Assassin's Honor

by Monica Burns

  "Were you expecting someone?" He breathed into her ear. "Just nod yes or no."

  She nodded. Earlier at the memorial service, Ewan had said he might come by to check on her. If it was anyone she knew, it would be him. The doorbell chimed again and once more immediately after. Only Ewan rang the bell like that. Impatient and often irritating, it didn't change the fact that he was brilliant when it came to ancient civilizations.

  "It's my friend, Ewan," she mumbled into the hand covering her mouth.

  The intruder tightened his hold on her, his arm riding up to brush against the underside of her breasts. Her body tingled at the contact. The warmth of his breath caressed her cheek as he pressed his mouth to her ear.

  "It's not safe for you here, Emma." He hesitated. She could feel it in the way his hard body relaxed against hers.

  He eased his hand away from her mouth and turned her to face him. The indecision in his expression startled her. After everything she'd seen, she knew it was a foreign emotion to him. For the first time she began to think he really was concerned for her welfare. She shook her head slightly.

  "Why isn't it safe?"

  "I can't tell you that right now. There's no time. You'll just have to trust me."

  "Oh right." She sniffed with derision as the doorbell rang again. "Look, if I don't let Ewan in, he's going to call the police."

  "Answer it," he rasped with harsh resolve. "But when he's gone, you're coming with me, Emma. Count on it."

  "Go to hell," she snapped in a breathy whisper as the doorbell rang again.

  He gave her a slight push toward the foyer. Although it was still dark in the hallway, her eyes had adjusted to the small amount of available light. And for some reason his presence made the darkness a little less threatening. That made it official. She was insane. Stumbling forward, she moved down the hall as the doorbell rang for a fourth time.

  "Hold your horses! I'm coming," she called out.

  As she reached the front door, she looked over her shoulder. She couldn't see her fallen angel hidden in the shadows, and her heart jumped with dismay. With a quick flip of the hall light switch, she illuminated the entire corridor. He'd simply vanished. A shiver trailed down her spine. God, what the hell was going on here? This guy made Houdini look like an amateur. No, not a magician. The stranger was anything but that. Her hand slid over her wrist as she recalled his uncanny ability. Turning back to the door, she reached for the doorknob then froze. The dead bolt hadn't been touched. How in the hell had he gotten into the house? The sudden pounding on the opposite side of the door made her jump.

  "Emma? Are you quite all right?" Ewan's distinctive English accent echoed through the door, and she heaved a sigh of relief.

  Without hesitation she unlocked the door and tugged it open. For once, she welcomed the sight of Ewan's angular features and graying hair. Most of the time, his pompous attitude grated on her, but after the day she'd had, well, even the devil himself would be welcome. She winced inwardly. Definitely the wrong choice of phrase. Lucifer had come and gone already, leaving her more confused than she'd ever been in her life.

  Always meticulous in appearance, Ewan Redmurre was a throw-back to a fifties-era professor. Any fashionista would have a stroke just looking at him. But Ewan's look fit his personality. Somewhat stuffy, rich in anal-retentive detail, but mostly--brilliant. Tonight, though, the rain had left him drenched and he was obviously displeased about it.

  "What the devil took you so long?" he groused as he stepped into the foyer. "I'm soaking wet."

  She jumped aside as he shrugged out of his trench coat and proceeded to shake the rain off it onto the entryway's floor. Gritting her teeth at the action, she took the coat out of his hands. Okay, warm fuzzies about Ewan were gone. Didn't the man believe in umbrellas? Not waiting for him to shake the water off his fedora, she lifted it off his head then hung both items on the peg hooks next to the door.

  "I was . . . talking with someone . . ."

  Remembering the intruder's concern for her safety, she frowned. Her hesitation surprised her. Ewan might be an ass sometimes, but she'd known him since before she could walk. He'd been a friend of her parents since their college days. Like Charlie, he'd been a rock she'd leaned on after her parents' murder five years ago. She'd relied on him again today at Charlie's memorial service. But the stranger's concern had been so compelling . . . and for some crazy reason, she trusted him to keep her safe. No, she'd tell Ewan later when she had a better grasp of the situation.

  "Do you want a drink?" she asked.

  "Whiskey neat, if you please."

  She nodded at his request and passed through the living room into the kitchen. It didn't take long to find the whiskey because the pantry was bare. She made a mental note to go grocery shopping.

  "This someone you were talking with wouldn't be that Frost fellow, would it?" Ewan's crisp accent floated into the kitchen like a brisk breeze. "The last thing you need is to be talking to that moronic jackass."

  The mention of Jonathan made her flinch, and she didn't know whether to laugh or cry at the older man's comment. She chose to laugh. Jonathan would have been livid to hear himself referred to as a jackass, let alone stupid. Her ex-fiance believed himself to be urbane and sophisticated, but he was really a liar and a cheat. Whiskey bottle in one hand and two glasses in another, she returned to the living room and arched an eyebrow at her guest.

  "I haven't seen Jonathan since the Institute's annual fundraiser last year."

  It had been an awkward evening at best since it had been the first time they'd met since the end of their relationship. She finished pouring the whiskey, and the liquor bottle clinked softly against the wood surface of the coffee table as she set it aside. She forced a smile to her lips and offered Ewan a glass of amber-colored liquid. Deliberately, she ignored the frown of concern furrowing his brow. Instead, she plopped down into the plush corner of the couch. Ewan sent her a discerning look.

  "I see. At least you're not still carrying a torch for the fellow."

  "Nope," she said in a carefree tone. She might not love Jonathan anymore, but the mere mention of his name could still make her stomach churn with nausea and pain. Finding him in bed with his anthropology intern two years ago hadn't been nearly as painful as discovering the real reason for his marriage proposal.

  "Your reluctance to discuss this mysterious individual leads me to assume this is an affair of the heart. Have I met the young man?"

  "I don't think so."

  She could have told him about her visitor, but she really didn't want Ewan to fuss over her safety. The stranger's dire warning flitted through her head again. He'd been convinced she was in real danger and equally concerned about her safety.

  An oxymoron given the man had accosted her in her own home. Well, maybe "accosted" wasn't the right word. Hell, he hadn't even told her whom she needed to be afraid of. On top of that, she didn't even know his name.

  "Have you heard from the Institute about when you can return to work?" Ewan's words made her shake her head.

  "Dr. Stuart wouldn't give me a date. Apparently, there's some concern that I've become a liability for the university unless I shift my field of expertise to something more local."

  "Local?"

  "I believe he mentioned the word 'classroom.' " She didn't bother to hide her disgust.

  "Bloody hell! The man is mad to think about putting you in the classroom."

  "Thanks for your vote of confidence regarding my teaching skills," she said with more than a hint of sarcasm. He waved her protest aside as he leaned back in the recliner opposite her.

  "No, no, my dear. Stuart's a fool not to send you back to Egypt. Your work in Ptolemy's tomb has been exceptional. Charles found the damn thing, but you're the one whose work has made the excavation the success that it is. Even Michael Granby admits that, despite the man's proclivity to tout his own credentials."

  Ewan pulled a pipe from his coat pocket with a pouch of tobacco. With his usual precision, h
er friend packed the bowl and proceeded to light it. Emma closed her eyes briefly as the tobacco's aroma drifted across the room to tease her nose. The same brand her father had smoked. Her dad had always enjoyed his after-dinner pipe. She could still see him sitting in his recliner ready to debate his favorite topic--Ptolemy and the Sicari who'd served him.

  The image was so real in her head, she tensed as she waited for her mother's voice to echo out of the kitchen. But the sound never materialized. She opened her eyes and smiled at the man across from her. Ewan Redmurre rarely handed out compliments, and earning his praise meant she'd done something special--significant. She savored the thought.

  She'd worked hard to build her reputation without the use of her unique gift. An ability Jonathan had thought he could exploit to his advantage. She thrust all thought of her ex-fiance out of her head. Ewan Redmurre had just paid her one of the highest compliments she could ever receive. His approval wasn't to be taken lightly given his degree of influence at the Oriental Institute. A member of the Institute's Board of Directors, his power could easily advance or sidetrack any career.

  "Thank you, Ewan."

  "You're welcome." He gestured at her with his pipe. "I don't suppose they allowed you to keep your notes, did they?"

  The subtle change of subject didn't surprise her. Ewan always kept the best interests of the Institute at the forefront of anything he did. "Actually, they did. That and something else."

  "Something else?"

  "It was in Charlie's belongings. A coin."

  "Good God," Ewan exclaimed.

  "Well, it's not like I knew it was there," she snapped in a defensive tone. "It's not my fault the authorities didn't find it when they searched through everything."

  This last statement held more than a trace of bitterness as she remembered her ordeal in Cairo and the way her things had been recklessly tossed into several large boxes. Ewan sent her a sympathetic look.

  "I can't imagine they made it easy for you. I take it they brought up the subject of your parents as well?"

  "Yes."

  She bobbed her head and glanced away from him. The rawness of the pain still lingered beneath the surface even after five years. Charlie's murder had brought it all back. The memories she'd managed to keep at bay. There hadn't been anything unusual about the dig she and her parents had been excavating. Everything had been quite normal until the night her mother and father failed to show up for dinner. When it grew late, she'd ordered the men to spread out and find the couple. Kareem had been the first one to find her parents. Even now, she could still hear his wailing cry of terror. She crushed the dark memories and turned her head back to Ewan. A look of assessment darkened his brown eyes.

  "So where is this coin?"

  "Let me go get it," she said as she gulped down the rest of her whiskey and unfolded herself off the couch. "I'll be right back."

  Heading down the hall to the study, she half expected her mysterious stranger to materialize out of thin air. She certainly didn't like the disappointment that flared through her when he didn't appear. As she entered the office, she glanced to her left, fully expecting to see the knife still stuck in the wall. But it was gone.

  Startled, she came to an abrupt halt. It had been in the wall when Ewan had rung the doorbell. She turned toward the desk. The knife sat on top of the papers covering the desktop. Her stomach lurched with apprehension as she sprinted forward.

  Pushing papers first to one side and then to another, she realized the worst had happened. The bastard had let her answer the door while he came back here to take the coin. Furious, she slammed her fists into the desktop.

  Chapter 4

  THE rain eased slightly as Ares DeLuca stood in the shadows surrounding the Zale house.

  The Emma he'd just met bore no likeness to the dry information in her file. She was feisty, vulnerable, and intelligent, with a bite of sarcastic humor. That, and a body designed by Titian.

  Id damno. If he didn't get his head back on straight, he'd make an even bigger mess of things. He'd made more mistakes tonight than in the entire time he'd been Legatus of the Order's Chicago guild. Mistakes like knowing zip about Emma's special ability.

  How in the hell had Sandro and Octavia missed that? Her file mentioned nothing about a psychic trait. He frowned as he studied the dark window of her study. With just one touch, she'd learned far more about him than she needed to know. Knowledge was power, but it was also dangerous if you didn't have all the facts. And Emma was a babe in the woods when it came to knowing anything about the Praetorians. It certainly hadn't helped matters that she'd seen his past as well. The horror in her eyes had reflected his past in all its darkness. It was the first time he'd ever regretted being a Sicari. His jaw clenched at the thought.

  Regrets. He wished he'd never kissed the woman. In Cairo, he'd allowed himself to reach out with his thoughts to caress her cheek. She'd seemed so lost, and he'd wanted to comfort her. But kissing her tonight? That had been madness in itself. All his Sicari training had fallen by the wayside the moment her body had pressed into his.

  He couldn't remember the last time he'd failed to block out all emotions and focus on the assigned task. He hadn't screwed up this badly since . . . he released a grunt of anger. The past was done. Emma was the priority now. And it took only one Praetorian passing by her in public to pick up on her thoughts.

  Once the pride of Ancient Rome, and Caesar's personal guard, the Praetorians had made the Sicari outlaws. From behind the cloak of the Church, they'd denounced the Sicari as assassins with evil powers. They'd rounded up men, women, and children like cattle and burned them at the stake or crucified them.

  Those who escaped went into hiding, eventually becoming the assassins the Praetorians had branded them just to survive. Nor was it surprising their enemy had conveniently forgotten to mention anything about their own special powers. Abilities the Church would have viewed as coming from the devil. Telling their superiors in the Church they were telepathic would have made the Praetorians a target for persecution as well.

  Fotte. He should have made Sandro and Octavia double-check their information on Emma before he barged into her home. Russwin's notes had made it sound like she had the Tyet of Isis, and he'd been more than willing to believe it. He'd gotten his hopes up thinking he was finally going to learn where the Tyet of Isis was. He didn't like making mistakes like this. Just one fleeting thought stirring in her head about him, the Tyet of Isis--any of it--could mean her death. Clearly the Zales hadn't shared what they knew with Emma. Unless, of course, she was already working with the Praetorians . . .

  Tension made his muscles grow taut. He hadn't considered that possibility. In the next breath, he dismissed the notion. Her confusion tonight had been genuine. The Order had placed her under surveillance some time ago. If she'd been involved with the Praetorians, there would have been a note in her file. Her parents had been under surveillance for almost five years prior to their deaths, and extensive background checks had turned up nothing on the couple. It had been the same in Emma's case. There hadn't been even the slightest connection to the sworn enemy of the Sicari. And despite what some in the Order believed, working for the Institute didn't make her guilty.

  Scowling, he released a harsh breath through his clenched teeth. It had been a mistake to come here tonight. Merda. He should have been more patient. More careful. The Tyet of Isis had been missing for more than two thousand years. A few more weeks of surveillance on Emma would have been prudent. But he hadn't chosen that path. Instead he'd put her in danger by plowing into her life like a bulldozer.

  Once Emma got rid of her visitor, he'd convince her to come with him. He grimaced. More likely he'd have to kidnap her. The Sicari complex on Wacker Drive would have to suffice until he could figure out a way to protect her. He snorted with disgust. Protect her? He was delusional if he really believed Emma would ever be able to live by herself again. The Praetorians would stop at nothing to destroy the Sicari, even if it meant murdering
innocent bystanders. He'd dragged her into this centuries-old conflict and he refused to let her become a victim of it.

  The light in her study blinked on, and he retreated deeper into the wet shadows. He could see her clearly through the window he'd made his exit from as she looked toward the wall and then the desk where the letter opener lay. When she slammed her fists against the desktop, he released a low growl of self-disgust. Had he expected her to be happy he'd taken the coin?

  An older man entered the study a few minutes later. Her visitor. He ignored the twinge of satisfaction the man's age gave him. Turning away from the brightly lit window, he moved with quiet stealth toward the street. He could keep an eye on the house from the car just as easily as he could standing here in the rain.

  Early evening had vanished into the darkness of night as he kept to the deeper shadows lining the residential neighborhood's sidewalk. Slick with rain, the street was devoid of traffic as he quickly retraced his steps back to where he'd parked his Durango. Unlike most cars, there were no annoying chimes or interior lights blinking on when he opened the car door. A mechanic he knew had taken care of that problem within an hour of the vehicle's cash purchase. The small precaution helped keep him from being an easy target. With a well-practiced move, he removed his sword from its scabbard and stored the blade in the special holder under his seat.