Cordinas Crown Jewel Read Online Free PDF Page B

out of his hair the next day, and he could get back to work without interruptions.
    He turned, caught his shin on the generator, jerked. And literally saw stars as he aggravated his broken collarbone. Sweat slicked over his face so that he had to slap his good hand against the wall and wait for the dizzy sickness to pass.
    His injuries were the reason he wasn’t still on site at the Florida dig—one that had been his baby since the beginning three seasons before. He could handle that. Someone had to do the written reports, the journals, the cataloging and lab work.
    He preferred that someone be himself.
    But he hated the damn inconvenience of the injuries. And the weakness that dogged him behind the pain. He could barely dress himself without jarring the broken bone, the dislocated shoulder, the bruised ribs.
    He couldn’t even tie his own damn shoes.
    It was a hell of a situation.
    Steady enough to brood over his unsteadiness, he picked up the flashlight he’d dropped and made his way back to the cabin. He stopped to pick up the pail of rainwater and swore viciously as even that weight strained his resources.
    In the mudroom he set down the bucket, ditched the slicker, then headed straight for a mug in the kitchen.
    When he reached for the coffeepot, he saw it wasn’t there.
    It took him a minute. Del didn’t notice details unless he meant to notice them. Not only was the coffee missing, but so were all the dishes that had been piled in the sink, over the table and counters.
    He didn’t remember washing them. It wasn’t a chore he bothered with until all options were exhausted. Baffled, he opened a cupboard and studied the pile of clean dishes.
    The counters were clean, and the table. He snarled reflexively when he saw his notes and papers tidily stacked.
    But even as he marched through the cabin, prepared to skin some of that soft, rosy skin off his unwelcome visitor, the scent of coffee—and food—hit him, and hit hard. It reminded him he hadn’t eaten in hours, and buried the leading edge of his temper under appetite.
    There she was, stirring a saucepot over the fire. He noted she’d jury-rigged a grill—probably one of the oven racks—bracing the ends of it with stacks of bricks.
    He recalled the bricks had been piled on the front porch, but had no idea why.
    Resourceful, he admitted—grudgingly—and noted that for a skinny woman, she had an excellent backside.
    “I told you not to touch my stuff.”
    She didn’t jolt. He clumped through the cabin like a herd of elephants. She’d known he was there.
    “I’m hungry. I refuse to cook or to eat in a sty. The papers in the kitchen are relatively undisturbed. It’s the filth I dispensed with.”
    And the papers, she thought, were fascinating. What she could read of his handwriting, in any case.
    “I knew where everything was.”
    “Well.” She straightened, turned to face him. “Now you’ll have to find where it all is now. Which is in two ordered stacks. I have no idea how you—” She broke off as she saw the blood dripping from his hand. “Oh! What have you done?”
    He glanced down, noticed the shallow slice in the back of his good hand, and sighed. “Hell. What’s one more?”
    But she was rushing to him, taking the wounded hand and clucking over the cut like a mother hen over a chick. “Back in the kitchen,” she ordered. “You’re bleeding all over the place.”
    It was hardly a major wound. No one had ever fussed over his cuts and scrapes—not even his mother. He supposed that was due to the fact she’d always had plenty of her own. Taken off guard, he let himself be pulled back into the kitchen where she stuck his bleeding hand into the sink.
    “Stay,” she ordered.
    As she might have said, he mused, to a pet. Or worse—a servant.
    She unearthed a rag, dumped it in the pail of water and proceeded to wash off his hand. “What did you cut it on?”
    “I don’t know. It was dark.”
    She clucked again, as she examined the