Sandra Hill - [Jinx] Read Free Page B

And there was all that skin. Bare arms. Bare midriff. Bare collarbones. Plus, she was ripped, which would explain the exercise mat and hand weights over there. Not weight-lifter ripped, but female-athlete ripped. And worst of all . . . or best of all . . . she had breasts that could make a grown man weep.
    Good thing I’m not looking. Nope. I. Am. Not. Looking. And I’m not getting turned on.
    “It’s hot in here, don’t you think?” she asked, belatedly explaining her striptease, he supposed.
    She began to set a tray with supersized muffins, butter, mugs of coffee, sugar, and cream, unaware of how tempting she looked. Forget muffins. He’d like a taste of—
    To his surprise, she gave him a once-over, too. A once-over that paid special attention to his wet shorts. Then, with a bland expression, giving no clue to her assessment, she said, “It feels like today will be a scorcher.”
    Tell me about it!
“It’s probably your oven.”
Shit! Could I sound any more dorky?
    She glanced at him again, and this time she smiled.
    While she continued to set the tray with small plates and napkins, he studied her cabin. It was either that or ogle her body, which would not be smart.
Pink? What kind of serious archaeologist wears pink? Shiiit!
    The cabin was nice. Dried herbs hung from the low rafters of the kitchen, giving it a fragrant, cozy atmosphere. Colorful suncatchers at the windows caught and reflected the light like prisms. He assumed that a bedroom and bathroom were off to the left. To the right was the addition, which was completely open, making a combination kitchen/library/office/living room. A huge stone fireplace was flanked on one side by a half-dozen baskets, some woven, others coiled, and on the other by a rustic, low, armless rocking chair that looked homemade. Two log walls of the addition held floor-to-ceiling bookcases with a built-in PC desk in the corner. The shelves overflowed with books, many of them related to the Lenni Lenape tribe of the Delaware nation. Also, Indian relics: an impressive arrowhead collection, a peace pipe, several tomahawks, and framed photographs. And a small flat-screen TV.
    He walked over to check out one of the pictures.
    Then wished he hadn’t.
    It was a side view of Dr. Cassidy facing some man of obvious Native American heritage. Her long auburn hair was in braids. His black hair was, too, and adorned with a single feather. They both wore Indian ceremonial outfits. His chest was bare. On top she appeared to be nude, as well, except for the numerous bead-and-feather necklaces she wore. On bottom, he sported a loincloth with leather flaps covering his belly and ass. She wore a low-riding, knee-length, fringed leather skirt and beaded moccasins. Her arms were raised, shaking some kind of rattles. He could care less about the man. But her . . . wow! . . . Her side was bare from armpit to hip, exposing a perfect view of the side of one of her breasts.
    Not the way I want to be picturing the archaeologist assigned to our project. She’ll be talking Indian legends and I’ll be thinking, “Wanna come over to my teepee and show me your beads?”
    A thought suddenly occurred to him. “Are you married?”
    “No. Why do you ask?”
    He was walking back to the kitchen and waved over his shoulder at the photograph. “Geronimo back there.”
    She made a tsking sound at the political incorrectness of his remark. “That’s Henry Hawk, a professor at the University of Pennsylvania. He’s a full-blooded Lenni Lenape Indian. Geronimo was an Apache.”
    Well, big whoop!
    “I’m not topless in the photo, by the way.” She grinned, obviously reading his mind. “Lots of people think I am, but I’m wearing a flesh-colored leotard.”
    That’s just great! Ruin a guy’s fantasy, why don’t you?
“Don’t you believe in historical accuracy?”
    “Yeah, but I was young and naive then. I let the promoter talk me into accuracy once. Turned out that people were watching my jiggling breasts