Windswept (14 page)

He had to give Glover points for sheer audacity. The man was assuming not only that Davis believed him about the “agreement” with Granddaddy and but also that he was one of those Southerners who would do anything to see his ancestor’s name in print. It gave him a certain satisfaction to be able to say, “Dr. Browning and I have an exclusive agreement regarding the papers. Until she completes the inventory and I know exactly what’s in them, no one is allowed access.”

“Let me ask another question, then.” Glover’s voice dropped in volume and took on a just-between-us quality. “Are you certain Dr. Browning is the right person to do the job? I don’t mean to denigrate her abilities, but she has no experience in archiving old documents. Her main concentration in women’s studies wouldn’t prepare her for understanding the importance of the political, economic, or military aspects of the papers. Her scholarship to date has been . . . ‘acceptable,’ but certainly not of the stellar quality you would want for a collection of the significance of the Windswept papers. Why, the woman doesn’t even have tenure, and she isn’t likely to get it either.”

Davis glared at the phone.
The damned son of a bitch.
There was obviously little collegiality among the members of the History Department, and this particular specimen was a real snake. It would be a cold day before this man laid one finger on those papers. He felt his temper flare, but held it firmly in check and asked with a purposefully frigid edge, “Are you implying my grandfather and I made a wrong decision concerning Dr. Browning?”

He must have gotten through to Glover, because the man backtracked rapidly. “No, no, not at all. I’m sure she’ll do an adequate job. I’m simply offering my expertise if you need it.”

“Thank you for your offer, Dr. Glover. I’ll keep it in mind.”

“Please do, and, uh, give my regards to Barrett.”

“Good-bye.” Davis pushed the button to disconnect. He swiveled his chair to the windows and leaned back, rubbing his finger under his mustache. Barrett had been correct: historians would be willing to grovel to get their hands into the papers. And lie. And cheat. If he ever let this man in, he’d probably have to frisk him on the way out just to be certain this “good professor” hadn’t finished the third part of that particular triumvirate of actions.

“Acceptable” scholarship? “Adequate” job? Glover had said the words the way a jealous competitor would praise a rival’s work.

Sure, Barrett didn’t have a lot of experience creating an archive, but she was smart and knew she’d have to bring in experts. She certainly had the motivation to do a good job. Granddaddy had investigated and chosen her. Everything Davis had seen so far indicated she knew what she was doing. Glover was full of shit.

Her “colleague” probably wanted to take over the inventory himself. Davis grimaced. The thought of Glover in her place left a sour taste in his mouth and he’d only met the man over the phone. No way in hell would he invite such a person into his home.

But what did the son of a bitch mean, she wasn’t likely to receive tenure? Sounded like sour grapes to him, Davis decided, but he had the sneaking suspicion he hadn’t heard the last of Horace Glover. Maybe he should do a little research into Glover’s abilities and reputation--to have the ammunition ready for the man’s next foray. Good ol’ Horace may be a military historian, but Davis knew a little about tactics himself.

He wouldn’t mention Glover’s call to Barrett, however. No need to distract her. He wanted her attention on two items only: the papers and him.

***

Friday afternoon a little after three-thirty, Barrett put the last of the files into the 1845-C box and carried it into the conference room. There were only two boxes left for 1845. Thank goodness. The C box had been all about cotton, cultivation techniques, prices, economic outlooks, reports from factors, and clippings from both Massachusetts and British newspapers about the cotton market. She knew someone over at Southwest Louisiana who would love to see this stuff, but as for her, she’d been bored stiff.

She walked into her office and looked out the glass walls at the pool’s turquoise water glistening in the sunshine. It was time for a break. If she took her swim now, got her blood moving, blew the cobwebs out of her brain, she’s be all set to work on her own research tonight. The set of 1832 correspondence between Mary Maude and her sister and two brothers had looked intriguing the first time through, and Barrett wanted to follow up on her idea for her first article.

She hurriedly turned off the computer and straightened the room. Within ten minutes, she was surfacing from a shallow dive. The cool water washed off the grime of the papers and cleared her mind at the same time. She swam six laps, then floated on her back and let her thoughts wander.

Talk about research heaven! She didn’t know what she had done to deserve her situation, but she’d take it. A collection no historian had ever seen before, uninterrupted access, congenial company, family and friends nearby. All too often she had carried on research in places where she knew no one and filling the evening hours after the library or archives closed had been difficult.

And the food! Eva could cook in a five-star restaurant.

And the weight she must be gaining! Barrett turned over and swam another six laps.

When she was floating again, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from returning to her host. She was enjoying their dinner conversations. They’d fallen into the pattern of telling each other how the day had gone--progress on their projects mostly. She was learning a great deal about the business world from him. In turn, Davis was showing real enthusiasm about history, and it seemed to surprise him. She had to chuckle; she’d seen the same reaction in several of her students after they were bitten by the “history bug.”

As for the attraction she felt towards him . . . She’d managed to temper her responses to him and had focused on placing him firmly in the category of a person, her host, possibly a friend, who happened to be a man. All she had to do was keep him there and the summer would be a piece of cake--dark, moist, chocolate cake with fresh strawberries on the side. She could do it, she decided, and congratulated herself on her resolve and intellectual approach to the problem.

Right now, she could float here in this marvelous pool, like a flower adrift on a tranquil sea and think up more awful clichés. Let’s see, like a dandelion wafting on a summer breeze, like a hoop-skirted woman waltzing across a hardwood floor, like a fishing float bobbing on a peaceful pond, like a . . .

“Hello!”

Barrett sat up, or tried to, but her feet didn’t descend fast enough and she went under. Sputtering, she straightened herself out, but she was in the deep end of the pool, so she had to tread water.

Davis, clad only in his swimsuit, put a towel on the patio chair and grinned at her. “Didn’t mean to startle you,” he said.

“No, not at all,” Barrett coughed as she tried to keep her eyes in her head. She usually didn’t pay much attention to a man’s physique, probably because her brothers were always wandering the house in one level of undress or another when they were growing up. She had developed a “seen one good looking male bod and you’ve seen them all” sort of attitude. She’d told herself she was more interested in what was in a man’s mind than how his body looked.

But she couldn’t ignore the man’s body in front of her. All that sleek muscle, toned to perfection, a wide chest lightly sprinkled with dark hair, a flat stomach, slim hips and long powerful legs. Oh, God, he was gorgeous.

“Do you mind if I join you?” His white teeth flashed under the black mustache.

“Of course not,” she managed to answer, hoping her fluster didn’t show. She wasn’t sure what to do, so she backed up to the pool edge and floated against the side to give him room.

He dove in cleanly and swam several laps before coming to her side. “You had the right idea,” he said as he tread water.

“What idea?” She was confused and embarrassed by her confusion.

“To go for a swim. The summer heat is already building, and Lord knows, after the day I’ve had, I needed to work off some steam.” He moved so he could float beside her.

“Bad?”

“Just several unreasonable people. Nothing I want to talk about. Especially now. It’s too peaceful here to think about them.”

Saying nothing, they floated amicably for a while.

“Do you swim much during the school year?” he asked, righting himself to tread water close to her, then standing when he discovered he could touch bottom. The water was up to his shoulders. He offered her his hand when she almost went under.

Barrett used his hand to balance and told herself to ignore his closeness and the warmth of his hand. “No. My condo has an outdoor pool, and I don’t use the university’s indoor one. But your pool is so nice after a day in those dusty papers.”

“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” He pulled her a little closer to him.

“Oh!” she exclaimed when her arm brushed his. She tilted her body, trying to stand, but she was still out of her depth. He slid an arm under hers and held her up. Barrett told herself he was simply being cordial, friendly, helpful . . . yes, helpful to someone shorter than he was. Then she looked into his eyes--how could hazel glint with green and gold specks and be so warm at the same time?--and she felt her breath catch in her throat.

“Excuse me, sir,” Gonzales said from the poolside.

Davis jumped almost as much as she did, Barrett noticed, but he didn’t let her go.

“There’s a call from Mrs. Murphy. She says it’s important.”

“Oh, hell. What happened now?” Davis asked. “Tell her I’m coming.” He turned to Barrett. “Excuse me. This shouldn’t take long.” He made certain she could stand before he released her, then climbed out of the pool, grabbed his towel, and went inside.

Barrett didn’t wait. The feel of him holding her up, their almost bare bodies touching along their lengths, his arm around her back, his hand splayed on her waist, had sent a bolt of electricity shooting through her. Going from placidly floating to instant awareness and accelerated heartbeat had unnerved her. “He’s just a friend,” and “Be professional,” she muttered as she climbed out of the pool, picked up her towel, and went to her room to get ready for dinner.

On the phone in his office, Davis was not happy as he watched her leave the pool. He’d planned to return and take up where they left off. Even with Peggy blabbing in his ear, he couldn’t help but smile as he thought of how she felt to him for the brief moment in his arms. And the way her nipples peaked under her suit when he put his arm around her. And how her blue eyes darkened when he looked into them. And how his own body responded.

Damn. He couldn’t remember ever wanting a woman as much as he wanted Barrett.

The way her body had tensed when he held her up told him she was as aware of him as he was of her. But her eyes had a wary look in them, like she wasn’t sure what he was up to. She was probably just cautious around men. With a mind and a body like hers, she must be hit on by numerous guys. No matter. He was certain he’d gain her trust. He’d just have to work especially hard at dinner to resume their usually relaxed companionship.

Chapter Ten

Saturday just after lunch, Barrett sat on the floor of the office and jerked the top off box 1845-D. She hoped to God some decent records lurked in this one, anything to focus her mind, get it away from thoughts of Davis and yesterday. She didn’t need this, this . . . distraction.

First, the episode in the pool had set her nerve endings tingling. Then he was just “good old Davis” at dinner, acting as though nothing at all had happened.

Obviously to him, nothing had.

But to her?

Second, she had trouble sleeping, and she never had trouble sleeping. Hadn’t she slept like the proverbial baby the night before the oral exam for her Ph.D.? And before the defense of her dissertation?

Third? Ah, yes, third. Dreams. X-rated dreams, with a certain hazel-eyed, black eagle of a man.

Result? She hadn’t been able to concentrate on her own research this morning, even with Davis out early to play golf. Rain was forecast for the afternoon, and he was trying to get in his game before the weather arrived. Barrett looked out at the gray overcast. The dark clouds were churning across the sky and turning blue-black. She’d turned on the overhead lights and the one on the desk. There would be no swimming today.

She’d put on her most disreputable T-shirt--a University of Texas one looking, thanks to the holes in it, more burnt than orange--and a pair of cut-off jeans and kicked off her shoes to tackle the grungiest box in the collection. It was so heavy she had to ask Gonzales to help her move it into the office.

This two-by-three-by-two-foot receptacle was dented gray-green metal, not cardboard, with metal rings on each end and a makeshift wooden top tied on with old rope. She hadn’t opened it in her initial sorting, but had assumed the “1845” label on the outside was correct. Gonzales had vacuumed the outside and cut the rope for her.

She laid the top aside and sniffed at the ribbon-tied brown envelopes filling the container. Good, no mildew smell and not as much dust as the exterior suggested. The envelopes ranged in size from eight-by-five to ten-by-twelve and were stacked flat, not on edge as in the other boxes. No notations indicated their contents or dates, either. With a sigh, she put on cotton gloves, soothed down a wrinkle in the butcher paper, opened the first envelope, and carefully pulled out the sheets inside.

“Well, this is more like it,” she murmured as she unfolded one after the other of the ten pieces. She arranged the pages chronologically on the floor on top of their original envelope. She quickly opened two more envelopes and spread out their contents in the same manner until she was surrounded on three sides by a semicircle of paper. Cross-legged, she leaned back against the desk and grinned. Raising and waving her arms, she did a little seated victory dance as she said aloud, “Hot damn, you’ve found the bills of sale for the plantation’s slaves.”