A Midsummer Night's Romp Read Online Free Page A

if I ever stepped foot on one, myself.
    For a complete schedule, click here. And if you’d like to volunteer as a digger, sifter, or find-washer, follow this link to the managing dig company.
    I glanced down at the link, and reeled backward just as if a mule had kicked me in the gut. I stared at it for a good eight minutes, my mind whirling and my stomach lurching around my insides, until I finally clicked on the text.
    Wide-eyed, I stared at the resulting Web site.
    Claud-Marie Archaeology
, read the name at the top of the page.
Paul Thompson, director.
    â€œPaul,” I whispered to myself, the name bringing with it a red swell of fury. Had Sandy known who was managing the dig? No, that didn’t make sense—she would want me to steer clear of any dig of which Paul was a member. And now Sandy’s foster sister was right there where Paul was. It seemed almost like a sign, as if fate was daring me not to take notice.
    I dug through my memories to shake out those regarding Alice. I remembered her as being bubbly and nice, surprisingly cheerful despite the fact that she was in the foster system. She’d also been the possessor of a wicked sense of humor.
    â€œI have to stop Paul from ruining anyone else’s life,” I said out loud to my tank of zebra fish. They flitted back and forth without a care as to what I was saying, but it made me feel better just having something to talk to. “The question is, how do I do that? Dr. Anderson’s insistence that I can do anything I want aside, I’m not a superhero. I’m a low-paid, mild-mannered community college French teacher who has a very bad feeling about what might be happening at”—I checked the computer—“Ainslie Castle. The sad truth is I can’t save Sandy and I can’t stop a villain from being a villain.”
    Or can you?
a voice asked in my head. I frowned, my mind surging down a new path of speculation. What if I had proof of how Paul had infected Sandy? Inescapable, solid proof that he couldn’t deny? Proof that would hold up in court, if needed.
    An idea started to grow in my brain, one that, after a few online searches, blossomed into a full-fledged plan.
    â€œIt may be heinous, and it may be incredibly illegal, but that doesn’t matter,” I told my fish, steadfastly ignoring my conscience declaring otherwise. “Sandy’s faith that Paul isn’t the bastard I know him to be just isn’t going to cut it. Let’s see, I could apply to be a digger, but I have noexperience, and there’s bound to be a lot of people applying for those positions, what with the TV show going on at the same time. I need something unique, something that no one else could offer them. . . .”
    I mulled over the possibilities, which ranged from being a translator of all things French to what amounted to a gofer, but in the end, I decided to play on people’s pretty reliable desire for publicity.
    I opened an e-mail and filled in the address of the network producer. “A TV show is going to want all the publicity they can get. I’ll pitch the idea of a behind-the-scenes book about the dig and show to them, and pray they like it. Otherwise, fishies, I’m going to have to fake a hell of a background in archaeology, and that won’t end well. As it is, I’m going to have to do an awful lot of fudging, but at least I can pretend to use a camera. Right? Right.”
    The fish didn’t look convinced, but I hadn’t survived too many years of my father telling me I was a worthless waste of space to let my fish dis my ideas. “Dammit, I’m a strong woman now. I don’t need your approval. Besides, I have a higher calling here—I have to make sure that no other innocent women’s lives are destroyed by a man who doesn’t care that he has a potentially deadly infection. He might not listen to Sandy, but he’ll have to pay attention to me when I