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He lifted an imaginary blade.
She lunged, letting instinct take control.
He parried, a split second too late. Her fist slashed across his forearm and then slid home against his flat abdomen.
“If this were a knife you’d be dead.” She slid a finger along the taut flesh beneath his rib cage. “Never parry with your unprotected hand. Always stay behind your blade.”
She lifted his giant hand, wrapping his fingers around a pretend dagger, positioning his wrist. “Maintain a firm grip on the hilt. Keep the knife edge up and out, pointed toward the threat.”
His eyes glinted in the dim light. “You’re making a habit of touching me, aren’t you, Indy?” he said in a husky whisper.
She dropped his hand as if it were a pile of hot coals and stepped away from him. “In your dreams, Ravenwood. And I told you not to call me Indy.”
In her dreams.
Sweat-soaked, sheet-twisting dreams. Forbidden dreams.
Dreams she’d been having since he’d been a reckless boy with a disarming grin, daring her to jump her pony over the highest fence. She’d nearly broken her neck more than once.
He’d broken her heart.
He was her enemy. Her rival.
And she did want to touch him. Desperately. Every single time she saw him.
She’d always thought that the reality would pale in comparison to her vivid dreams. After their kiss, she wasn’t so sure.
Her dreams might be the paler, tamer version.
A tremor rippled between her shoulder blades.
“Shall we call that truce now?” he asked. “I can be pleasant.”
She didn’t want him to be pleasant. She relied on him to be infuriatingly arrogant.
Pleasant was dangerous.
Change three letters and pleasant was pleasure.
“We don’t have to be pleasant to each other,” she said. “At least when we’re in private. All we need do is find the stone and return to our separate lives.” She sheathed her dagger and headed back to the crowded street.
He followed.
She would find the strength to ignore him. That’s what she’d do. She’d completely ignore six feet of overly confident, sinfully handsome former best friend during the two-day journey to Paris.
“I always stay with Sir Charles Sterling, the British ambassador, when I’m in Paris,” Ravenwood informed her. “And you?”
“I always stay with Lady Catherine Hammond. She made Paris her permanent residence seven years ago and hasn’t ceased trying to convince me to do the same. I visit her for several months every year when I’m able.”
“I’m not acquainted with Lady Catherine but I’ve heard about her discovery of Bronze Age barrows in Wiltshire. I’ve also heard she’s quite the eccentric.”
Indy shrugged impatiently. “That’s what people say when they don’t have a box to fit someone inside. Lady Catherine is my archaeology mentor and my friend. I’ll be glad to have the chance to visit with her. I received a letter from her recently that was rather worrisome.”
“How so?”
“She wrote that she was in ill health and was experiencing heart palpitations and terrible vertigo. She consulted several medical doctors but only found a small measure of relief after hiring a Dr. Lowe, whom she calls a mesmerist.”
“I’ve heard of mesmerism. It’s all quackery.”
