Midnight Sun (6 page)

“But you arrived at the office first, because I had a flat.” She glanced toward the room where the mask rested in its wooden box. “I know it’s crazy, but I can’t help but wonder if the mask caused the flat—and the delay—so we’d meet. But then, everything about this is crazy. I’ve lost my frigging mind.”

“Apparently, I have too, because even though it goes against everything I’ve ever believed, I can’t deny it happened. To me. To us. The mask set us up.” Too much had occurred—and not just the shared sex dream—for him to blow her off as a nutcase. “I couldn’t lift the box from the trunk. If it had been stuck to the trunk somehow, then when I tried to lift it, the car would have rocked. It didn’t.”

“And then there was…” Her voice trailed off as her cheeks turned a pretty shade of red.

“Our perfect, consequence-free fantasy fuck,” he finished for her.

Her eyes widened. She set her coffee mug down and straightened, as if it weren’t far too late to present a professional demeanor. “I think it would be best if we pretend that didn’t happen. It was just a dream. Subconscious in action. It doesn’t
mean
anything.”

“You and I both know that wasn’t our subconscious at work. We might have been dreaming, but everything we did, everything we said, was deliberate.” He was at half-mast just talking about it. “I’m not embarrassed,” he added with a smile. She’d been so brazen when she’d believed she was indulging in a fantasy—one in which he’d played a rather integral role. “I enjoyed the hell out of that dream and have no desire to pretend it didn’t happen.”

Her brow furrowed, and he loved the way her imperfect, crooked brow slanted over her right eye as she tried to figure out how to respond. She licked her lips as she tugged on the leg of the sweatpants, as if she were adjusting a prim skirt. The mixed signals clearly showed her confusion. “Well then, we’ll just agree to disagree on that point, shall we?”

He leaned toward her. “Maybe we should just screw right now, so we can get rid of the questions about how real it was and if it counts.”

She shook her head and let out an incredulous laugh. “For a man who has recently been possessed by an artifact, you’re awfully nonchalant.”

“The mask didn’t make me do anything I didn’t want. Or that I don’t want to do again. Awake this time.”

She rolled her eyes as her lips canted in a wry smile. “Typical man.”

He leaned in and nipped her adorable, freckled bottom lip. “I distinctly remember you calling me exceptional.”

She tweaked a lock of his hair. “You couldn’t possibly live up to your performance in the dream.”

He grinned. “Well, now that sounds like a challenge to me.”

She pushed him away. “I will concede I enjoyed the dream. But I’m not ready to accept there’s anything between us other than manipulation by an annoying dead shaman.”

She was clearly as turned on as he was, but more in control. Then again, she’d been dealing with the mask for months, whereas he’d only had to deal with it for a few hours. And except for the jolt of pain right after the break-in, for the most part, the manipulation had been decidedly pleasant.

How much of this was real now, and how much was the mask still pushing him?

It struck him that maybe the intense attraction that colored every thought and reaction he had toward her wasn’t real. What if, without the mask’s intervention, he’d feel nothing?

And what if, deep down, she felt nothing for him?
 

The idea left him cold. He huffed out a sigh. “Sorry. I’m not usually… such an ass. We need to talk about the mask and Chuck, and try to figure out if what’s happening to you—to us—is connected. And then we need to call the police and report the break-in.”

She gave a short nod. “Agreed.” She plucked a pencil from the coffee table and held it between her teeth as she gathered her reddish locks from her neck and rolled them into a knot, which she secured with the pencil.

The light shone on the fair skin of her slender neck, revealing a faint bruise, which he’d put there when he sucked on her sweet skin as he thrust inside her. Proof he
had
sucked on her neck, even though he hadn’t really been inside her.

He stood and crossed the room, choosing a spot between the credenza, loaded with photos of Jana and Chuck, and the woodstove. He sat on the floor and leaned against the wall, facing her but no longer able to see the hickey, no longer close enough to smell her warm, sexy scent. “I’d better sit here so we can get through this conversation without me scooping you up and tossing you on the bed so I can fuck your brains out.”

She flushed with heat, making him certain what he’d guessed in the dream was true. She was turned on by the word fuck when used that way. It was going to take all his willpower not to exploit that to talk her back into the bedroom.

He had a feeling he’d never feel satisfied again if they didn’t finish that dream.

“W
e’ll start with the mask. I want you to tell me everything you know about it,” Rhys said, proving he could jump from sex to business in a single sentence, while Sienna was still trying to catch her breath.

He sat not far from where he’d peeled off his shirt in the dream, making it impossible for her to ignore the fact that his T-shirt hugged broad, muscular shoulders. Hard to believe the guy was a lawyer. But then, he’d been in the army, and clearly, he’d taken good care of himself after leaving the service. His perfection made her feel even more self-conscious than usual about those ten… if she were being honest, fifteen… extra pounds she carried.

Guys like him went for blondes with tiny waists and big breasts. Her breasts were okay—thanks to those extra pounds—but the rest of her was nothing a perfect ex-soldier-turned-attorney like him would be interested in. His interest in her was just proof the mask had warped his mind.

“Sienna?” he asked.

She shook her head. Right. Stay focused. He wanted to know about the mask. She glanced from the photos of Chuck—who was obviously a tribal member—back to Rhys’s striking blue eyes. “Are you part Itqaklut?” she asked.

He shook his head. “No. Our fathers were brothers—sons of Welsh immigrants. Chuck’s mother was Itqaklut.”

“Rhys is a Welsh name?”

He nodded and cocked his head. “What about you? Where does the name Sienna come from?”

She was tempted to tell him her real, full name. Hell, he knew her sexual fantasies; sharing the truth of her name was nothing compared to that. But she chickened out. “Hippy-dippy parents. Mom is an artist and archaeologist, Dad a botanist. I’m named for the earth pigment—and thankful Mom didn’t push to name me ochre, or worse, umber. They named my sisters Larkspur and Juniper.”

“You followed in your mother’s footsteps?” he asked.

She cradled her coffee mug in her hands. This felt strangely like a first-date conversation, sharing their backgrounds. Forget the fact that it was four a.m., and she’d just had the most erotic experience of her life with him. “Sort of. I have an undergraduate degree in anthropology. I’ve done my share of dig bumming, but Larkspur is the one with a master’s degree in archaeology. I have an MA in museology. My specialty is curation and care of museum collections.”

“And you work for a museum?”

“Larkspur and I have a full-service cultural resources management consulting firm. She handles the archaeology, fieldwork, and reporting, and I manage artifact analysis and collections. I have several museums as clients. One of my jobs is to audit collections and flag items subject to repatriation under NAGPRA.” She smiled, remembering how he’d covered his cluelessness about NAGPRA in Chuck’s office.
 

“After you determine an artifact is subject to repatriation, what happens?” he asked.

“I research the artifact’s origins. Frequently, I’ll consult with multiple tribes that have competing claims. It can get dicey trying to find a solution that makes all parties happy.”

“What makes an artifact subject to repatriation?”

“Aside from human remains, I identify grave goods—anything that might have been buried in association with human remains. But an artifact doesn’t have to be grave goods to be sacred. Any type of funerary purpose is protected under NAGPRA.”

“And the mask, you think it was a grave good?”

“Most likely. Masks are sacred, regardless. They were highly valued in Iñupiat culture. As with this mask, often the shaman’s real hair was used. Hundreds of years later, we have the DNA of the owner of the mask. DNA is a slam dunk for repatriation.”

“Did you run a DNA test on the hair?”

“The museum curator wouldn’t let me. After I returned it to the tribe—to your cousin—I’d planned to request he run a test to prove I’d done the right thing in returning it.”

“What do you mean?”

“My client, Adam Helvig, freaked when I flagged the mask during my NAGPRA inventory. He said it wasn’t subject to NAGPRA because it was a replica—which was bullshit. He was pissed I’d even opened the storage box. He accused me of all sorts of vile things until I showed him the paperwork for the box. The number was part of the sequence I was contractually obligated to inventory. If I hadn’t opened it, I’d have been negligent in fulfilling my contract.”

“If it was part of your inventory, why did he put up a fuss?”

She shrugged. “He said it was numbered wrong. He even accused me of changing the number at one point. He flat out forbade me from including it with the other items subject to repatriation.”

“Yet here you are, with the mask.”

If anyone could possibly understand the choice she’d made, it was Rhys. “I, um, stole it.” She glared at him, daring him to judge her. “You
know
why I had to.”
 

He studied her in silence.
 

Crap. Hadn’t he said he was an assistant US attorney? Does that mean he has to report me?

Finally, he said, “Don’t worry. I get it. Just trying to figure out how we should handle this.” After a long silence, he asked, “In general, how does it…communicate with you?”

“Dreams—nightmares—for the most part. But also little games—like when it was too heavy to lift, or really light at other times. When I’m doing what it wants, it…this will sound crazy…but it sort of…hums. A slight pleasurable vibration.”

His brows drew together. “Is it—the vibration, I mean—is it sexual?”

It was a fair question, given what had occurred between them. “No. There was never anything sexual about it, not until you came along.”

There was something about the satisfaction in his smile that both amused and irked her. The damn mask had manipulated them into bed together. It had entered the most private spaces of her mind and pulled Rhys in with it.
 

She felt vulnerable. Exposed. And, yes, aroused. Even desperate. “I just wish I knew how much of this”—she waved her arm between them to encompass the magnetic pull she felt toward him even now—“is real, and what can be attributed to the mask playing matchmaker.”

“I’ll admit I’m wondering the same thing.” His deep, quiet voice was—like everything else about him—a powerful turn-on. “I think I can feel that hum you’re talking about. For me, it started when we were talking in Chuck’s office.” He curled his hands into fists and added with a grimace, “And with every heartbeat, I’m fighting the most intense need to drag you onto my lap and make you come.”

Her breath hitched.

“Sorry. I don’t mean to push you. I’m just being honest.”

She nodded. “I know that.”

He gave her a soft smile of friendship, not seduction, and she realized she would very much like his friendship. “So what about the curator? Did you have a plan for returning the mask that would leave you with your reputation and business intact?”

She held the coffee mug to her nose and took a deep breath, thankful for the comforting aroma, which she’d denied herself for the last two months. “About twenty-four hours ago, I reached my breaking point. Or the mask did. I’m not sure. All I know is, it yanked me out of bed in the middle of the night, demanding I grab it and bring it here.” She shook her head. “So I picked it up from the museum—I have keys and the security codes—and went straight to SeaTac. I spent a fortune on a last-minute flight to Itqaklut. And here we are. I’d hoped that if Chuck signed the receipt, I could use it to show I’m not a thief. If he’d agree to the DNA test, I could prove I’d returned it to the rightful owner—however illegally. If I were lucky, it would get sorted out through NAGPRA and I’d be proven right, that the curator’s claims were bogus.”