Highland Shifter
Page 21
It unnerved her. Made her itch in places she didn’t want to.
Somewhere Simon McAllister stopped being a teenage kid and became this kilted hunk of a man who scrambled every nerve in her body and then some.
A man whose fingers grazed over hers and made her loosen her grip on the necklace around her neck.
A man who stepped even farther into her personal space than she’d thought she wanted.
A man who dropped her hands, spread his own over the nape of her neck, and held her in waiting.
Helen’s heart knocked hard against her ribs, pounded even harder as Simon dipped his head closer and brushed his full, soft lips against hers.
She gasped with the kind of sound born in soap operas and melodramas. She didn’t mean to, it just happened. With the noise, she moved closer and felt her tingling body melt into his.
The closed mouth kiss only stayed that way for a minute, probably less, and then Helen felt Simon tilt her head even farther back and her lips opened at his command.
Simon was everywhere, instantly. His body, from knees to head, leaned into her. His tongue swam into the cavern of her mouth as if being welcomed home after a long journey. The sweet taste of his lips on hers forced thoughts of necklaces and time travel far, far away.
Helen unclenched her fingers, which had grabbed handfuls of his shirt, and spread them wide over his firm chest. It was then she realized just how hard he was—everywhere.
She stiffened and Simon retreated.
“I’m sorry.” The words escaped her lips before she could filter them.
“Sorry? Love, you have no reason to be sorry.” Although Simon was no longer kissing her, he hadn’t stepped out of her arms.
A hot rush of heat fanned over her face. God, what was wrong with her? A desirable man held her in his arms, kissing her in an extremely sensual manner, and she froze and pushed him away. Memories of her last foster dad swam in her head. Simon was nothing like him so why was she so locked up? She opened her mouth to offer an excuse.
I don’t think about you that way. But she did! Had thought of nothing but him since they’d met.
You’re not my type. What was her type? Lord, if it wasn’t a strong, built, in control man, then what was?
I’m not ready. Okay, she could work with this.
“I’m not ready to be kissing you. I know there’s this crazy chemistry going on here, but I’m not ready.” Oh, no, did she have to mention their chemistry?
Simon lifted her chin and stared deeply into her eyes. “I never had the opportunity to take chemistry.”
Helen chuckled and felt the tension of the moment pass. “It was boring. You didn’t miss much.”
“Mayhap you’ll instruct me on what I’ve missed.”
She smiled. “Mayhap.” Oh, boy…who says mayhap? Sixteenth century men from Scotland, that’s who.
Simon stepped away, but not far. “Tell me about the necklace.”
Right! The necklace that wouldn’t come free of her neck. “I found it in a pawn shop. It isn’t valuable. I checked.”
Simon was swinging the pendent around her neck and taking a closer look. His fingers were warm on her skin…comfortable.
“What is this stone in the middle?”
“I’ve no idea. A rock, maybe? The metal encasing it is old. I had it radiocarbon dated.”
“Carbon dated?”
“Sorry. I guess chemistry has its purpose. When we try to date an antique that isn’t easily placed in a specific time, carbon dating is a process used to determine the year it’s made. Any material that has the compound of carbon can be dated back over 60,000 years. Carbon really refers to skin, bone, teeth. Metals are different, more difficult to date. They use a radiocarbon dating system, but it isn’t as accurate as dating completely carbon based products. In this case, I asked the lab to use uranium dating. There are traces of lead in the chain. And surprisingly, carbon was found, too.”
“What is the source of the carbon?”
“Human tissue. Which is kind of gross when you think of it. My guess is the person who made it scraped their skin, bled on it, or something.”
Simon’s thumb traced the stone, his expression shifted.
“When did it date back to, Helen?”
The serious tone in his voice removed all the lingering hormones swimming in her body.
“The dating wasn’t exact.”
“When?”
“Early seventeenth century. Maybe before.”
“You said this necklace started it all. What did you mean by that?”
Helen stood back and Simon’s hand dropped to his side. “After I found the necklace I came across the candlesticks. Then your picture. Then the book.”
“The book?”
“The one with your picture. I told you about the woman in it.”
Simon sent her a questioning look. “You told me of the woman, but not the necklace.”
“I didn’t? I thought for sure I did.” Could she have forgotten that detail? “The woman in the book was wearing this necklace. Or one exactly like it.”
Simon’s jaw dropped. “’Tis a very important detail.”
“I thought I told you.”
“You didn’t, I assure you.” He moved over to the books piled into the boxes by the door. One at a time, he removed the books and arraigned them in the middle of the floor.
“Did you think of something?”
“Aye.”
He moved the books using the acronym method they’d come up with the night before.
H.E.L.E.N. Soon Simon moved the books and found the word “necklace.”
“Helen necklace,” she whispered. She found a massive tome titled “Sorcerer” and made her name possessive. “Helen’s necklace.”
There were eight books left. T.E.K.H.I.E.S.Y.
“His? These? Tie?”
“Tie Helen’s necklace?” Simon said aloud.
Kneeling beside him, Helen moved books around.
“We need a verb.”
“Impossible. Sainthood. Is. Helen’s necklace is.”
Simon shoved the books back and forth as a thought struck. When he was done, they both smiled.
“Helen’s necklace is the key.”
“I believe we found what we were looking for.”
The weight of the pendent on her neck felt heavy and warm. “You think the necklace moved me in time?”
“If not, then what?”
She tugged on it, wanting it off. If it moved her though time once, it could do it again.
“Get if off.” She batted it with her hands, pulled and attempted to break it free. But the chain was thick and unrelenting. She’d loved the heavy chain the first time she put it on. Not anymore.
Somewhere Simon McAllister stopped being a teenage kid and became this kilted hunk of a man who scrambled every nerve in her body and then some.
A man whose fingers grazed over hers and made her loosen her grip on the necklace around her neck.
A man who stepped even farther into her personal space than she’d thought she wanted.
A man who dropped her hands, spread his own over the nape of her neck, and held her in waiting.
Helen’s heart knocked hard against her ribs, pounded even harder as Simon dipped his head closer and brushed his full, soft lips against hers.
She gasped with the kind of sound born in soap operas and melodramas. She didn’t mean to, it just happened. With the noise, she moved closer and felt her tingling body melt into his.
The closed mouth kiss only stayed that way for a minute, probably less, and then Helen felt Simon tilt her head even farther back and her lips opened at his command.
Simon was everywhere, instantly. His body, from knees to head, leaned into her. His tongue swam into the cavern of her mouth as if being welcomed home after a long journey. The sweet taste of his lips on hers forced thoughts of necklaces and time travel far, far away.
Helen unclenched her fingers, which had grabbed handfuls of his shirt, and spread them wide over his firm chest. It was then she realized just how hard he was—everywhere.
She stiffened and Simon retreated.
“I’m sorry.” The words escaped her lips before she could filter them.
“Sorry? Love, you have no reason to be sorry.” Although Simon was no longer kissing her, he hadn’t stepped out of her arms.
A hot rush of heat fanned over her face. God, what was wrong with her? A desirable man held her in his arms, kissing her in an extremely sensual manner, and she froze and pushed him away. Memories of her last foster dad swam in her head. Simon was nothing like him so why was she so locked up? She opened her mouth to offer an excuse.
I don’t think about you that way. But she did! Had thought of nothing but him since they’d met.
You’re not my type. What was her type? Lord, if it wasn’t a strong, built, in control man, then what was?
I’m not ready. Okay, she could work with this.
“I’m not ready to be kissing you. I know there’s this crazy chemistry going on here, but I’m not ready.” Oh, no, did she have to mention their chemistry?
Simon lifted her chin and stared deeply into her eyes. “I never had the opportunity to take chemistry.”
Helen chuckled and felt the tension of the moment pass. “It was boring. You didn’t miss much.”
“Mayhap you’ll instruct me on what I’ve missed.”
She smiled. “Mayhap.” Oh, boy…who says mayhap? Sixteenth century men from Scotland, that’s who.
Simon stepped away, but not far. “Tell me about the necklace.”
Right! The necklace that wouldn’t come free of her neck. “I found it in a pawn shop. It isn’t valuable. I checked.”
Simon was swinging the pendent around her neck and taking a closer look. His fingers were warm on her skin…comfortable.
“What is this stone in the middle?”
“I’ve no idea. A rock, maybe? The metal encasing it is old. I had it radiocarbon dated.”
“Carbon dated?”
“Sorry. I guess chemistry has its purpose. When we try to date an antique that isn’t easily placed in a specific time, carbon dating is a process used to determine the year it’s made. Any material that has the compound of carbon can be dated back over 60,000 years. Carbon really refers to skin, bone, teeth. Metals are different, more difficult to date. They use a radiocarbon dating system, but it isn’t as accurate as dating completely carbon based products. In this case, I asked the lab to use uranium dating. There are traces of lead in the chain. And surprisingly, carbon was found, too.”
“What is the source of the carbon?”
“Human tissue. Which is kind of gross when you think of it. My guess is the person who made it scraped their skin, bled on it, or something.”
Simon’s thumb traced the stone, his expression shifted.
“When did it date back to, Helen?”
The serious tone in his voice removed all the lingering hormones swimming in her body.
“The dating wasn’t exact.”
“When?”
“Early seventeenth century. Maybe before.”
“You said this necklace started it all. What did you mean by that?”
Helen stood back and Simon’s hand dropped to his side. “After I found the necklace I came across the candlesticks. Then your picture. Then the book.”
“The book?”
“The one with your picture. I told you about the woman in it.”
Simon sent her a questioning look. “You told me of the woman, but not the necklace.”
“I didn’t? I thought for sure I did.” Could she have forgotten that detail? “The woman in the book was wearing this necklace. Or one exactly like it.”
Simon’s jaw dropped. “’Tis a very important detail.”
“I thought I told you.”
“You didn’t, I assure you.” He moved over to the books piled into the boxes by the door. One at a time, he removed the books and arraigned them in the middle of the floor.
“Did you think of something?”
“Aye.”
He moved the books using the acronym method they’d come up with the night before.
H.E.L.E.N. Soon Simon moved the books and found the word “necklace.”
“Helen necklace,” she whispered. She found a massive tome titled “Sorcerer” and made her name possessive. “Helen’s necklace.”
There were eight books left. T.E.K.H.I.E.S.Y.
“His? These? Tie?”
“Tie Helen’s necklace?” Simon said aloud.
Kneeling beside him, Helen moved books around.
“We need a verb.”
“Impossible. Sainthood. Is. Helen’s necklace is.”
Simon shoved the books back and forth as a thought struck. When he was done, they both smiled.
“Helen’s necklace is the key.”
“I believe we found what we were looking for.”
The weight of the pendent on her neck felt heavy and warm. “You think the necklace moved me in time?”
“If not, then what?”
She tugged on it, wanting it off. If it moved her though time once, it could do it again.
“Get if off.” She batted it with her hands, pulled and attempted to break it free. But the chain was thick and unrelenting. She’d loved the heavy chain the first time she put it on. Not anymore.
