Dancing in the Kitchen

TEASER EXCERPT

Taking a deep breath Hannah plunged into the cave. Olivia’s light bounced around the tunnel. She struggled to keep up. Pain raced up her ankle as she landed wrong. The distance between her and the light lengthened. Darkness closed in on her. Olivia didn’t slow her pace. At least, one of them knew where they were going.
She tripped over a broken crossbeam. Dirt trickled into her face. She spat it out.
“How much farther?”
The stale air left an unexpected taste in her mouth. The narrow passage widened. The ground beneath her feet turned squishy. Breathing. She glanced up. Bats formed a black fringe along the ceiling.
“Not much, I should think.”
“Think?” Hannah whispered. “Haven’t you been in here before?”
“Nope.”
“Then how do you know where you’re going? What if we can’t get out again?”
“Don’t worry about it.”
They had reached a large opening. Here, the cramped tunnels gave into a cavern. Stalactites and stalagmites reached for each other. Water dripped. Hannah winced when Olivia shined the light in her eyes.
“Well, I am worried about it,” she protested. “I would hate to be lost in this place. There are so many tunnels we could die in here and they would never find our bodies.”
“I know. Isn’t it marvelous? The perfect spot for a tomb.”

CHAPTER ONE

A funerary pallor clung to the aged brick facade of the Fine Arts Building. Despite the bright sunshine and scorching temperatures, students shivered as they hustled through the shadow cast by the Federalist-style building.
Death lived here.
Or more specifically, a fist-sized onyx that held death captive. It was the job of Alistair Eugene Holmes, Guardian of the Living Five, to retrieve the stone before someone unleashed a plague or worse upon this world. It should have been an easy task, a mere five minutes of his time—but then he had detected the subtle shift in the Etherium.
Someone had traveled through time and space to retrieve the powerful gem.
Only one sorcerer was desperate enough to risk being torn apart by the tidal rifts in the Etherium to travel nine hundred years into the future—Perlam. The twelfth-century magician would stop at nothing to eliminate Alistair and the Knights of the Living Five from history.
Straightening his shoulders, Alistair climbed the flagstone steps of the Fine Arts Building. His left hand closed around the substitute black onyx bulging in the pocket of his tan Dockers. The gloom pervading the building meant he had arrived before Perlam. Unless…
Unless the death stone had been planted in the museum as a trap to draw him into the open. Finding the Living Five’s Guardian was key to locating the Knights. A simple plan, really. One where everyone lost but the sorcerer and his depraved master.
Alistair quickly removed his hand from his pocket and smoothed his pants, casting a surreptitious glance at the meandering college students. Despite his being ten years older, his camouflage was more than adequate. He hitched the blue weighted backpack higher up his shoulder, tugged his baseball cap down then opened the door and stepped inside the building. A sharp right turn, six more steps and he pushed open the glass doors guarding the museum.
The odor of fresh paint assaulted his nostrils and stung his eyes. He nodded at the receptionist. She glanced up from her book and raked him from head to toe.
“Backpacks aren’t allowed in the museum.”
Alistair stopped. He had thought to use the pack as a shield from the camera. When he shrugged, the strap slid down his arm. He caught it in his hand. At least, he hadn’t stowed the gemstone in one of the bag’s pockets. Relinquishing the pack was a nuisance but not detrimental to his plan. He scanned the bare foyer. The only place to store the damn thing seemed to be in the cubicles behind her.
The woman offered him a wan smile and held out her hand. “I’ll take it.”
The backpack clunked against the wooden counter, earning him a flash of annoyance. She stuffed the book bag into a cubbyhole, removed a yellow tag from the top of the box and slapped it on the counter.
“Keep the claim slip. It’s the only way I know which bag is yours.”
Alistair cocked an eyebrow as he surveyed the empty rows of cubicles. Was she expecting a rush of patrons? No matter, he only needed five minutes to make the switch.
“Thanks,” he muttered, dutifully tucking the plastic tag in his pocket. He tugged at his shirt, amused at how exposed he felt without the small piece of his disguise. Rolling his shoulders, he shook off his discomfort, turned and sauntered into the museum.
The gallery was deserted. Alistair spared a small smile. Just as he had planned. He glanced over his shoulder. The woman at the entrance looked up from her book. He turned back. He had to steal the Death Stone without using his magic. His racing heart pumped adrenaline through his body. His skin tingled, stretching over his bones.
“Steady, old boy.” Alistair tightened his control. Confidence was one thing; over-confidence could be disastrous. He surveyed the gallery. A flaccid scarlet cord dangled from a silver pole. Its metal head rested in the hallway, pointing the way to the Onyx.
Anticipation coiled within him, bunching his muscles. He shook them loose and began his stroll.
He paused in front of a display case full of twisted glassware, passed another twelve seconds admiring a stained glass lamp and circled a mannequin dressed in a sequined gown. As he picked his way around the room, he timed the camera. Its thirty-seven-second sweeps allowed him plenty of time to slip away. He ambled closer to the camera’s blind spot, knowing the last picture taken would be of him contemplating the nuances of Dadaist art.
The camera moved its watchful eye off him. Alistair consulted his watch. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds. Not bad. He slipped through the archway.
His sneaker-clad feet glided over the polished wooden planks. The snick-snick of his soles betrayed him. His lips curved at the impending victory. Light glinted off the case framed by the vaulted opening. The black Onyx brooded on a crimson nest. The stone’s power escaped its glass cage. Energy flooded the hall, zapping the hair on his skin. Agony, pain and death buffeted him. The keening of survivors and the moaning of the damned scratched his ears.
The knots of tension in his shoulders loosened. Not that he doubted his success, but Perlam must have seen the five-by-seven-inch picture of the Onyx displayed on the university’s web page. Of course, the opening wasn’t scheduled until Saturday, so anyone unfamiliar with the university might not know about the lax security. He glanced over his shoulder.
As for the university…
His conscience tweaked his resolve. Technically, he was stealing the Death Stone; they would have an onyx, just not the one they had found. Besides, anyone reckless enough to advertise the location of such a valuable stone with a single paltry camera for protection deserved to have it stolen. They were just damn lucky he was the first thief to arrive.
Alistair grimaced. The fools had no idea they housed death under glass. Rage bubbled under his skin. Ignorance couldn’t excuse carelessness. The idiotic archeologist who had found the stone actually believed it to be an ancient pagan artifact. How had the imbecile explained the cross-shaped flaw inside the stone? Accident?
Singing drifted out of the room to his left. Awareness prickled Alistair’s skin. Was the sorcerer waiting for him? The thrill of a challenge roared in his ears. He shook his head to clear it. Perlam wouldn’t be singing.
He halted by the archway and peeked inside. A woman perched on the second rung of a stepladder. Red, black and white paint streaked her faded jeans and oversized man’s shirt. The tip of her ponytail hung out of the speckled kerchief covering her head. Her paint-splattered sneakers tapped to a beat different than her song. Her voice rose but cracked before hitting the next note.
Alistair felt something inside him unfurl at her joy. His toes wiggled in his shoes. He smiled at the passion filling the off-key singing. Her vanilla scent teased his nose. He whispered a soft spell, sending her the gift of perfect pitch.
His offering was returned, hitting him in the voicebox and strangling any words he might have uttered. Magic. The woman was surrounded by a magical shield. Alistair looked closer. White light shimmered around her. The energy would be more focused if she was a magician. So, what was she? A dabbler in the occult, casting harmless spells and wearing crystals? Or was she something more sinister?
He shook his head. Thinking of Perlam had obviously affected his judgment. The only evil here lurked in the dark forces spilling from the Onyx. He turned to continue his mission but stilled when she moved. Waves of satisfaction rolled off her as she stretched. The hand holding the paintbrush dropped to scratch her head. Red smudged the fabric of her scarf. The bristles left a fine trail in their wake as she moved her hand forward.
She stepped back, viewing her sign with its crimson Madness and black Death. The wooden paint paddle snapped underneath her heel. Startled, she looked down, laughed then turned back to her work. A faint click-click–click floated to him.
Alistair shook his head. No doubt she tapped the wooden handle against her teeth as she appraised the forbidding words. He considered the sign. The letters looked crisp, straight, but then, he didn’t have her vantage point.
She pitched the brush into a jar filled with paint cleaner and wiped her hands on her shirttail. Alistair blinked, breaking the hold she had over him. Another badly executed song filled the air. She should have accepted his gift. He shrugged and turned to continue his mission.
The bill of his hat flattened against his face. His reaction to her had been unusual but certainly not enough to cause him to run into a walls. He shoved his cap aside and peered at columns of sinew straining against a starched collar.
“You’re not allowed back here, sir.” Human-made thunder rumbled down the hall.
Startled, Alistair stepped back as he surveyed the mountain of muscle blocking his path. The barrier was at least six inches taller than his own modest five-foot, eleven-inch frame. The name tag glistening on his shirt proclaimed the mass of flesh to be Melvin Street.
Melvin crossed his arms and flexed first one pectoral than the other. “The exhibit doesn’t open until Monday. You will have to come back then.”
“Y–Yes, of course.” Alistair tried to peer around him, but the man mirrored his movements, blocking his view. Gritting his teeth, Alistair retreated to the open gallery and feigned interest in a sculpture made of broken vinyl records. Melvin leaned against the archway.
Alistair felt the over-protective guard’s eye every time he moved. Swearing under his breath, he rammed his hands in his pockets. The sharp edges of the replacement onyx bit into his palm. He could command time and the elements, and yet a paltry heap of flesh stopped him from completing a simple theft.
He moved on to a sculpture made from shiny cans. His reflection twisted and bent. Twenty pairs of eyes accused him.
Think, Alistair, think. His mind blanked, and he searched the steel sculpture for inspiration. A man and woman strolled into the room, snagging his attention. The woman's floral-print dress swayed around her shapely thighs. Her platinum hair cascaded down her exposed shoulder blades. Her peach-tinted lips parted as she gazed admiringly at the man by her side.
Alistair narrowed his eyes as he inspected her companion. Dr. Cooper Dixon, the archeologist who had found the stone. Alistair glared at him. No wonder the man didn't recognize the true nature of the stone. Dressed like that, the man was a poor caricature of a Hollywood stereotype. No doubt he thought the Onyx a pretty bauble suitable only for women's jewelry.
Coughing on his snort of disgust, Alistair turned away from the sight and whacked his toe against another sculpture. Pain zipped up his shin. A curse exploded on his tongue. Who was the moron that set such a massive piece on the floor so anyone could trip over it? He forced himself to be silent. He hobbled to a chair and admired a blue dot smeared on a red canvas while surreptitiously watching the newcomers.
He forced his jaw to relax as the pair disappeared into the inner sanctum. How had such a buffoon unearthed the Death Stone in the first place? It was supposed to be safely hidden in the Twelfth Century. Coincidence? Not bloody likely. The stone had surfaced for a specific reason--Gerand. The name slithered across his musings. The fanatical warlord had been defeated centuries ago, but with the sorcerer Perlam among his minions...
Alistair rubbed his throbbing toe. He could speculate all he wanted once he had the stone. He had been on the verge of an epiphany before those two distracted him.
That's it--a distraction. He stood up and moseyed around the lifesized rock sculpture to peek at the security guard. The mountain's attention was riveted on the woman's swishing skirt. Alistair's cough covered his bark of laughter. Women! If the flesh was weak then Melvin Street should be helpless. The guard speared him with a look. All things being relative, that is.
Closing his eyes, he rocked back on his heels. In his mind's eye, he scoured the campus for the perfect distraction. He found her right outside the Fine Arts Building. Moments after the incantation left his lips, the pretty coed turned on her heel and raced up the steps of the museum. She stood hopping from foot to foot, arguing with the woman at the front desk. Their conversation resounded in the gallery. He grinned as Melvin leaned towards the foyer, shamelessly eavesdropping on the conversation.
"I tell you someone is following me. If you could just call security and have someone escort me to my car..."
Counting patiently, he fingered the edges of the stone column before him. At ten, the guard threw one last harsh look at him then lumbered out of the gallery and into the foyer.
"Is there something I can do for you?" Melvin rumbled.
Alistair slipped under the archway and inched down the hallway. Disquiet muffled his exhilaration. His canvas shoes dragged as if weighted with cinderblocks.
Something was wrong. The keening was faint; the screams gone. Had someone accidentally invoked the power of the death-wielding Onyx? He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred to him. The stone's energy seemed weaker than before, not stronger.
Dr. Dixon, his companion and the bewitching painter were framed by the archway, directly in front of the stone. Alistair eased into the Death-and-Madness room. Damn! Now, he had no choice. To get the stone, he would have to cast a spell.
He was wracking his brain for an appropriate Temporal Suspension Spell when the threesome shifted out of sight. Stealing down the hall, he arrived in time to watch them march through a door marked Employee's Only. Finally, something in his favor. He slipped into the room.
The Onyx nestled in its bed of crushed red velvet. The glass dome surrounding it was intact, but the stone seemed different. Alistair closed his eyes, bracing himself for its deadly power. Nothing happened. He concentrated harder.
This was not the right onyx.
His eyes flew open. A coil of black smoke rose from the stone. Born of the darker powers, it coalesced into a snake. The cobra's hissing taunt reeked of brimstone.

A million deaths or merely twelve
A wizard shall decide the final toll
With the power of the Death Stone,
The past shall forge a new future
On the bones of the old.

Hurling swear words in five different languages at the smoky messenger, Alistair stormed out of the building. He should have just zapped the thing out of there and damn the consequences. He was a wizard, not some hack sorcerer, and could easily have covered his tracks. Yanking on his short hair, he strode from the room. In a day full of black clouds, God had given him a gray lining.
One of those three had stolen the Onyx. One of those three was a sorcerer in league with Gerand.
* * *
Hannah Jessup rose to her feet and reached for the ceiling. Vertebra popped as she stretched. Shaggy bangs draped over her eyes, tangling with her lashes. She blew them away then tucked the annoying strands back into her kerchief. Just a little longer, and she'd be able to confine the unruly locks in a ponytail and from there...
From there, she would have an elegant coiffure to go with her new image. A tickle wiggled at the base of her scalp. She scratched her head, wondering why she always felt itchy when she painted.
The better to get paint on you, my dear.
She smiled. It was a long-standing joke among the old-timers at the museum that if Assistant Curator Hannah Jessup was within ten feet of paint or ink, she would have some on her within seconds. Of course, she didn't go out of her way to appear so messy, it just sort of happened. But really--if she had to attract something, why did it have to be paint?
Its pungent fumes stung her nose, raked the moisture from the back of her throat and burned her eyes. She'd forgotten her fan again. Who knew that painting the sign would cause such a large build-up of fumes in the small room? She pinched her nose then caught sight of her hands. Black, crimson and white paint coated her skin. While the red paint bled onto her skin with her movements the other two cracked.
Hannah grimaced, reached for the red paint can's lid then thumped it in place. It really was ironic. Here she was covered in paint, and the silver top was practically spotless. She peered at her distorted reflection. Black smudged the skin under her eyes, coated the lobes of her ears, making her look like an NFL player with earrings. White speckled her cheeks and cut a cleft in her chin. Red slashed her cheeks.
That reflection didn't belong to the soon-to-be fiancee of the university's most prestigious professor. No, it belonged to a misfit, or better yet...
She touched the wet paintbrush to her nose. A clown. Now all she needed was the rest of the circus. Hannah tapped the end of the brush against her lip. Maybe she should add a big grin. Nah, Melvin would appreciate her facepaint. So would her boss, Bianca Lawrence. Heck, she might even get a chuckle out of the new receptionist. What was her name? Mary? Jane? Hannah shrugged. She hadn't been hired for her memory but her talent. Or for her willingness to do a lot of work for very little pay.
Not that she hated her job. On the contrary, she loved it, especially this part, when all the painting was finished and the room stood, simply waiting. It was the same feeling she'd gotten as a child after the tree was decorated but before the presents were placed underneath, before she had to count them to make sure she hadn't been slighted. The same feeling as when she stood at the top of a mountain before skiing down. It was the exhilaration of potential. The conjuring of spectacular events to come before reality intruded. She hugged herself.
This was why she stayed, why she endured the tedium of the months between new exhibits. Well, maybe not the only reason. The world wasn't exactly chockfull of opportunities for an English lit major. And, of course, there were the perks. Hannah sighed a smile as she stepped back to survey her work.
Snap!
Her skin jumped, hauling her bones an inch or so in the air. Another wooden stirrer sacrificed to her carelessness. How many did that make this exhibit? Twelve or thirteen? No matter, they were free with each can of ecologically friendly latex paint. Besides, she could always ask for a couple extra on her next visit to the paint store. As for the sign...
Tapping the wooden brush handle against her teeth, she searched the sign for wisps of paint blurring the crisp letters.
"Not bad, if I do say so myself." Her low words hummed in the room. She pitched her paintbrush into the jar of water. Liquid sloshed over the lip and dotted the dropcloth. Hannah ignored it and wiped her hands on the tail of her shirt.
"I just hope Coop likes it." She reached to touch the dry black letters. Dr. Cooper Dixon, the university's answer to Indiana Jones. Warmth flooded her body. Coop. She had fallen in love with him the first time she'd laid eyes on him. Frustration rode a breath of air out of her body. She and a hundred other adoring female students.
Not that he didn't have his share of male students in his coterie. Lean and muscled, he didn't walk into a room, he swaggered. His uniform rarely changed from the multi-pocketed shorts holding the tools of his trade and the T-shirt stretched taut across his broad shoulders. All that was missing from his swashbuckling attire was a whip fastened to his hip and a hat tilted rakishly over his brilliant blue eyes.
But she was different. She knew the man beneath the image. Hannah set the jar of water on her cart and began folding the dropcloth. She had used her unencumbered time from her museum duties to help him out. Not that she slacked her responsibilities, but really, why should she waste hours locked in her office when someone in the department needed help? When he needed help. It wasn't as if she were making off with a million-dollar painting. The time spent with Coop was a perk.
A big and important perk.
She chucked the dropcloth onto the cart. Oh, she knew some people considered her rather pathetic, savoring any compliment he tossed her way. Their pity rolled off her like water. They were just jealous. She had seen their faces when he'd shown up at the Christmas party in a suit and tie, noted their envy when he handed her a bouquet of roses. Okay, so maybe he also handed her a folder containing scraps of notes, but that was a sign of his thoughtfulness. The notes had been a cover to prevent any awkwardness between herself and the other single female staff.
Hannah picked at the paint coating her hands. He loved her. She knew he did. Coop was just used to moving slowly, methodically. His artifacts sat buried in the dirt for centuries, waiting patiently for him to dig them up. She just wished he'd speed up their courtship. Her thirtieth birthday was fast approaching.
She had tried to hasten his wooing--inviting him to dinner, introducing him to her parents. Once a week she'd even forsaken her comfy jeans and T-shirts to squeeze into a dress. Her attempt to mold herself into the perfect professor's wife was about to bear fruit.
After scanning the room for stray painting supplies, she looked at her watch. Even if she positioned the pedestals now, she would still would have plenty of time to prepare for their dinner tonight. Surveying her stained clothes, she was glad his symposium wouldn't end until then. She would hate for him to see her like this.
Pushing the cart out of the room, she smiled. Coop had said he had something important to ask her. Something that would affect her position at the university. Would he ask her to marry him tonight? Dr. and Mrs. Cooper Dixon. Mrs. Cooper Dixon. Mrs. Hannah Dixon. She liked the sound of that. Wouldn't her parents be surprised? And as for her brothers and sister--imagine a lifetime free of her meddling family fixing her up with loser acquaintances. No more pitying looks at family get-togethers. She danced a couple of steps. At last, she would be free.
"There she is."
Hannah froze. Please, God, don't let it be him. Dread weighted her limbs as she turned.
Cooper Dixon's long legs ate up the distance between them. Hannah slouched and hung her head, wishing she could yank the tarp off the cart and hide. She straightened her shoulders. Coop had seen her looking worse; besides, all that mattered was that he was back. She smiled, beaming her happiness at his return. Her cheeks ached holding the greeting. Yet another deviation from her plans. But Coop's early return wasn't nearly as upsetting as the beautiful escort attached to his side.
The woman's long blond hair swayed in tandem with her slim hips. Hannah searched for black roots in the platinum locks. Copper tainted her mouth as she bit the inside of her jaw. Great. The woman was a natural blond. Can she eat an entire three-pound box of chocolates without gaining an ounce, too? Hannah stumbled against the cart. It wasn't fair. With her understated make-up, breezy ultra-feminine dress and trim frame, the woman was everything a professor's wife should be. Everything that Hannah wasn't.
"Despite her clownish appearance, Hannah is my right arm." Cooper tapped Hannah's red nose. Scarlet paint tattooed the pad of his index finger. He winked at her then turned to the woman at his side. "If I were in a different field, I would have to study the forces that attract paint and ink to Hannah. If you need anything, she can get it for you."
The woman nudged his side and jerked her head toward Hannah.
"Oh. Yes. Introductions. Olivia Palmer, I would like you to meet Hannah Jessup. Hannah, this is Olivia." Coop's dimpled smile encompassed both women.
"Nice to meet you, Hannah. Cooper has told me so much about you." To Hannah's surprise, the immaculate Olivia offered her hand and smiled when Hannah's paint-crusted one closed around it.
Hannah groaned. Why did Olivia have to be nice? Why couldn't she be petty and shallow? Guilt swamped her, drowning her earlier uncharitable thoughts. Of course, she wouldn't be so jealous if the other woman hadn't slathered herself all over Coop like barbeque sauce on ribs.
"I hope you don't mind my taking your place."
"My place?" Hannah's tight throat barely coughed up the words. Her heart pounded on her ribcage, disrupting her breath-ing.
"Yes. Your place as Cooper's assistant on the dig this summer." Olivia freed Coop long enough to pat Hannah's fists. "I'm afraid I wheedled into his good graces and pledged to work for free. It'll look great on my resumé to have an internship with Dr. Cooper Dixon."
Hannah's stomach cramped. Surely, such blatant flattery wouldn't work on Coop. He had promised to take her. They were going to be married, weren't they? She glanced at Coop. She couldn't have read the signs wrong. He had said he had something important to ask her. She blinked, hoping to clear the confusion. Was this a joke? Was Olivia taking her place on the dig...and by his side?
She glared at him. Why didn't he untangle himself from the leech? Why was he just standing there with his arms crossed and that goofy expression on his face. Say something, dammit! Her nails dug into her palms. Coop's expression changed. His eyebrows collapsed into a V between his eyes. Balled fists hung from his stiff arms. Finally! Now he would tell Little Miss Olivia what he thought of her idea. As if she could take my place.
"Death and Madness. Death and Madness!" Cooper Dixon's baritone boomed down the hall. Melvin peered through the archway. Hannah shook her head, and he turned back to the permanent exhibition. "Who the hell called my exhibit ‘Death and Madness?'"
He pointed to the letters. Righteous indignation shook his frame. Hannah backed into the cart. The wheels squeaked, drawing his attention. He pinned her with a glare.
"The board of trustees," Hannah croaked, pointing to the stenciled lettering under the foot-high letters. "We managed to keep your original title, too."
"‘Abandoned Occults of the Southwest,'" Olivia read. "Not a bad title, but hardly one to garner as much attention."
Hannah gritted her teeth when Olivia patted Coop's arm. She wanted to offer him comfort, to explain.
"Who wants that kind of attention?" he spat. "Years of scientific research reduced to a carnival sideshow designed to attract a bunch of blood-and-gore-loving freaks," he complained petulantly. "I can't believe you allowed them to do this, Hannah."
Hannah opened her mouth, but no words came out. She was the reason his title was there at all.
"Don't blame Hannah, Cooper. I'm sure she did her best. I know how these things work. The board was looking for a way to draw more attention. I'm sure they thought such a bloodthirsty title would help to raise more money for your next dig."
Cooper turned to Olivia, and Hannah watched the tension drain from his shoulders.
"Come, you'd promised to help me find a hotel close to campus," Olivia continued.
"A hotel? Yes." Gone was the vehemence in Coop's voice.
Hannah watched the exchange. This wasn't the way it was supposed to be. Air dried her mouth as her jaw loosened from the shock. Frustration shredded her insides. She had to stop this.
"Coop. Coop!"
The couple halted next to the exhibit of the black onyx.
"May I talk to you?" Her eyes flashed to Olivia then focused on Coop's tanned face. He didn't seem to get the message. "Alone."
Cooper glanced from Olivia to Hannah and back again. Olivia patted his arm before releasing him. She ran her finger over the glass case housing the onyx.
"Go ahead. I want a chance to look at your latest find. It's quite beautiful."
Hannah shivered. That black stone gave her the willies. Its inky depth harbored death and loss of hope, not beauty. Light didn't even escape its ebony clutches.
She pulled Cooper's arm and led him to the corner of the room. "Are you having dinner with me tonight?"
He looked at her. Was that annoyance lurking in his blue eyes? Hannah tramped down her irritation. He had better not be annoyed with her. Not after all the extra work she'd done on his behalf.
"Dinner?" He paused as if translating a foreign word. "Sorry, I told Olivia I'd help her get settled. Can we make it for tomorrow?"
Hannah jerked her head. Since Olivia was taking her place on the dig, why not just take her place at dinner also.
"Sure. Tomorrow."
"Thanks, Hannah, I knew you'd understand." He clasped her hand in his warm grip and ran his thumb along the back. "I'm glad you're not upset about Olivia. I know you've wanted to work in the archeology department for a long time but..." He raked his black hair with his fingers. "Well, she's volunteering. And what with the budget cuts and all, not spending any money on your salary will mean I can stay an extra couple of weeks."
"Of course." Hannah inspected the seams between the planks. She'd have to clean the floor. Can you sweep up pieces of a broken heart, or do you need a mop? Was there a bigger fool anywhere in the world? Coop hadn't been about to ask her to marry him, he'd wanted her to join his dig.
"I'll make it up to you. I promise." He squeezed her hand then turned and escorted Olivia out of the room.
Hannah abandoned her cart and trudged behind them. She needed to get to her office before someone saw her tears.