Dan? Dan, the other professor, who was supposed to have been here weeks ago? I would have asked, but Paul was out the door. Maybe I wasn't supposed to be here. Maybe he just made a command decision and broke some rule about visitors. Maybe I'd find out later, but I wasn't counting on it -- just like I wasn't counting on knowing what happened with Jennifer and Pat.
I opened the e-mail program, knowing I'd have to watch my sour mood and keep the tone out of anything I wrote. There was a note from Juliet, unopened, and one from Ross, which Paul had evidently read. Curious, I opened it.
Whitaker seems to have left Seattle area. Not sure where he went, let me know if you hear from him.
Big deal. None of my business anymore.
I opened Juliet's e-mail. Everyone was fine, Blackie missed me, don't ask about the wedding (although methinks she doth protest too much), yadda yadda. Then the hit below the belt: Mother and Dad were talking about taking a detour through Great Falls on their way back to San Francisco, and they wanted directions to the camp. That was some detour. Crap. Just what I needed. Would Paul be willing to pretend everything was fine between us for the duration of their -- hopefully short -- visit? Furthermore, would meeting my overbearing mother be the final wrecking ball to our relationship? Would he look at her and see me in twenty years riding roughshod over everyone in my path? I had to warn him they were coming. Should I add a begging codicil about not assuming I was like my mother even though there was a family resemblance? Oh, listen to me. I was in serious denial. I still believed there was something to salvage.
I'd deal with this tomorrow after I'd slept off some stress. Was that possible? Or would this kind-of-sick feeling I had right now just morph into a killer emotional hangover tomorrow?
Oh, hell. Who knew? I was tapped out. A good night's sleep would definitely help me cope. If Paul got some sleep, maybe he'd see reason in the morning and feel a little more kindly toward me. What I needed right now was some Pollyanna-positive thoughts. The only one I could come up with was my parents wouldn't stay at the camp. Not that Mother would want to, anyway.
I clicked on the "Reply" button and typed out an emotionless reply to my sister -- complete with directions -- and asked her when Mother and Dad thought they might be arriving.
It was the polite thing to do. I didn't actually expect an answer.
I shut the computer down, and rolled my neck. Lord, but I was worn out. I left the office, shutting the door behind me. Paul would have to lock it. I didn't have a key. As I entered the kitchen from the hallway, the door to the great room swung opened and our new visitor walked through, suitcase in hand making a comment over his shoulder to Paul. I stopped in midstride. All the blood drained from my face.
Whitaker.
That weasel. Damn him for getting me in trouble with Paul over my investigating. Damn him for caring more about his precious administrative red tape than Paul's innocence. Damn him. Why was he here? To check on Paul and make sure he hadn't left his students to flee from the law? Bastard.
In the fraction of a second it took for my brain to process all that resentment, he turned around and saw me. The words he'd been saying transformed into unintelligible syllables and stopped altogether as his feet quit moving. His jaw sagged.
And Paul looked on the verge of a cardiac arrest. My knee-jerk response was to giggle inanely.
"Dr. Whitaker, what a surprise! How nice to see you again," I said.
His jaw flapped a couple of times before he produced any words.
"Miss Campbell! I thought you were … you were …."
I blinked rapidly and cocked my head. "In Seattle?"
"Dead." The word snuck out of his mouth as though speaking it would cause it to happen.
I giggled again. Way to go, Ross. Dead. I knew his idea would backfire. Now I'd have to lie with more panache than Juliet. "You must be joking. Why would you think that? I'm on vacation."
He turned to Paul, who -- having recovered with impressive speed -- nodded innocently. Whitaker turned back to me, his expression flickering between confusion and suspicion.
"Detective Ross told me you'd been in an accident last Friday."
"Noooo …." I said. "Maybe you're thinking of someone else."
"No, it was you, definitely you. And he asked me not to contact Paul about it."
I rolled my eyes and flapped a hand at him. "Well, he told me everything was straightened out and I could go ahead and visit like we'd planned. Somebody was mistaken, don't you think?"
"Evidently. Straightened out?"
I nodded and beamed with all the sincerity I could muster. "Are you staying for a while, Dr. Whitaker?"
"'Dan,' please. A week maybe."
"That's nice." I produced a small, hostess smile. My cheeks were beginning to ache from the larger kind. I turned my attention to Paul. He'd been watching the exchange with interest bordering on amusement. "Sweetheart, I was just coming to look for you. I'm having a problem with your computer. The thingie on the e-mail isn't working." I wiggled my index finger. "It's probably me. Can you help?" I pouted -- just a little.
"I think I showed you once already."
"You did, but you know how I am with computers." More pouting. "Please?"
A slow smile spread across his face accompanied by one raised eyebrow. "Okay. One more time, darling."
"I'll unpack and be right back," Dan said, resuming his trek through the kitchen. He paused and smiled at me. "I've got a bottle of excellent single malt scotch in my suitcase. Paul's going to help me open it. Will you join us when you're done with your e-mail?"
Yeah, that's all I'd need. A little liquor to loosen my tongue. I didn't have Juliet's expertise in prevarication to fall back on. "I'd love to, but if you don't mind I'll pass. I went out to the dig today, and honestly, I'm just exhausted." I fluttered my eyelashes. "I don't know how you all hold up."
"Maybe tomorrow then."
"It's a date." A flirty smile, this time. Paul advanced on me, put an arm around my shoulders, and steered me toward the office. "Good night." More flirting, over my shoulder.
"Let's not overdo it," Paul said, barely above a whisper as he closed the office door behind him.
I imitated his low tone, adding some growl for emphasis. "Give me some credit here. I thought you were going to pass out."
His eyes flashed anger -- probably from embarrassment -- and he leaned to within inches of my face. "And I thought you'd gone to bed, like I told you. What are you still doing down here, anyway?"
I set my jaw and promptly lost my cool in a strained whisper. "Why didn't you tell me 'Dan' and 'Whitaker' were the same person? God, Paul, what were you thinking? Do you have any idea how fast I had to think to save your ass on that one? A little communication here would have been useful." My fists landed on my hips and I glared. Ungrateful jerk.
"I didn't know he was coming, and you knew Dan's last name was Whitaker."
"Did not. Everybody at the U calls him 'Dr. Whitaker.' Did you know the entire time you thought he was on vacation he was actually in Seattle?" I poked his chest with my finger.
He narrowed his eyes. "You're sure?"
"Cripes!"
He shushed me, and glanced over his shoulder.
I continued in a harsh whisper. "Yes I'm sure. Mrs. Peabody told me he postponed his vacation. Is he lying --"
He silenced me at lightning speed. Lifting me off my feet, he crushed me to his chest, and checked my tonsils with his tongue. My response was instant and animal. If I could have climbed him to get closer I would have. In fact, I must have. My legs hugged his waist and my arms were around his neck.
"Oops, sorry," said a male voice I recognized as Dan's, followed by the click of the door closing.
I hadn't heard his approach or the door open. Thank God Paul had.
"He's gone." Paul's whisper was husky. He loosened his grip on me. I started to slide and tightened my legs, hiking myself back up while initiating another oral examination. He groaned, took over the kiss, then broke it off, drawing a ragged breath.
"Tomorrow," he said, looked at my mouth and dove in for another kiss. It was long -- very long. And very deep. "Tomorrow," he repeated, not quite breaking lip-contact. "Will you…" another kiss, "take a list I give you and …" more kissing, "go grocery shopping …" and more, "instead of to the dig?" He went for my neck.
I sucked in a gasp. "Aayyyee … yes!" My fingers curled into his back.
He pulled back an inch, looking me in the eye. His were smoking with intent. I had no problem with that. At all.
"You're hot when you pretend to be a ditz."
"You're kidding."
"No. In fact, you're hot when you bust my chops." His gaze dropped to the desk then lifted to the window.
"Floor," I said.
Sometime later, flushed and immensely satisfied, we parted in the kitchen. He held my hand until the distance between us prevented it. Then walked backwards toward the door to the great room, a smile still on his face. What would Dan (I could call him "Dan" now) say when Paul found him? I chuckled to myself. I'd be a good girl now and go to my cabin. Tomorrow I'd do the grocery shopping to stay away from Dan. Paul was afraid I couldn't keep up the lie about not knowing Ross' plan. He didn't say that, exactly, but I knew what he was thinking. I supposed he needed time to figure out how best to deal with Dan's presence, too, and what it meant to his own plans -- which he still was not divulging.
That was okay. I could live with secrecy for the moment. He'd come around. If he didn't I'd just bust his chops some more and act ditsy.
I went out the kitchen door, started up the path toward my cabin, and paused. Hushed, angry voices came from the parking area. Curious, I turned to look. Whitaker and Pat were toe to toe.
"Need I point out you have made a commitment?" Whitaker growled at her.
Her stance was defiant, but her answer was low and petulant, and too quick for me to understand. She turned away from him and looked directly at me. From the surprised look on her face, it was an easy bet she hadn't realized I was there. Whitaker followed her gaze and frowned. I turned away quickly and hurried up the hill. Looked like Pat was in trouble with Whitaker tonight, too. Her additional misery gave me some small, additional satisfaction.