At the same time, he rejoiced to know they worked together again. He would keep her alive, and somehow make her pay for making a fool of him. Make her pay with her lips and her body and her mind, over and over, until she hadn't the strength to walk away again.
As he eased each stone away, opening a larger and larger door into the home of the dead, he kept his attention on his work and away from the stone shelf that held the treasure chest.
He wanted to reach out and take it, but the lesson taught by Hardwick's greed couldn't be discounted. And, too, the placement of the chest was suspect— why put a treasure where it would be so easily seen by any casual grave robber? Why was there a stone wall behind it that concealed the interior of the tomb? A thin sheet of hammered gold covered the box, and the brass lock held a key, waiting to turn. The treasure chest was a lure, and Rurik did not doubt that more traps awaited him.
"Wait a minute, Rurik." Tasya turned and handed Ashley the camera. "Step back—carefully!—and take pictures of the project as a whole. I want a wide frame of the walls,, the path, and the hole we're opening here."
"Right." Ashley sounded glad to move back—she must be truly frightened.
As he placed his fingers on the next stone, Tasya laid her hand over his, and spoke softly in his ear. "Don't pull that one loose."
He turned to look in her eyes.
The bright blue had turned gray and grave; she knew something he didn't. "It doesn't feel right. Step away, and pull it with a stick or a grappling hook."
It doesn't feel right? What the hell does that mean?
"Why should I listen to you?" Why should he listen to a warning issued by a woman concerned with nothing but herself and her career?
Tasya's hand clenched on his. "It's not like I give a damn whether you live or die. But I'm not anxious to see another man dripping blood while he hangs on the tip of a sword."
"Charming."
"Right. So what have you got to lose?" Her sarcastic tone belied the intensity in her face. She was sure. So sure.
And while he wanted to dismiss her, he'd seen his mother, the most prosaic woman in the world, clutched in the jaws of a powerful prophecy. On that day less than two weeks ago, his life had broken in half . . . again.
A man learned from his experiences. Rurik would not dismiss Tasya's warning, but he would use the opportunity to discover more—about her, and about her past, the past about which she never spoke.
Moving with care, he withdrew his hand from the stone. He turned his palm within hers, and grasped her fingers. "Is there something you want to tell me?"
Tasya shrugged and looked away. "I have a feeling," she said in a low tone.
"Did you have a feeling about Hardwick?"
Tasya's pale complexion turned gray.
Apparently, even a tough reporter knew fear when brushed by the supernatural. "Yes. But I couldn't get to him in time."
She pulled her hand free, and he let her. She avoided his gaze, not wanting to give him an opening to question her about her intuition ... as if he would, while reporters and tourists avidly watched, and Ashley stood behind them, camera in hand, recording every movement and word.
"Ashley, get the grappling hook," he called. As Ashley scurried up the path toward their storage shed, he smiled at Tasya. "Alone at last."
Her gaze flashed to his, then away. "Don't."
He relished the upper hand—she'd abandoned him, run without a word, without a note, without a call. He had awakened from a long night of making love to discover a cold bed and not a sign of the woman he'd so carefully, craftily courted and claimed.
Now here they were, face-to-face, alone, and she desperately wanted to avoid an intimate discussion ... what sweet revenge. This was a resumption of the chase—but this time, he didn't bother with subterfuge or subtlety. This time, she knew he was in hot pursuit—and she knew he was pissed.
Naturally, being Tasya, she tried to take command of the situation. '"This isn't the time or the place to discuss personal matters. We have a job to do."
"I agree. We'll discuss our personal matters . . . later." He allowed his gaze to wander from the crown of her head to the toes of her scruffy running shoes, touching all the important points in between. He smiled, the smile of a sultan approving of a new purchase. "This time, it will be difficult for you to run away."
She flushed a painful red. "I did not run."
"Like a scared rabbit." He spaced the words, taking care to emphasize each syllable. "Look at you. You can't even lie about it successfully." He laughed softly, with an edge of menace. "I intend to take possession of what is mine."
She leaned toward him, her chin jutting. "I am not yours."
Into their battle stepped an unwitting civilian. Ashley chirped, "Here's the grappling hook, sir."
"Thank you." Without taking his gaze off Tasya, he accepted the long pole.
"I should have let the trap take you out," Tasya said fiercely.
"Would you save the world and let me go to hell?" he mocked.
"From where you're sitting, I promise, it's short trip."
"But, Tasya, I'm taking you with me . . . everywhere I go."
They stared at each other, challenging each other with their bodies and their minds.
"Wow, these are going to be great pictures!" Ashley said.
He heard the clicking of the shutter. Saw Tasya turn and snatch her camera out of Ashley's hands. And he relaxed and grinned. "You're right, Ashley. Those are going to be great pictures."
By the time they finished two hours later, Rurik had sprung three more booby traps. With Ashley's help, Tasya had taken two hundred photos. They'd completely cleared the opening—and Rurik held the treasure chest in his hands.
If anything, the crowd around the tomb had got bigger. He didn't know where they were coming from; everyone on the island was already here. Then a helicopter went over, and he realized the news-people were arriving any way they could. He'd been concentrating too hard to notice. Concentrating on his job. Concentrating on keeping Tasya safe. Concentrating on observing the sixth sense she'd been at such pains to hide.
She was sensitive to ... what? Cruel intentions? The residue of evil that surrounded the long-dead Clovus and all his deeds?
Rurik didn't know, but he did know her knowledge hadn't taken her by surprise. She had been well aware of her ability, and that made him even more curious about her. When had she learned she had such a gift? What event had triggered her instinct?
"Is there a booby trap in the chest?" he asked softly.
"No." She met his questioning gaze. "I'm sure." She glanced back at the tomb. "We're safe for now. There are more in there, but not . . . somehow, they're muted. Behind something, I think."
"Right." The sun was getting low on the western horizon. Reverently he carried the treasure chest up out of the shadows and into the rays that still beamed on the end of the stone path. He placed it on the ground, knelt before it.
As if on cue, Tasya knelt on one side and Ashley on the other.
He was well aware that they looked like ancient priests worshipping a golden god. He glanced at Tasya.
She snapped her photos reverently, yet with an animation that made it clear this find was important and thrilling. She played her part to perfection, for she served National Antiquities and their desperate need for funding.
He twisted the key in the bronze lock, never expecting it would open. Yet while the workings made a horrible grinding sound, the shaft of the key held steady. He opened the lid without visible hesitation.
Ashley gasped.
The crowd murmured.
Tasya's camera clicked as she took shot after shot.
The contents were everything an archaeologist could desire. They glittered.
With great ceremony, he removed each piece and placed it on the ground. A steel dagger with sapphires set in a silver hilt. A gold armband in the shape of a snake with ruby eyes. Rings of beaten gold and amber bracelets.
Each time he br
ought forth an artifact, the reporters spoke into microphones, took stills, and recorded video.
But when he reached the fine cedar base of the chest, he tapped it to make sure no false bottom existed and nothing hid in the depths, and he whispered, ''Damn."
Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.
Rurik had always known the legend of the Var-inskis. His father had told the story to him, to his brothers, Jasha and Adrik, and to his sister, Firebird.
A thousand years ago, a brutal warrior roamed the Russian steppes. Driven by his craving for power, the first Konstantine Varinski struck a terrible bargain. In return for the ability to change at will into a coldhearted predator, he promised his soul, and the souls of his descendants, to the devil He paid with the blessed Varinski icons—and his mother's lifeblood.
Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.
Zorana had only three sons. One had vanished into the wilds of Asia. Her prophecy was impossible.
Yet less than a week after her vision, Jasha had arrived at their Washington home with his woman— and one of the Varinski icons: a traditional Russian rendering of the Madonna. She held the infant Jesus, Joseph stood at her right hand, and their halos glittered with gold leaf. Her robes were cherry red, the background was gold, and her eyes ... her eyes were large and dark, filled with compassion.
So Rurik, who had already been searching for a way to break the pact, now had to find the next icon.
He had been an Air Force pilot; it went against
every fiber of his being to believe in a vision and a prophecy.
But like the other men in his family, he lived every day bound to a pact with the devil. He'd be a fool to dismiss the supernatural, but truthfully, he put more faith in his research. He had believed he'd located the right warlord and the right tomb.
But the icon was not in the chest.
And in a tone of despair, Tasya whispered, "Damn."
He shot her a hard look.
This find brought National Antiquities publicity, a rich haul of artifacts, and reporters to cover it all.
What else could Tasya desire?
What was she looking for?
And why?
Chapter 5
In July in the north of Scotland, the sun rose at four in the morning.
Rurik rose earlier. He dressed in camouflage and combat boots, and set off for his usual morning run— except that this wasn't his usual morning run.
Now while he knew the reporters had pulled their pillows over their eyes and the locals were sleeping off hangovers, he ran up the road to the tomb.
He'd spent the previous evening in the village pub, eulogizing Hardwick, showing off the tomb discoveries, pretending modesty, and sharing credit with every one of his team. He'd had one too many ales, and watched Tasya as she made her way through the crowd, exchanging information with the reporters, answering questions for the tourists, and talking with the archaeologists and locals. Oh, and ignoring him. She did that with obvious and consummate ease.
At least he could take comfort in the fact that she bothered. Worse, much worse, would be if she treated him as casually as she treated the others.
It was midnight by the time he got to bed, and three a.m. when he got up, sleepless and itching to go back to the tomb.
He hadn't located the Varinski icon. The treasure chest might have contained it once—according to Rurik's research, had contained it once—but it was gone now.
Yet the tomb was large and Clovus had proved wilier and more ruthless than Rurik imagined; perhaps the icon was secreted somewhere inside. Or perhaps the tomb contained a clue as to its whereabouts. Today the archaeologists and reporters would rush to the tomb in hopes of more electrifying discoveries ... so he ran.
The sun was at his back. The fresh air filled his lungs. He moved swiftly along the road, his long stride challenging the upward slope of the island.
Yet as he approached the mound, he met his men walking away.
What the hell . . . ? He stopped and waited until Connell and Tony reached him. "This isn't time for the guard to change."
Connell pointed. "MacNachtan's still up there with his rifle."
The grim villager stood on a cluster of rocks, silhouetted against the sky, and he sent Rurik a sharp salute.
"We couldn't see any sense in all of us being here." Tony's hair stood on end—he'd probably slept through his whole shift.
"All of us?" Rurik asked.
"Hunni said you'd be along soon," Connell said.
"Hunni?" Rurik stared at the grass, blowing in the ocean breeze, at the tomb, patient and menacing. "Tasya Hunnicutt is here?"
"Yeah, she said you wanted her to start photographing the entrance." Tony grinned at him, that infatuated grin of a man who a moment ago had his dreams fulfilled by a woman's smile and a few flirtatious words. "You know, boss, it's great to have her here from National Antiquities. She's got a real case of the hots for the stuff in there. She could be an archaeologist—she totally gets it,"
"She is amazing." In more ways than one. Rurik watched the guys as they walked away.
The dumbshits. It never occurred to them Tasya might be lying, that she might have an ulterior motive. Using archaeologists to guard the tomb was like using puppies to protect a fire hydrant.
Of course, it had never occurred to him Tasya would get up earlier than he did to check out the tomb. So who was the dumbshit now?
He walked down the stone ramp to the tomb's entrance, taking care that Tasya not hear him.
He'd always thought she knew too much, was too interested, had reasons of her own for following the excavation so closely. Now he intended to interrogate her—and he would enjoy every minute.
Light leaked from inside the tomb. She had some source of illumination set up, and he could hear her camera as she took picture after picture. Taking care not to alert her to his presence, he eased around to peer inside.
There she was, dressed in a camouflage T-shirt tucked into her glorious tight jeans.
No wonder his guys believed every word she said. The woman had a shape that made a man want to throw that football through that tire. Repeatedly.
She wore black work boots, and her khaki backpack rested on the floor beside her. One might suppose she'd come dressed for the dust in the tomb . . . or if one was suspicious, one might believe she'd worn camouflage for the same reason he had. So she wouldn't be easily seen.
She knelt at the wall behind the shelf where the treasure chest had been placed. Carvings covered the stone, and she leaned close, macro lens on her camera, to capture each panel.
How fascinating. She worked exactly the wall he intended to examine.
Why would she be interested in the carvings when the interior of the tomb might contain more gold? More jewels?
What was she looking for?
Right now, he didn't care.
Because they were alone. Just as he'd promised her, he had her cornered, and she had nowhere to run.
Deliberately, he loomed in the entrance, blocking the sunlight that reached inside, touching the wall... touching her.
As she swung around, she crouched into a fighting position.
"You're nervous." He ducked down and entered the tomb. "Why? Are you guilty?"
"Rurik. What are you doing here?" She looked him right in the eyes.
"According to what you told my guys, I'm supposed to meet you here."
"Yeah. Well." She put her camera around her neck and fussed with the settings.
Yep. She was guilty.
"I couldn't wait to see what's inside the tomb," she said.
"But you're not inside. You're concentrating on the wall carvings in the entrance. Why would that be?"
"I'm the National Antiquities photographer. I need to record each piece of this tomb." Her black hair curled riotously, as if she'd done no more this morning than run her fingers through the strands.
Rurik reached out.
She tried to d
odge, then consciously stood still.
Was she trying to convince him she didn't care if he touched her? Good luck.
He tucked a curl behind one ear.
She chewed her lip.
Smart girl. She should be apprehensive.
Sliding his hand behind her neck, he pulled her toward him.
"No." She put up her fists.
"Try and stop me." He smiled a toothy smile. "I would really like it if you fought."
"Why? What are you going to do? Force me to kiss you?" She sounded scornful as only an independent woman could sound.
"I don't have to force you to do anything." He whispered in her ear, "I'm going to get you so hot, we'll melt together, and you'll never know where I end and you begin."
The way she caught her breath did wonders for his temperament.
Turning his head, he kissed her cheek. "But later." Later, when he had toyed with her, kept her off-balance, threatened hell, and promised heaven.
He couldn't make her love him, he couldn't make her stay with him, but by God, if she ran again, she would remember him.
Turning his attention to the wall, and in a tone guaranteed to annoy her, he said, "This shows Clo-vus getting a gift that looks very much like a ... wait, yes, it looks invaluable. ... It looks like the wrapping on a Hershey bar!"
Actually, it looked about the shape and size of an icon. But medieval artists didn't use realistic perspective, and stone carvers in the north of Scotland at times lacked the skills of the southern artisans. Until he'd studied the script, he couldn't be sure what gift Clovus had received, and even then, it would be tough; time had worn pieces and patches away.
"Don't be a jerk." Obviously, Tasya had never meant anything so sincerely. "It's too short and too wide to be a Hershey bar. Believe me. I know my Hershey bars." She looked in the camera's viewfinder again, and took photos from several angles.
Why Tasya was so interested he didn't know. But in the end, what did it matter? As long as he could read the writing and study the carvings, he would succeed in his part of the quest. "Did you take photos of everything?"
"I took an overview. Now I'm getting it from every angle using all kinds of light."
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