the world. I don’t know what they see in me.”
“Don’t you?” Chloe stopped and looked at him. “I can’t tell if you’re serious or if you’re fishing.”
“I’m not unaware that some people find me physically attractive,” he said formally, wondering if it was possible to sound like more of a jerk than he did.
“Good to know,” she said solemnly.
“You’re teasing me.”
“A little. This is the first time you’ve ever been pompous.”
Pompous? Was that how she saw him? Perfect. He’d sure done a great job charming her. Talk about a crash and burn.
She touched his arm. The light contact seared him all the way down to his knees. His groin ignited. The wanting was as powerful as it was instantaneous.
“I do understand what you’re saying,” she said and dropped her hand to her side. “Who do you consider a hero?”
“Easy question. Joseph Campbell. He wrote several books, but the best known is The Hero of a Thousand Faces. He explored the idea that storytelling is universal to the human condition. All races and cultures have stories about the beginning of the world, the creation of man, stories that tell how boys become men. I was very young when I first read his work. He’s the one who got me interested in the mystic.”
“I’m not discounting his place,” Chloe said. “But what about the things you’ve found? All those treasures might have stayed hidden for generations.”
“Granted, but while I’ve brought some tangible artifacts to light, he explained why we have the dreams we do. I’ve visited my fan club web site. It’s very flattering, but I’m not the hero in that. They’ve created a myth about someone who doesn’t really exist. In my mind, Joseph Campbell is someone who truly is a hero. His ideas changed lives. I know he changed mine.”
He motioned for her to continue walking, then fell into step with her. The air was cool, but the sun warmed them.
“There is a certain amount of fame that comes with some of my discoveries. It’s my least favorite part of what I do. I get through it by reminding myself it’s fleeting. In a couple of weeks no one will care who I am until the next discovery.”
“That sounds cynical, although realistic. Would you rather the world ignored your finds?”
“Good question. The answer is no. I want them to understand and appreciate. I know enough to realize I can’t have one without the other.”
She looked at him. “Why do I suddenly suspect you like it much better in the bush where no one knows who you are and you’re treated like just another visitor?”
“You’d be right. I’ve traveled all over the world. My best memories are of people I’ve connected with, not of standing behind a podium talking to a cheering crowd.”
“So do the women ever throw you their panties?”
He tugged on the end of her braid. “I’m not the kind to kiss and tell.”
She laughed. “I’ll take that as a no.”
“It’s probably best.”
“So have they shown up in your room unexpectedly?”
“Why this sudden interest in my personal life?” he asked, although he was pleased that she seemed focused on that. He would hate for the attraction to be one-sided.
“Ah, so that was a yes.”
He chuckled. “Yes, once or twice.”
“How was it?”
He thought back. “The first time was in a small village on an island in the South Pacific. I was all of eighteen and the woman was at least thirty. Her husband had died and she was about to remarry someone much older. I think I was her last fling.”
“And?”
“And what? I was a kid. I had no concept of quality, so I made it up in volume. She taught me they weren’t interchangeable.”
“I see. And the second time it happened?”
He drew in a deep breath. “I was on a lecture tour in Europe a couple of years ago. There was a particular young woman who developed a crush on me. I didn’t encourage her at all, in fact I barely knew who she was. One night I came in late and found her waiting for me in my bed.”
Chloe’s eyes widened. “What did you do?”
“I explained that I was flattered, but not interested. When she wouldn’t leave, I got another room for the night, then in the morning, I changed hotels.”
Chloe burst out laughing. “The most trouble I’ve ever had with the opposite sex is when old man Withers, the seventy-year-old misogynist who takes care of the grounds of the house, calls me a ninny. He calls all women ninnies.”
“Are you going to put that in the article?” he asked. He hadn’t requested that any part of their conversation be off the record. Perhaps he should have. When he was around Chloe he thought of her as a woman first and someone he would like to get to know second. He rarely remembered she was a journalist.
“I’m not out to make you the bad guy,” she said. “I want to show a different side of you and connect that with your work. Neither my editor nor I is interested in a hatchet job.”
“I appreciate that.”
“I find it interesting you’re asking me this after the fact. Isn’t that dangerous?”
“Yes.”
“You’re not concerned?”
“You’ve just explained that I shouldn’t be.”
They were still walking side by side. Their hands brushed. Without thinking, Arizona laced his fingers with hers. Chloe stumbled a step, but didn’t pull away.
“But how do you know you can trust me?” she asked.
Was it his imagination or was her voice a little breathless? He wanted to know that she was reacting to him the same way he reacted to her. He wanted to know that she felt it, whatever the it was, too.
“Gut instinct,” he said. “I’ve met a lot of people in my life and I’ve learned how to read them.”
Her hand was small but strong. He liked the feel of her next to him like this, walking together on the trail. He found himself eager to show her the site, to explain his world to her. He wanted her to enjoy their time together, to be impressed by him, to think he was nearly as exciting as his image.
“Is there anywhere on this planet you haven’t been?” she asked.
“If you’re talking continents, I haven’t been to Antarctica. Otherwise, I would guess I’ve hit most of the major points.”
“Why am I not surprised?”
