He stood motionless, just breathing in her scent. She looked nothing like his Andrea, who’d been dark and petite. Sophie Johannsen was an Amazon, tall, blond, and… alive. She’s alive, Chick. And today, that’s just enough to get you into trouble. By tomorrow, he’d be blessedly numb once more.
“Sophie,” she said warily. “I’m Sophie.”
“I’m sorry.” Focus, Chick. One unidentified body, perhaps more. That was what should be occupying his thoughts, not Sophie Johannsen’s perfume. He gestured to the front seat, determined to pull their interaction back to the professional level. “Please.”
“Thanks.” She climbed in and he heard the clinking of metal coming from her coat.
“What do you have in your pockets?”
“Oh, all kinds of things. This is my field jacket.” From one of the pockets she pulled a handful of garden stakes. “Markers for what we find.”
I sure as hell hope you brought enough, he thought, remembering the red flags Nick would be removing before they got back. They wanted a clean investigation with no prejudicing the expert before she started her scan. “Let’s go.”
Once they were under way, Sophie held her frozen fingers up to the truck’s heater. Without a word, Vito leaned forward and twisted a knob, turning the temperature up.
When her fingers were warm again, she settled into the seat and studied Vito Ciccotelli. His appearance had come as a surprise. With a name like Vito, she’d expected him to be a brawny thug with a face that had gone too many rounds with the champ. She could not have been more mistaken. Which was why she’d stared. She’d been taken off guard. You go right on thinking that.
He was at least six-two. She’d had to look up to meet his eyes, and at five-eleven herself, that didn’t happen very often. His shoulders were broad in his leather jacket, but there was a lean toughness to him that spoke more of a large cat than a scrappy bulldog. He had the kind of rugged, chiseled face that one saw in fashion magazines. Not that she read fashion magazines herself, of course. That was Aunt Freya’s vice.
Sophie imagined most women would consider Vito Ciccotelli swooningly handsome and fall helplessly at his feet. That was probably why he’d been so quick to rebuff her earlier-women probably hit on him all the time. It was a good thing she wasn’t most women, she thought dryly. Falling helplessly at his feet was the last thing on her mind.
Although that’s very nearly what she’d done. How embarrassing. But for that one moment when he’d held her against him she’d felt comfort and the solidity of welcome. As if she could lay her head back against his shoulder and rest. Don’t be ridiculous, Sophie. Men that looked like Vito were too accustomed to getting exactly what they wanted with the bat of an eyelash. But somehow that assessment felt unfair. As if it mattered. He’d come for her GPR. Nothing more. So focus on what you’re here for. A chance to work again. To do something important. Still, her eyes were drawn to his face.
He was wearing sunglasses, but she could just see the corner of his eye where the darkness of his skin was broken by tiny white lines, as if he was quick to smile. He wasn’t smiling now. At this moment, his expression was sober and brooding which made her feel a little guilty for feeling so excited and energized.
For the first time in months she’d be doing something that got her back into the field. That was what had her heart pumping and goosebumps pebbling her skin. The thrill of the hunt, of finding secrets hidden below the surface of the earth, not the memory of his hands gripping her shoulders. He was just keeping you from falling on your ass. It had been way too long since she’d been touched by a man, for any reason. She frowned and focused. “So Vito, tell me about this gravesite.”
“Who said anything about graves?” he asked, his tone casual.
She fought the urge to roll her eyes. “I’m not stupid. An ME and a cop are looking for something under the ground. So how many graves are we talking about?”
He shrugged. “Maybe none.”
“But you’ve found at least one.”
“What makes you say that?”
She wrinkled her nose. “L’odeur de la mort. It’s quite noticeable.”
“You speak French? I took it in high school, but I only learned the swear words.”
Now she did roll her eyes, her temper flaring. “I’m fluent in ten languages, three of them deader than the body you just came from,” she snapped, then instantly wished her words back as he flinched, a muscle twitching in his clenched jaw.
“The body I just came from was somebody’s daughter or wife,” he said quietly.
Her face heated, her annoyance becoming embarrassment and shame. Shoved your foot in your mouth, army boot and all. “I’m sorry,” she said, just as quietly. “I didn’t mean to be disrespectful. The bodies I come across have been dead several hundred years. But it’s not an excuse. I got a little… jazzed at the prospect of doing something interesting. I let myself get carried away. I apologize. It was insensitive of me.”
He kept his gaze fixed ahead. “It’s all right.”
No, it wasn’t, but she didn’t know what to say to make it right. She pulled off her gloves and began to braid her hair that still hung loose so it would be out of her way when she got to where the detective was taking her. She was almost done when he spoke, startling her.
“So,” he said. “You speak French? I took it in high school, but…”
His mouth turned up in a rueful smile and she smiled back. He’d thrown her a do-over. This time she would keep her feet out of her mouth. “But you only learned the swear words. Yes, I speak French and several other languages. It comes in handy translating old texts and conversing with the locals when I’m working.” She went back to braiding her hair. “I’ll teach you a few swear words in other languages if you want.”
His lips twitched. “It’s a deal. Katherine said you were on sabbatical.”
“Of sorts.” She secured the braid into a tight ball at her nape. “My grandmother had a stroke, so I came back to Philly to help my aunt take care of her.”
“Is she recovering?”
“Some days we think so. Other days…” She sighed. “Other days it’s not so good.”
“I’m sorry.” He sounded very sincere.
“Thank you.”
“And where did you come back from?”
“Southern France. We were excavating a thirteenth-century castle.”
He looked impressed. “Like, with a dungeon?”
She chuckled. “At one time, most likely. Now we’ll be lucky to find the outer walls and the foundation of the keep. They’ll be lucky,” she corrected. “Listen, Vito… I’m sorry I was out of line, but it really would help me to know a little more about what you need me to do before I begin.”
He shrugged. “There’s really not much to tell. We found one body.”
Back to square one. “But you think there are more.”
“Maybe.”
Keeping her feet well away from her mouth, she injected a note of lightness into her voice. “If I uncover something, I’ll know your secrets. I hope this isn’t one of those ‘now I’ll have to kill you’ things. That would ruin my day.”
The corners of his mouth quirked. “Killing you would be illegal, Dr. Johannsen.”
They were back to formalities. Too bad. She was still calling him Vito. “Well then, Vito, unless you plan to erase my memory, you’ll have to trust that I won’t blab. You don’t have one of those memory-zapping guns like they used in Men in Black, do you?”
His lips twitched again. “I left it in my other suit.”
“Forewarned is forearmed, they say. Which suit is it? I promise I won’t tell.”
Abruptly he grinned, exposing a deep dimple in his right cheek. Oh, my, she thought. Oh my, oh my. A smile turned Vito Ciccotelli from merely magazine-handsome to movie-star-gorgeous. Aunt Freya’s heart would be going pitter-pat. Just like yours is right now. Then he spoke.