them.” He set it down, started to fight to open it.
“I can do it.” She brushed him away.
“Don’t do anything else,” he ordered and walked out again. He came back struggling a bit with a box. He simply snarled when she popped up to take it from him. “I’ve got it. Damn it.”
She inclined her head—regally, he thought. “It’s frustrating, I’m sure, to be physically hampered. But stop snapping at me.”
When she sat again, folding her hands coolly, he dug into the box and muttered. “You’re just going to type, that’s it. I don’t need any comments, questions or lectures.” He dumped a pile of loose papers, clippings, photos and notebooks on the table, pawed through them briefly. “Need to open the document.”
She simply sat there, hands folded, mouth firmly shut.
“I thought you could use a keyboard.”
“I can. But as you’ve just ordered me not to ask questions, I’m unable to ask which document you might like me to open, out of which program.”
He snarled again, then leaned over her and started hitting keys himself. His nose ended up nearly buried in her hair—which annoyed him. It was soft, shiny, fragrant. Female enough to have the juices churning instinctively. He beetled his eyebrows and concentrated on bringing up the document he wanted.
Without thinking, she turned her head. Her mouth all but brushed his, shocking them both into jerking back. He shot her a fulminating, frustrated glare and stuck his good hand into his pocket.
“That’s the one. There.”
“Oh.” She had to swallow, hard, and fight the urge to clear her throat. She took quiet, calming breaths instead. His eyes were so
green
, she thought.
“You have to page down to the end.” He’d nearly stepped forward again to do it himself before he remembered he’d be on top of her again. “I need to pick it up there.”
She did so with a casual efficiency that satisfied him. Cautious now, he circled around her for his reading glasses, then plucked from the disordered pile the precise notes he needed.
His eyes, she thought, looked even more green, even more intense, when he wore those horn-rims.
“Interred with the remains are plant materials,” he began, then scowled at her. “Are you going to sit there or hit the damn keys?”
She bit back an angry remark—she would
not
sink to his level, and started to type.
“It’s probable the plants, such as the intact prickly pear pad which was retrieved, were food offerings buried with the dead. A number of seeds were found in the stomach areas of articulated skeletons.”
She typed quickly, falling into the rhythm of his voice. A very nice voice, she thought, when it wasn’t snarling and snapping. Almost melodious. He spoke of gourds recovered in another burial, theorizing that the plant specimen may have been grown locally from seeds brought from Central or South America.
He made her see it, she realized. That was his gift. She began to form a picture in her mind of these peoplewho had traveled to the riverbank and made a home. Tended their children, cared for their sick and buried their dead with respect and ceremony in the rich peaty soil.
“Chestnut trees?” She stopped, turned to him, breaking his rhythm with her enthusiasm. “You can tell from pollen samples that there were chestnut trees there nine thousand years ago? But how can you—”
“Look, I’m not teaching a class here.” He saw the spark in her eyes wink out, turning them cool and blank. And felt like a total jerk. “Jeez. Okay, there’s a good twelve feet of peat, it took eleven thousand years since the last ice age to build up to that point.”
He dug through his papers again and came up with photos and sketches. “You take samples—different depths, different samples, and you run tests. It shows the types of plants in the area. Changes in climate.”
“How does it show changes in climate?”
“By the types of plants. Cold, warm, cold, warm.” He tapped the sketches.
“I can do it.” She brushed him away.
“Don’t do anything else,” he ordered and walked out again. He came back struggling a bit with a box. He simply snarled when she popped up to take it from him. “I’ve got it. Damn it.”
She inclined her head—regally, he thought. “It’s frustrating, I’m sure, to be physically hampered. But stop snapping at me.”
When she sat again, folding her hands coolly, he dug into the box and muttered. “You’re just going to type, that’s it. I don’t need any comments, questions or lectures.” He dumped a pile of loose papers, clippings, photos and notebooks on the table, pawed through them briefly. “Need to open the document.”
She simply sat there, hands folded, mouth firmly shut.
“I thought you could use a keyboard.”
“I can. But as you’ve just ordered me not to ask questions, I’m unable to ask which document you might like me to open, out of which program.”
He snarled again, then leaned over her and started hitting keys himself. His nose ended up nearly buried in her hair—which annoyed him. It was soft, shiny, fragrant. Female enough to have the juices churning instinctively. He beetled his eyebrows and concentrated on bringing up the document he wanted.
Without thinking, she turned her head. Her mouth all but brushed his, shocking them both into jerking back. He shot her a fulminating, frustrated glare and stuck his good hand into his pocket.
“That’s the one. There.”
“Oh.” She had to swallow, hard, and fight the urge to clear her throat. She took quiet, calming breaths instead. His eyes were so
green
, she thought.
“You have to page down to the end.” He’d nearly stepped forward again to do it himself before he remembered he’d be on top of her again. “I need to pick it up there.”
She did so with a casual efficiency that satisfied him. Cautious now, he circled around her for his reading glasses, then plucked from the disordered pile the precise notes he needed.
His eyes, she thought, looked even more green, even more intense, when he wore those horn-rims.
“Interred with the remains are plant materials,” he began, then scowled at her. “Are you going to sit there or hit the damn keys?”
She bit back an angry remark—she would
not
sink to his level, and started to type.
“It’s probable the plants, such as the intact prickly pear pad which was retrieved, were food offerings buried with the dead. A number of seeds were found in the stomach areas of articulated skeletons.”
She typed quickly, falling into the rhythm of his voice. A very nice voice, she thought, when it wasn’t snarling and snapping. Almost melodious. He spoke of gourds recovered in another burial, theorizing that the plant specimen may have been grown locally from seeds brought from Central or South America.
He made her see it, she realized. That was his gift. She began to form a picture in her mind of these peoplewho had traveled to the riverbank and made a home. Tended their children, cared for their sick and buried their dead with respect and ceremony in the rich peaty soil.
“Chestnut trees?” She stopped, turned to him, breaking his rhythm with her enthusiasm. “You can tell from pollen samples that there were chestnut trees there nine thousand years ago? But how can you—”
“Look, I’m not teaching a class here.” He saw the spark in her eyes wink out, turning them cool and blank. And felt like a total jerk. “Jeez. Okay, there’s a good twelve feet of peat, it took eleven thousand years since the last ice age to build up to that point.”
He dug through his papers again and came up with photos and sketches. “You take samples—different depths, different samples, and you run tests. It shows the types of plants in the area. Changes in climate.”
“How does it show changes in climate?”
“By the types of plants. Cold, warm, cold, warm.” He tapped the sketches.
Similar Books
