He couldn’t quite get with the “we” stuff, but Oscar let her continue. It was kind of fun and stimulating to have a brainstorming session with someone who wasn’t restricted by science, but only by her own creativity. Which seemed pretty damned bountiful, if not practical.
“They could transport the petri dishes in a cooler, for example,” she said. “And bring it in with the caterers for the UN. It’ll be a big meeting, with all the important world leaders there.”
“That could work, if it could get past security—which is a big if—but the bigger problem is the minute the RBS is released from the petri dishes, it’ll be exposed and most likely die. You can’t grow microbes in a carefully controlled environment like petri dishes and then release it to the wild, so to speak. The chances of it surviving are extremely low.”
Teddy grumbled, and her lower lip protruded in a definite pout. “Well, there is achance, isn’t there?” she asked, as if science could be bent to her wishes.
“A very slim one. Can you grab me that pencil?”
She reached for it too quickly, bumping a beaker, which knocked the pencil into rolling off the table. She, of course, had to bend over and pick it up…which gave him an uninterrupted view directly down the front of her tank top. Low-cut bra, a hint of pink nipples, and a deep valley.
Oscar dragged his eyes away before she came up, and made sure his attention was focused on the plate he held.
“So it must be tough being a scientist and watching action-adventure movies or reading those kinds of books,” she said, seeming to have no idea of the sight she’d just displayed. “You know too much, and the suspension of disbelief is even more difficult for someone like you.”
“I can only get through the ones where the author has actually done research,” he said, taking the pencil then turning away before he found himself knocking over something else for her to pick up. “And when the story makes sense, even from a scientific point of view.”
She looked as if she were about to say something when a song began to play from beyond the door that connected to the lighthouse.
“Is that the ‘James Bond Theme’?” he asked. “Did you leave the TV on or something?”
But Teddy’s entire demeanor had changed. “Oh, crap,” she wailed. “Oh no. That’s my agent—her ringtone. Oh, God. I haven’t even opened my laptop this morning.” She looked a little green around the gills, but she squared her shoulders, stripped off her gloves and tossed them on the table, then hurried off into the base of the lighthouse, presumably to answer her phone.
Oscar expelled a sigh of relief when the door slammed behind her. Good riddance. Assistant or not, he really didn’t need any distractions—especially the female type.
Especially the chatty female type who was somehow interesting and entertaining even though she was bothering the hell out of him. And harshing his lab-brain mellow. And displaying all sorts of interesting sights and giving off pleasant scents.
Not that he was in any way attracted to Teddy Mack, with her masculine name and the feminine curves that had been a little too apparent both times he’d interacted with her. Between her swimsuit and the loose tank and shorts she’d been wearing, there wasn’t much left to the imagination. Good thing he preferred a sleeker, more understated, lessbountifullook—and personality—when it came to women.
Marcie, with a smooth blond haircut that skimmed her chin, and a neat, compact body dressed in crisp button-down blouses and slim, flowery skirts or demure slacks, was and had always been the type that attracted him.
So even if he was sharing a rental property with the audacious writer (who was far more talkative than he’d expected a writer to be), there was no real danger of him being distracted by her.
Then there was the strange thing that had happened last night…the thing he hadn’t wanted to mention.
And the thing he’d been hopingshe’dmention first.
For, in the middle of the darkest part of night, a horrible, agonizing sound had had him jolting bolt upright up in bed, shocked from a restful sleep.
The mere memory of that eerie, wailing shriek still raised the hairs on his arms and the back of his neck. It sounded like someone was dying. Right outside his window…or maybe it was in the living room. He couldn’t tell—the terrifying sound seemed to fill his ears, fill the entireworldwith its horror.
Oscar had stumbled from bed, dazed and disoriented in an unfamiliar place, and still drowning in the last vestiges of deep sleep.
All he knew was someone was hurt…dying…being tortured—
In his haste, he’d bumped into a few things—he had telltale bruises on an elbow and a shin, and some porcelain thing had been in shards on the floor this morning—before fumbling out the door and into the living room.
By then, the night was still. The shriek had subsided. He scrubbed at his head, then rubbed his eyes, and gave himself a little shake.
It was so silent. Surely he hadn’t imagined the noise.
Or dreamt it.
He stepped outside, looking around for anything out of place. His truck, parked way off to the side, was the only vehicle around, leaving him to wonder whether the writer had found another place to stay after all.
So he was here alone at—he looked at his digital watch—one thirty in the morning.
The only sound was the rhythmic rush and retreat of waves on the stony, sandy shore only a few yards away, and a light rustle of leaves from a breeze. The night air was pleasantly cool, and it held the fresh scent of summer and lake. Serene and calm.
