Birthright by Nora Roberts Page A

brawny four-wheeler in demon black, then the ancient pickup truck in a hideous medley of faded red, rusty blue and primer gray pulling a dirty, white travel trailer covered with scratches and dings.
    Painted across the side of the trailer was a snarling Doberman and the name DIGGER .
    Emotions, too many, too mixed, too huge, slammed through her. They choked her throat, twisted her belly, stabbed her heart.
    â€œCallie . . . before you say anything—”
    â€œYou’re not going to do this.” She had to swallow.
    â€œIt’s done.”
    â€œAw, Leo, no. Goddamnit, I asked for Nick.”
    â€œHe’s not available. He’s in South America. The project needs the best, Callie. Graystone’s the best.” Leo nearly stumbled back when she spun toward him. “You know it. Personal business aside, Callie, you know he’s the best. Digger, too. Adding his name to yours greased the grant. I expect you to behave professionally.”
    She showed Leo her teeth. “You can’t always get what you want,” she tossed back.
    She watched him jump out of the four-wheeler. Jacob Graystone, all six feet one and a quarter inches of him. He wore his old brown hat, its brim and crown creased and battered from years of hard wear. His hair, a straight-arrow fall of black, spilled out beneath it. A plain white T-shirt was tucked into the waistband of faded Levi’s. And the body beneath them was prime.
    Long bones, long muscles, all covered in bronzed skin that was a result of working outdoors and the quarter of his heritage that was Apache.
    He turned, and though he wore dark glasses, she knew his eyes were a color caught, rather beautifully, between gray and green.
    He flashed a smile—arrogant, smug, sarcastic. All of which, she thought, fit him to the ground. He had a face too handsome for his own good, or so she’d always thought. Those long bones again, sharp enough to cut diamonds, the straight nose, the firm jaw with the hint of a scar slashed diagonally across it.
    Her pulse began to throb and her temples to pound. Casually, she ran a hand down the chain around her neck, assured herself it was tucked under her shirt.
    â€œThis blows, Leo.”
    â€œI know it’s not an ideal situation for you, but—”
    â€œHow long have you known he was coming?” Callie demanded.
    This time, it was Leo who swallowed. “A couple of days. I wanted to tell you face-to-face. I didn’t think he’d be here until tomorrow. We need him, Callie. The project needs him.”
    â€œFuck it, Leo.” She squared her shoulders as a boxer might before the main event. “Just fuck it.”
    He even walked smugly, she thought now, in that damn cowboy swagger. It had always irritated the hell out of her.
    His companion stepped out of the truck. Stanley Digger Forbes. A hundred and twenty-five pounds of ugly.
    Callie resisted the urge to curl her lip and snarl. Instead,she put her hands on her hips and waited for the men to reach her.
    â€œGraystone.” She inclined her head.
    â€œDunbrook.” His eyebrows lifted between the tops of his sunglasses and the brim of his hat. His voice was a drawl, a warm and lazy slide of words that brought images of deserts and prairies. “It’s Dr. Dunbrook now, isn’t it?”
    â€œThat’s right.”
    â€œCongratulations.”
    Deliberately she looked away from him. One look at Digger made her lips curve. He was grinning like a hyena, his smashed walnut face livened by a pair of spooky black eyes and the glint of his gold eyetooth.
    He wore a gold hoop in his left ear, and a dirty blond rat’s tail hung beneath the bright red bandanna tied around his head.
    â€œHey, Dig, welcome aboard.”
    â€œCallie, looking good. Got prettier.”
    â€œThanks. You didn’t.”
    He gave her his familiar hooting laugh. “That girl with the legs?” He jerked his chin toward the students.