Stolen Fury by Elisabeth Naughton

written in black pen across the cardboard. “So what exactly are we looking for?”
    Lisa fingered papers in her hand. “There should be several boxes with research on the Furies. Doug kept binders and binders of information. He was anal about recording everything, keeping careful notes, doing in-depth research.”
    He looked over his shoulder. Light spilled across her hair, casting her face in shadows. She didn’t meet his gaze, but the way she’d said Stone’s name made Rafe automatically dislike the guy.
    He’d already figured out there’d been more than just a professional relationship between the deceased professor and his prize student. Why else would she have all his crap in her attic? And why was she suddenly interested in the Furies now, fifteen years after his death?
    Shaking off those questions because he was sure askingany would be like diving into shark-infested waters with a severed artery, he turned back to the box, lifted the lid and pawed through a pile of old clothes. Near the bottom he found a black and red cheerleading outfit. A smile slinked across his face as he lifted the tiny garment and took in the pleated skirt and sleeveless V-necked top.
    “Stop drooling, Sullivan.”
    The image of Lisa in the back of the beat-up ’69 Mustang he’d driven in high school seeped back into his mind. Only now he could see it in living color. And oh, man. It was better than he’d imagined. “What do I have to do to get you into this thing?”
    “In your dreams, Slick,” she mumbled behind him. Papers rustled again.
    “Oh, querida. ” He didn’t hide the smile in his voice. “I’m not sure you want to know what I’ve been dreaming since Italy. This just kicked it up a dramatic notch.”
    With a huff, she stalked across the attic and lifted the box lid he’d set on the floor next to his feet.
    Gardenias. He always smelled the sexy flower when she got close. The scent brought a swift visual of her tugging the shirt out of his slacks, running tantalizing fingers along his skin while she pressed her sensuous lips against his.
    His back tingled at the memory, and his stomach tightened as she leaned close to grab the outfit from his hands. Her fingers barely brushed his in the process, and electricity zinged through him, gathering low in his stomach.
    She tossed the red and black outfit back in the box and dropped the lid on top. Bracing both hands on the outside of the cardboard, she leaned over to lift it, pausing long enough to look him in the eye.
    Heat from her muscular little body slid around him. Her hot breath washed over his skin. Arousal speared through his stomach and settled in his groin.
    “Clothes. Not research. Try another box, Slick.” She straightened and moved the box away, then shifted back to her papers.
    If he told her he liked that little nickname, she’d probably stop using it. Hell, he’d be as slick as she wanted, however she wanted. All she had to say was when.
    He was smiling as he reached for the next box marked Lisa , flipped the lid and glanced down at another pile of clothes. A tiny T-shirt with the words JUNIOR ARCHAEOLOGIST stenciled across the front caught his attention.
    “I take it this isn’t research either?”
    Her head didn’t move, but her gaze lifted to his. A blank look ran across her face. “My sisters saved all their baby stuff for me, figuring one day I’d get around to it.”
    He chuckled and dropped the shirt back into the box. “You don’t strike me as the maternal type, Maxwell.”
    She stared at him a long moment before looking down again. “Yeah. Hilarious, huh?” She pushed the box away with her feet. “Hand me the next one.”
    They spent the next hour sorting through boxes, pulling papers and binders, searching for anything remotely related to the Furies. Several papers referred to someone named Landau. Rafe made a mental note of the name in case it came up again. He’d pulled a couple of notebooks filled with chicken scratches and had