It nearly killed him, because there were things they needed to get out in the open, but he decided not to push her. Instead, he smiled when she told her silly jokes, held her hand as they played tourist and scoured the Abdeen Palace and the Sharia al-Muski street market, even managed to laugh when they took a belly dancing class that made him feel like a complete idiot. But always in the back of his head was the weight of what he needed to tell her and the fear she may not be as thrilled with his plans for the future as he was.
Her dig would be over in three months—at least for her. They’d talked briefly about what she planned to do when her time was up. She’d given up her apartment in Maryland when she’d come to Cairo, so she didn’t have one to go back to. After a year away, she wanted to go home to Washington and see her mother for a while, and then she needed to get busy on her dissertation. She could do that anywhere, he knew. She didn’t need to be back in Maryland to write. In his head, he’d already worked out the details.
Convincing her to come to Miami, though, was small potatoes compared to what he had to convince her about himself. And after a week, he felt like he was running out of time.
She rolled over in bed and snuggled into him on a sigh, and as he wrapped his arms around her and drew her closer, he told himself he’d do it today. She’d taken a week off to be with him, and she had to go out to the site this morning to work, but tonight, when she came home, he planned to lay it all out for her. Strip himself bare and hope what she felt for him was strong enough to overlook everything he’d done.
“You smell good,” she said in that sleepy, sexy voice of hers he loved hearing.
“You feel good.”
She smiled against his neck, slinked on top of him in all her naked glory and pressed her lips against his throat. His blood pulsed. He grew rock hard as the St. Jude medal she always wore fell against his chest. “How good?”
He groaned at the feel of her silky wetness already sliding against his length, placed his hands on her thighs and spread her legs so she could settle herself on his erection. “Like paradise. Let me take you there.”
Their lovemaking was slow and sensuous. But reserved. He felt it in the same way he’d felt it for the last seven days. She was holding back, and the urgency to break through her barrier only reinforced what he needed to do tonight.
“I could get used to you being around like this,” she mumbled later when she collapsed onto his chest, slick with sweat and breathless.
“Could you?”
She nodded slowly.
“Good. Because I plan on being around. A lot.”
She went still. Then pressed her lips against his chest before climbing off and heading for the shower. “What’s your plan for the day while I’m gone?”
Pete pushed himself up in the pillows and watched as she brushed her teeth, telling himself her avoidance technique wasn’t a bad sign. Not completely. “I thought I’d veg on your couch, rot my mind with Egyptian television and drink what’s left of that crappy beer in your refrigerator.”
She turned, toothbrush in mouth, and smiled. “Sounds like a full day.”
His eyes ran over her naked flesh. “After the way you’ve worn me out the last few nights, I need the rest.”
Her reaction was masked as she turned back to the sink, rinsed and grabbed a towel from the rack. “Then you’d better rest up for tonight. We’re having dinner with Shannon and Sawil. And after, I plan on wearing you out all over again.”
He said good-bye to her at the door with a long, lingering kiss he hoped she’d think about as much as he knew he would, then watched her leave from the window. When he was alone, he looked around the sparse living room she’d called home the past year and wondered if she’d like his house in Miami. He did, but what if she wanted something smaller? Or less modern? Shit, she was an Egyptologist. She liked old things.
His cell phone chimed in the bedroom, and he moved across the floor with a smile, knowing it was her on the other end of the line. If she was planning on getting him all hot and bothered, two could play at that game.
“My girlfriend would be upset if she knew you were calling me,” he said into the phone.
“Then you’d better not tell her,” a deeply accented male voice responded.
Pete went on instant alert. Busir. “I thought I told you I was out.”
A deep chuckle echoed over the line. “You said that. But I have something that just might interest you.”
He should have said no, hung up and turned off his phone. If he had, he could have avoided everything that happened next. But he didn’t. Because there was a small part of him—a part he was working hard to bury—that flared with excitement at Busir’s words.
He shifted the phone to his other ear and sealed his own fate. “Tell me what you’ve got.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dreams woke him. Or memories. He wasn’t sure which.
Pete was at Lauren’s fancy house on Key Biscayne. Sitting on her back stone patio, beer in hand, staring out at the beach and the open ocean beyond.
His sister was there behind him, on one of her many mini-vacations, as she called them, between photo shoots. She stood just inside the wide patio doors, in the kitchen she never used, on the phone ordering a pizza as he listened to the lap of water, the cry of a gull, the whisper of palms blowing in the warm gentle breeze.
It should have been peaceful, but it wasn’t. It should have relaxed him, but it didn’t. He’d told Lauren the whole story. Beginning to end. From the moment he’d met Kat at the tomb to that night she’d come home early from work and found him in her apartment packing, with a full box of artifacts at his feet.
The ones he’d purchased from Busir that afternoon. The ones he hadn’t known had been from her tomb.
She’d instantly accused him of being involved in the smuggling ring. Hadn’t listened to his side of things. Just kicked him out. Ended it all. Right there.
And when he’d realized how badly he’d fucked up, he hadn’t bothered to fight back.
What else could he have done? Stayed there and listened to her trash him? Watch what she’d felt for him grind to dust in her eyes?
Nope. He couldn’t do it. Didn’t want to watch that happen.
So he’d left. Flown back to Miami. Come here. Licked his wounds, had a few beers and gotten good and pissed. Time did that. Reduced the pain to duplicity. Alcohol helped.
Six months of trying to go straight, down the toilet because of one mistake. One major-ass, fuck-up-your-life mistake he didn’t have a clue how to fix.
Go back and tell her the truth.
He grimaced at Lauren’s words. Lifted the third beer—or was it the fourth? Drank long and deep.
Didn’t really matter what the count was up to. He was on the road to getting good and wasted tonight anyway. Go back? After everything Kat had said to him, and the way she’d looked at him like he was nothing more than gum stuck to the bottom of her shoe that she couldn’t wait to scrape off? Going back would be the equivalent to slicing open a vein and bleeding out all over the floor. Of course, the fact Lauren was right, and that it was the only thing he could do, only made him want to speed up that whole get-shitfaced-drunk-and-forget-the-whole-nightmare process.
Then his cell rang.
He glanced at the display—unknown number—and considered letting it go to voice mail. He wasn’t really sure why he answered. Only knew he regretted it the moment he flipped the phone open.
The rest was a blur. Him rising, his beer bottle hitting the ground, shattering at his feet to spill cold, golden liquid over his shoes. Lauren rushing out of the house to ask what had happened. Slade’s voice—of all people—echoing in his head. And a blinding pain right beneath his sternum.
It was the pain that brought his eyes open now. He felt it as sharp and real as he had then. Staring up at the water-stained ceiling, he gasped in a breath and rubbed the heel of his hand over his chest to ease the sting.
And then had a major-ass mome
nt of confusion.
Not Lauren’s house. Not the blue sky he’d looked up at when he’d finally opened his eyes on that cold, stone patio after going under like a pansy.
No, now he was in a room. It was dark. A sliver of light formed a crescent shape on the wall straight ahead. A poorly painted beach scene hung at an angle directly in his line of sight.
He lifted his head, eyed the headboard that should have been behind him but was now near his feet. Then remembered the dive motel he’d paid cash for. The shower. The sheets. The bedbugs. The sex.
Kat.
Warmth spread through his whole body, slid down his chest. Pooled in his groin until he was hard all over again. He tipped his head, noticed he was alone and shot a look toward the bathroom. The door was closed, but he could just hear the hum of the fan running and saw light burning where wood met worn carpet.
Bathroom break. Smart. He needed one, too. When he could move.
He eyed the clock and noted it was almost six a.m.
Last night had been a really bad idea. Monumentally bad. The last thing he needed was to get twisted up with her again. Six years ago it had nearly killed him. Except, lying here now, with her scent all over his body and the taste of her still lingering on his tongue, it didn’t feel half bad. It felt…oddly right.
He kicked his foot out from beneath the sheet, absently wondering when he’d had the sense to pull the damn thing up. Wondered if she’d done it for him, or if he’d just used her body as his blanket until she’d finally climbed out of bed this morning.
Shiiit. Really bad idea.
He rubbed both hands over his face. Then looked back at the closed bathroom door. She’d been in there a long time.
Reaching out a hand, he touched her side of the bed only to find the sheets were already cold.
Something in his stomach tightened as he sat up slowly and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He really didn’t want to surprise her if she was on the toilet, but he also didn’t like the direction of his thoughts.
He rapped his knuckles on the door, leaned close to listen. Didn’t hear anything other than the hum of the fan.
“Kat?” When there was still no answer, he took a chance, turned the handle and pushed.
Light burned his eyes. He closed them quickly. Blinked until the spots faded from his vision. Then stared into an empty room.
The shower curtain was pulled back, an empty tub reflected in the mirror across the space. The counter was clean. Only his T-shirt hung over the towel bar.
“No fucking way.”
Surprise hit first. Then shock. Then abject disbelief. He turned quickly, flicked on the bedside lamp and discovered her backpack, clothes and shoes were gone as well.
Stunned, he stood there, staring into the quiet room, putting pieces together in his head. Her change in attitude last night at the diner. Her nervousness when they’d been going to bed. The way she’d kissed him when she thought he’d been asleep. The hesitation when she’d discovered he was awake. The decision she’d seemed to make before they’d made love.
No, he realized. That wasn’t making love. That was a goddamn diversion.
His vision dimmed, and that all-too-familiar sense of betrayal clawed its way up his chest.
She’d just fucked him again. And this time she’d done one helluva good job.
Omar Kamil hated exercise. Unfortunately, it was keeping him alive. Just about the only thing at this point.
Sweat poured down his forehead as he pumped his legs on the elliptical machine. Across the room, CNN ran nonstop on the flat screen mounted to the wall. He kept an eye on the ticker at the bottom, searching for any news on Katherine Meyer.
Nothing. No body. No death. No unexplained shootings.
That was both good and bad news as far as he was concerned. He drew in two deep breaths and felt his muscles burn with the effort of his workout
His cell chimed, and he flipped it open without slowing his feet. “Yes?”
“Not good,” Busir said. “We had a little trouble in Philadelphia. Bertrand showed up.”
Omar punched stop on the machine. “In fucking Philadelphia? What the hell is INTERPOL doing in on this? He’s retired.”
“Not so much, apparently. No matter, though. Fucker’s dead now.”
“Dammit.” That would draw major international attention.
“She got away in the scuffle. With Kauffman.”
That brought Kamil’s focus back around. His vision blurred, and he had to step off the elliptical to keep his balance. He was dealing with incompetents. How hard was it to find one measly woman?
“And your solution?” he asked calmly.
“He’s not using his credit card. We think he’ll try to take her to Miami. Where he can watch out for her on familiar turf.”
Omar snapped a towel from the table and rubbed it over his face. “Or maybe not. Don’t you think he’d know that’s the first place you’d look for him?”
Silence.
Omar bit back the curse on his tongue. This was one fucking nightmare that wasn’t getting better. If he’d done the job himself six years ago, they wouldn’t be in this clusterfuck to begin with. And Minyawi—the dick—could bet his ass his payout was taking a cut for each one of his major screw-ups where Katherine Meyer was concerned. The man’s personal obsession with her was fucking up everything.
“They won’t go to Miami. He won’t risk it.” He thought about his options, then had an epiphany. “She’ll go to Latham.”
“Why?”
“Because she wants answers. He was the project leader, and he’s the only one still alive who worked that tomb.”
“And if she doesn’t go there?”
“Then she’ll head back to New York.”
“Why?” Busir asked again.
He really was dealing with imbeciles. But that was okay as long as they took the fall and he didn’t.
“Worthington security said they had an unidentified woman sneaking around the storage room. I’d bet my ass she stole something from the auction. A statue, a container, an urn big enough to hide the film from the camera she had that night in the tomb.”
“Her camera was in her bag the night of the bombing. She ran with it.”
Omar’s entire faced tightened. “That’s what she wanted us to believe. But she wasn’t in that bombing after all, was she? Which means her camera wasn’t there either. She must have hidden it, possibly sent it to Kauffman for safekeeping just before she disappeared. Look at it from her perspective. She finds out he’s going to sell it after all this time, she realizes her one chance at freedom’s about to go in the toilet. She shows up at the auction house to get it back.”
He snapped his fingers as links clicked into place. “I’m betting she hasn’t even looked inside yet. Or if she has, what’s in there is inconclusive or damaged. If it wasn’t, she’d already have gone to the CIA, and I wouldn’t be standing here now.”
“So if it wasn’t in the piece she took, where is it?”
Omar paced the small exercise room. “It wasn’t in any of the ones you purchased at the auction. I already had someone check them carefully. He paused as a thought occurred. “Athens. The Institute woman. She purchased several of the pieces herself, didn’t she?”
“Yes, but that doesn’t make sense because Kauffman would have had it the whole time.”
“Maybe he didn’t know he’d had it.”
Busir was silent. Then he said, “You want us to check out the pieces the Greek woman purchased?”
“No. I’ll send another team to do that. I have something else in mind for you and your partner.”
“What?”
“I’m coming to America. We have a collection about to be shipped on loan to the Metropolitan Museum. I was going to send an assistant, but I believe I will accompany them this time instead, maybe drop in on Dr. Gotsi and see how she’s doing.”
“And what is it you want us to do in the meantime?”
“Get Minyawi an
d pay a visit to Kauffman’s sister. If he won’t cooperate, we’ll find a way to draw him out of hiding one way or the other.”
“What if Meyer goes to Latham?”
“Send Wyatt and Usted.”
“Usted’s dead.”
Omar gritted his teeth. “Then send Wyatt.”
Silence. Then, “Minyawi won’t like giving up the hunt for Meyer. He’s got a score to settle with the woman. It’s personal.”
Omar didn’t give a flying fuck about Minyawi’s personal goals. He wasn’t paying the man to go after his own vendetta. And as far as Omar was concerned, that went for Minyawi’s associates as well. He’d made them a lot of fucking money over the years for their cause. They could suck it up and step back on this one.
“He’ll get his chance. Just bring the Kauffman woman to New York.”
“I understand.”
“And Busir?”
“Yes.”
“Bring her to New York unharmed. Do not let Minyawi touch her.”
“That’s easier said than done. Minyawi is unpredictable.”
All the more reason to get this over with as soon as possible.
“Then you watch him. And if he gets out of control, you know what to do. I want Katherine Meyer, and I want that evidence she has. Nothing gets in the way of that goal. Are we clear?”
“Crystal.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
If she could shoot her new secretary and get away with it, she just might turn to a life of crime after all.
Hailey Roarke frowned as the door to her office was pulled closed and thought wistfully of her service revolver. Too bad she’d had to turn the damn thing in when she’d taken her leave of absence from the Key West police force to come to this hell known as Roarke Resorts.
Her intercom beeped, and Gail-the-grim-faced-gate-keeper-Florentes’s nasally voice echoed through the room like a thousand fingernails scraping down a chalkboard. “Ms. Roarke. You have a call on line three. A Mr. Kauffman. I don’t recognize the name. Your nine o’clock appointment has been waiting to see you for over ten minutes.”
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