Lord Dragon's Conquest by Sharon Ashwood Page A

her didn’t care. She was happy simply to find and share an amazing gift from the past. She stood, propping the flashlight on one of the large boulders. Then she positioned a ruler next to the paintings to establish scale. Then, with deep reverence, she raised the camera in her other hand and took a series of photos, the shutter loud and the flash blazing in the darkness.
    The brightness was just fading when something scuffled behind her. Keltie wheeled around, blinking the brightness of the flash from her eyes. It took her a moment to find the still figure on the other side of the boulder-strewn space. She could only see him from the waist up—there were too many rocks in the way—but what she saw arrested her.
    At six feet, Keltie could look most men in the eye, but she had to crane her neck to meet this one’s gaze. As she did, she noticed a set of broad shoulders in perfect proportion to his towering frame. Somewhere deep inside she felt a primitive twist of satisfaction that here, finally, was a man whose body would fit with hers, but caution quickly swept that feeling away. She was alone, he was a stranger, and there were no campgrounds this far into the mountains, to explain his presence.
    “Who are you?” she demanded with businesslike authority.
    No answer. He remained still for a long moment, camouflaged by the shadows, and then slowly began to move closer. Although he carried no light, he navigated the stony floor with graceful ease. Either he knew the cave well or had eyes like a bat. Uncertainty tugged at Keltie, and she slipped the camera she’d been using back into her pack and gripped the hard rubber handle of her flashlight. It would make a decent weapon.
    He stopped when he was a dozen feet away, just at the edge of her light. His face was strong-boned, with straight brows and a long blade of a nose. Thick, dark hair swept back from a wide forehead. He might have been handsome, but his expression was too forceful. Somehow it put him beyond common good looks. The only softness was in the curve of his lip, a sensual fullness that sparked Keltie’s imagination. Who was this guy?
    “Are you looking for Dr. Switzer’s team?” she asked, less self-assured this time. He didn’t look like someone in search of archaeologists, but what else would he be doing here? Her gaze worked its way up from his mouth to his eyes, and she felt hot prickles flood her skin. He was giving her the same once-over, eyes glittering in the uncertain light.
    “I do not know Dr. Switzer,” he replied. He spoke softly, his voice low and clear. He had an unfamiliar accent—not French or German, but something in between. And sexy as hell.
    For an instant, Switzer’s name meant nothing to her, either. Then she dragged her thoughts back into some sort of order. She sucked in a deep breath, suddenly needing air. “Then where are you camped? I didn’t think anyone else was up here.”
    “I belong here,” he said. “I am Larkan.”
    He stepped forward into her beam of light, and for the first time she noticed his clothes. They looked more homespun and leather than department store—issue, and he hadn’t bothered to button his shirt, leaving bare an expanse of muscular chest. She’d grown up on farms and in work camps and recognized this kind of build as one that came from hard work rather than a weight machine. Maybe he was one of those back-to-the-land types and he had a cabin somewhere deep in the forest.
    She wet her lips, suddenly feeling the dryness of the cave. “I’m with the archaeological team. My name is Keltie Clarke.”
    “Keltie,” he said the name experimentally, making it sound like an exotic dessert. Then he folded his arms across his chest. The gesture did things to his biceps that, for an entire thump of her heart, made her forget about the paintings.
    Heat flooded her skin. She should be worrying about protecting the site. Diagramming. But instead she was staring like a tween at a man in a cave. A