“Then he’s out for forty, that spineless
wimp.”

Hours later, Kristine was still entering
Carson’s master file into her computer, double-checking each serial
number and description with its corresponding photograph. A lock of
hair fell over her face, and she anchored it back into the untidy
bun she had finger-combed into a tangled disarray on the top of her
head.

“Wonderful,” she murmured around the pencil
clenched between her teeth, as she held a photograph under the
light of her desk lamp. She may have been crazy to let him stay—the
longer she thought about it, the less concern she had for his
bandit theories—but the project itself was everything she’d dreamed
it could be. And this was without the extra tantalizing prize he’d
offered. She had to write up the legal findings first, that went
without saying, but afterward she was going to set Asian history
and Dr. John Garraty on their heels.

She picked up her coffee mug and slumped
back into her chair, almost laughing out loud. Yes, Dr. Garraty was
in for a surprise. She dropped her reading glasses on the desk and
slowly swiveled her chair around, changing her view from one wall
of bookcases to another wall of bookcases, then past the glass
doors leading to the deck and overlooking the city, then right
smack dab into Kit Carson.

She pressed her toes into the floor,
abruptly halting her swiveling. A splash of coffee soaked into her
sweatshirt, and she hastily brushed at the stain.

He’d showered, shaved, and changed his
clothes, and she was in no way prepared for the sight of him in his
jeans and a T-shirt. The long shirtlike garment he’d worn earlier
had hidden much of what she’d felt when he’d held her close.
Without it, she had to come to grips with a lean, muscled body,
dark-skinned arms, narrow hips, and broad shoulders outlined by
pure white cotton.

“
Namaste
, Kreestine.” He smiled as
he tied off his braid with a strip of chamois leather.

The house wasn’t big enough for both of
them, she thought. Not with his way of filling up a room by barely
stepping into it, and not when she felt surrounded by him when he
was a good ten feet away.

“
Namaste
. . . Kit.” She spoke his
name for the first time and felt another barrier crumble, one she
quickly tried to reconstruct. “You must be hungry. I made you some
dinner. Why don’t we go into the kitchen.” At least it was a much
bigger room than the one they were squeezed into at the moment.

She pushed out of the chair and rounded the
desk, silently willing him to move out of the doorway before she
got there, and almost wishing he
could
read her mind.

“I hope you’re not a vegetarian,” she went
on. “I’m a little low in the fruits and vegetables department right
now. I usually do my shopping on Thursday and today is Wednesday,
so I’ll go tomorrow.” She rambled on but he hadn’t moved an inch.
“If you need something special, I’ll be happy to—”

His warm hand wrapped around her upper arm,
stopping her in her tracks and jarring her pulse into
overdrive.

“I’m not a vegetarian.” His gaze roamed over
her face, without once meeting her eyes.

“Well, good,” she said. “Then you won’t
mind—” What was he doing? “Won’t mind—” She raised her hand to stop
him as he raised his own hand to her hair.

She’s done the most amazing thing to her
hair, Kit thought. He admired the sheer force of will it must have
taken to tame the wild mane, but it wouldn’t do. He pulled a bobby
pin free.

“Do you mind?” she gasped, picking the pin
from his hand and trying to push it in as he took out another one.
In the heat of all her buzzing excitement, she’d conveniently
forgotten the more personal effect he had on her, as well as the
less than professional moments of their initial meeting. He’d just
reminded her of both in no uncertain terms.

“Mind?” Kit repeated. A lustrous, dark
tumble of hair slipped free, and he smiled. The woman was
exquisite, delicate of face and body, and softly rounded in all the
right places. He’d like very much to see her in a silk the color of
her eyes.

“Yes, mind,” she said. “You can’t go around
ruining people’s hairdos.” A few more tendrils fell free over her
forehead. She was losing the battle, inside and out.

“Hairdos?”

“My bun,” she said, tight-lipped. The man
was a barbarian. She raised both her hands to salvage the mess and
found there was nothing left to stick a pin into. He was fast, too
fast.

“Ugly bun,” he said, eyes sparkling with
mischief. “Pretty Kreestine.”

She started to sigh, then found her breath
stolen by the gentle caress of his thumb across her cheek. For a
fleeting instant she thought he was going to kiss her again.
Instead, he let his hand fall away, and she didn’t know what to do
with the anticipation he’d left behind.

“Do you have a telephone?” he asked.

“Telephone?” she echoed, staring at him,
still aware of the warmth he’d left on her skin.

A grin tugged at his mouth. “Yes,
telephone.”

She was blushing; she felt the heat and
embarrassment stealing over her face. “Telephone,” she said,
forcing her gaze away. “Of course, it’s . . . it’s . . .” She
glanced around the office, trying to remember where she kept the
phone. “It’s on the desk. Of course, it’s on the desk . . .
somewhere on the desk.” Her voice trailed off. Lord, what a
disaster. She’d never minded it before, but she suddenly hated
having her hereditary disorganization exposed to a man whose every
movement seemed in tune with the cosmic forces of the universe.

“May I use it?”

“Yes.” If she could find it, she silently
added, walking over to the desk that she knew resided under the
cascades of paper and books. She caught sight of her modem, the
phone had to be close. Where had she put the darn thing after she’d
talked to Jenny the last time? Sometimes she stashed it in the
drawer if she needed more room to work. A couple of times she’d put
it on the floor. Only once had she set it in the metal
waste-basket. The resulting echo of the ring had convinced her not
to use that particular spot again.

He followed her and moved an untidy stack of
manuscript she’d been meaning to file away all afternoon,
unerringly finding the phone beneath it. He lifted the receiver and
began punching in a series of numbers on her wonder of technology.
Long distance, she noted. When he finished he set the receiver back
into its cradle and looked up at her with an easy grin. “Will you
smile, Kreestine?”

The ringing of the phone punctuated her long
silence. Without the slightest hesitation or confusion, she
realized, he’d set the phone on its speaker mode. Either the far
reaches of Nepal were much more technologically advanced than she’d
assumed, or her houseguest had spent a fair amount of time in the
more modern and cosmopolitan areas of the Far East. Or, he simply
was amazingly adept with high-tech gadgets, something she was not.
She wished she’d paid more attention to which buttons he’d pushed.
Using the speaker feature on her phone was a trick that had eluded
her since she’d lost the directions.

“I can’t smile on command,” she said in
response to his strange request.

“Maybe later, then?” His own smile didn’t
need any incentive, and Kristine found herself responding, her
mouth curving up at the corners. “Thank you,” he said gravely.

“Sure, anytime.” She even laughed a little.
She didn’t know what to make of him, this elusive stranger who had
invaded her life and her home with his forbidden treasures and easy
smiles. Except that she was determined to make the most of him. Or
rather, the most of his treasures, she hastened to amend. Make the
most of him, indeed. The thought was absurd. She, of all women, was
the least prepared to make anything out of an overly friendly kiss.
Her sexual failings had been neatly categorized once, and once had
been enough. More than enough.

“Lois Sheperd’s office,” a voice came out of
the speaker. “May I help you?”

Kristine shot him a surprised glance.

“Lo-eese, please.” He grinned at her again,
deepening the creases in his lean cheeks.

“May I ask who’s calling?”

“Kautilya Carson.”

“Hold, please.”

“Thank you.”

No, Kristine thought, her eyes narrowing in
suspicion. He couldn’t possibly have called the curator of the
largest natural history museum on the West Coast. Given five
minutes and a piece of paper, she could have listed twenty museums
that would beg for the opportunity to procure what he’d brought out
of Tibet. Lois Sheperd of The Natural History Museum of Los Angeles
County, Lois Sheperd, curator, would have been the first.

“Kit?” An equally disbelieving feminine
voice came on the line.’

“
Namaste
. Lo-eese.” He picked up
one of the many books piled every which way on Kristine’s desk and
read the spine.

“Kit! You made it!”

“Made it?” He looked at Kristine, one brow
cocked in question.

But Lois Sheperd explained before Kristine
had the chance. “You arrived without problems.”

“No, Lo-eese. I had many problems.” He
turned to the bookcase and began examining the titles. “But you
expected this, no?”

“Well, yes, but if Thomas and I had harbored
major doubts, we wouldn’t have involved the museums. We knew what
you were up against, but we never lost hope.”

Who was Thomas? Kristine wondered. And since
when was the L.A. museum a part of their project? They hadn’t been
listed on any of the papers she’d seen, but then neither had
Chatren-Ma. The man was more than an outlaw. He was an out-and-out
con artist, and he was playing all sides against the middle in some
very exalted company. Her professional opinion of him, already
heightened by his research, rose another couple of notches.
Personally, though, she still didn’t know what to make of him.

“You lost the trunks, Lo-eese,” he said, and
Kristine heard the quiet condemnation in his voice. “This
carelessness has created complications.” He took one book off the
shelf and replaced it with the one in his hand.

“I’m never careless, Kit, never,” Lois
replied, seemingly unaffected by his censure. “But I will admit to
being self-serving at times. We both know why I couldn’t accept the
trunks. I’m sure Thomas felt the same. And of course, you found
them.”

“Naturally.”

“Hah! There was nothing natural about the
way you—” She paused suddenly. “Where are you?”

“With Kreestine in Colorado.” He walked down
the length of the bookcase until he found a spot for the second
book. Kristine was pleased to discover it wasn’t only she he never
gave a straight answer to.

On the other hand, Lois didn’t sound the
least bit pleased. “Kristine? Who is Kristine?”

“A less self-serving woman,” he said
vaguely. “She is very pretty.”

And she’d thought he’d embarrassed her
before, Kristine thought, covering her face with one hand.