by Lori Wilde
Buzz, buzz, buzz, went the Rattler.
“Could you … er … um …” He waved a hand at her sex toy slowly vibrating its way across the mattress. “Could you turn that thing off?”
She shrugged nonchalantly, trying her best to look casual and totally in control of the entire situation when she was anything but. Swallowing hard, she slipped a hand beneath the covers and pulled the vibrator out into the open.
Embarrass him. Make him feel uncomfortable. Can’t let him know you’re not as sexually liberated as you let on.
“See.” Cassie winked, hoping against hope that he didn’t notice how her hand was shaking and call her on it. “It’s called the Rattler. It’s got these little button heads that shimmy and shake and …”
His face was beet red. No fear that he was going to notice her own telltale flush. He cupped his hands over his ears and averted his eyes.
“That’s way more information than I need. Thanks.”
“Who knows? You never can tell,” Cassie teased, while at the same time she imagined the earth cracking open and sucking her down inside and then slamming shut on her, forever keeping her safe and sound from the undignified backfire of her own audacity. “Someday you may end up with a woman who’s just dying for a good rattle.”
“I seriously doubt that.”
She waved the vibrator. “Aw, come on, you’re a man of science. You keep toying with that djed thing. This should interest you. Look: here’s where you turn it on. And here’s where you adjust the speed. The faster it goes, the louder it rattles.”
She was pushing him too far but couldn’t seem to stop herself. If Harry had any clue exactly how unnerved she really was, he would quickly figure out she was not as candid about sex as she professed.
“Okay, okay.”
She jacked up the dial. Now it sounded as if there were three dozen rattlesnakes in the room. “You ought to feel this sucker.”
“No, that’s all right. It’s mechanics. I’m an archaeologist. Totally different sciences. Now put that thing away.”
“Prude,” she muttered under her breath, but it was only for effect. In reality she was extremely glad to stuff the thing into her backpack and out of sight.
They both simultaneously exhaled their relief.
“I’ve never met anyone like you,” Harrison exclaimed, shaking his head.
She forced herself to grin impishly, when what she wanted to do was flee into the dark of night, never to face him again. “Is that a good thing?”
“Hell if I know.”
He ran a hand through his hair and finally met her gaze. She did spy lust shining in those dark pools. She could also see that he was scared of his earthier impulses.
Right this moment, what she wanted more than anything was to pull him in bed on top of her. But the look on his face told Cassie that if she dared to do anything so bold, he would likely have a coronary on the spot. Never mind that he was young and in good shape. He obviously had no experience with daring women who knew their way around their own bodies.
“You flummox me, Cassie. I can’t understand how you can be so … so …”
She tilted her head and studied him. He didn’t seem judgmental. Not in the least. In fact, below his obvious embarrassment, he’d seemed quite curious about what she’d been doing.
“How can I be so what?”
“Uninhibited about your body,” he finished.
“Hey, babe, I’m a Cosmo girl,” she said saucily, finally regaining her natural sass. “Never miss an issue.”
“I’ve gotta start reading that magazine.” He grinned.
“You know,” she said. “The two of us would make a spectacular hookup.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at it this way. I’m into romance, but I don’t do commitment. You’re into commitment, but without the romance-colored glasses. We’ve got sizzling sexual chemistry, although mentally we’re polar opposites. Yet it’s the perfect recipe for a lusty fling. Sorta like cinnamon ice cream—sounds like a bad idea, but it tastes really great. Say yes, and I’ll give up the Rattler so fast it’ll make your sperm swim.”
He looked at her speculatively. “I’d have to be out of my mind to agree.”
“That’s the point, Harry. To get you out of your mind and into your body,” she whispered.
He leaned down. Was he going to kiss her? Cassie’s heart thumped. Please, oh, please, yes. She raised her chin, pursed her lips, and waited.
His lips hovered just out of reach; he wanted to. She could see it in his face.
“That’s it,” she egged him on. “For once in your life, let go. Do something wild and reckless and irresponsible. Ask yourself, What would Adam do?”
It was the wrong thing to say.
He pulled back so quickly that he stumbled over the coffee table and fell squarely on his butt. “My brother would cause chaos. Just as he’s already done.”
“Okay, scratch the Adam thing,” she said. “Forget all about Adam.”
But it was too late. Harrison picked himself up off the floor and gave her a wry smile.
“While your offer of a wild sexual fling is tempting, here’s the reality. We’re running out of time. Adam is MIA, whether by choice or not we don’t know for sure. Someone trashed your apartment. My livelihood is hanging in the balance and you’re this close”—he measured off an inch with his forefinger and thumb—“to ending up in jail. This might not be the most prudent time to start an affair.”
CHAPTER 13
Not long after dawn, the perky sound of Cassie’s cell phone playing the digitalized notes of “Girls Just Want to Have Fun” dragged her from a very frisky dream about Dr. Harrison Standish.
In her dream, she’d been systematically dismantling his every sexual inhibition and enjoying herself immensely in the process. In reality, she cracked open one eye to discover she had a pounding headache. She fumbled for the phone and ended up rolling off Harry’s couch, sheets tangled around her legs as she clobbered the floor with her hip.
And the cell kept ringing, taunting her.
Give it a rest, Cyndi Lauper.
She finally got the phone freed from her purse and flipped it open. When she saw whose number was on the caller ID, Cassie groaned. She depressed the talk button and, in the same tone Jerry Seinfeld used whenever he greeted his nemesis Newman, said, “Hello, Phyllis.”
“Where are you, Cooper? I tried your home phone and got nothing.” Don’t you have your answering machine on?”
Should she admit she was at Harrison’s apartment? Cassie decided to evade the question. “It’s only”—she paused to peer bleary-eyed at her wristwatch—“six-thirty. I don’t have to be at work for three more hours.”
“Be here in twenty minutes,” Phyllis said. “Alone. Or it’s your ass.”
The dial tone hummed in her ear.
Witch.
She glanced up to see Harrison standing in the doorway. He was sans glasses, his hair sexily mussed, and he had the sweetest sheet crease ironed into his cheek. He wore boxer shorts and a T-shirt, and he was sleepily rubbing his eyes. Dang, the man was downright adorable in the morning.
He stared. “You’re not … um … I didn’t … er … interrupt anything like last night?”
She realized that she was still lying on the floor with the sheet wrapped around her ankles. Memories of last night flooded her brain, and she got embarrassed all over again. Chagrined, she scrambled to her feet.
“Nope, nothing like that. I just forgot I wasn’t at home, and I fell off your couch looking for my cell phone.” She waved the phone to prove she hadn’t been doing that other thing.
“Oh.” He looked as if he didn’t believe her.
“It was Phyllis,” she said, desperate to get his mind off what he’d caught her doing last night. “She wants me at the Kimbell, ASAP.”
“Uh-oh.”
“Uh-oh is right. She sounded pissed off. I think we might be busted.”
“I’ll come with
you,” he said.
“No, that’s okay, it’s my problem. I’ll deal with her.”
“It’s not okay. I got you into this mess. I’ll get you out.”
“I don’t need you to save me. Phyllis was gunning for me long before this.”
“Don’t be stubborn,” he said. “I’ll go change.”
Phyllis had told her to come alone. Although Cassie really wouldn’t mind having Harry along for moral support, she didn’t want to rile the curator any more than she already was.
“Harry,” she said, stopping him halfway down the hall. He turned and looked back at her. “I think our search for Adam would be more efficient if we split up. We’ve already wasted a lot of time.”
He paused, considering what she’d said.
“So you can just drop me off at the museum. I’ll call you later and let you know what’s going on.”
“Or we can meet back here.” He went to a drawer in the kitchen cabinet and pulled out a key. “In case you need to get in.”
“You’re giving me a key to your place. Harry, that’s a pretty big step.”
“Stop joking for once. Are you sure you don’t need me to help out with Phyllis?”
“Positive.”
“All right,” he conceded. “I’ve been working on a search strategy. Adam occasionally stays at his father’s house in Westover Hills whenever he’s in town. I’ll head over there while you go to the museum. I can interview the staff. See if anyone’s heard from my brother.”
“Okay.”
Just two minutes shy of Phyllis’s twenty-minute ultimatum, Cassie bounded out of the Volvo and hurried up the steps of the Kimbell. She skidded into the curator’s office with thirty seconds to spare. She expected to see Phyllis looking like a thundercloud, which she was, but what she hadn’t expected was to find Ahmose Akvar sitting behind Phyllis’s desk.
When he spotted her, the Egyptian got to his feet and gave a courtly nod. “Miss Cooper.”
“Mr. Akvar.” Cassie extended her hand. He took it, raised it to his lips, and kissed her knuckles.
“Sit down, Cooper,” Phyllis barked.
From the look on her boss’s face, she was in much deeper trouble than she’d imagined. Help! She was seriously starting to regret not bringing Harry along with her.
Heart pounding, she sat, as did Ahmose. Phyllis remained standing, arms crossed over her chest as she leaned against the front of her desk, inches from Cassie.
“I’m confused,” Cassie said. “Why is Mr. Akvar here?”
“May I address Miss Cooper?” Ahmose asked Phyllis. The guy certainly knew how to get on the curator’s good side, asking her permission to proceed.
“But of course, Mr. Akvar.” Phyllis flashed him a smile. “Please, go ahead.”
Ahmose cleared his throat. “Miss Cooper, I understand that you and Dr. Standish have become quite close over the past few days.”
Cassie shifted in her seat. What was he getting at? “I wouldn’t say close. We barely know each other.”
“But you have been working side by side on the star-crossed lovers exhibit, and you orchestrated this”—he paused—“murder mystery theater together.”
“Um,” Cassie hedged, not certain how to respond. She cast a sidelong glance at the curator. She didn’t want to lie to the Egyptian official, but she didn’t want to get herself in an even deeper crack with Phyllis. “I’m not sure what you’re asking.”
“Knock off the crap,” Phyllis exploded. She leaned in close, glowered darkly, and shook an index finger. Cassie half expected her to grab the desk lamp off the table, shine it in her eyes, and mutter in a Gestapo accent, “Ve haff vays of making you talk.”
“What?” Her voice came out in a whispered squeak. Way to stay cool. Oh man, this was much worse than she’d anticipated, plus she was such a lousy liar.
“Tell the truth. There is no murder mystery theater.”
Cassie crumbled like a stale snickerdoodle. “Okay, all right, we made it up.”
“Aha!” Phyllis crowed. “I knew there was no memo. I’m calling the police.”
She reached for the phone, and Cassie was frantically trying to think of something to say that would make her put the receiver down when Ahmose Akvar reached over and pulled the phone from her hand.
“No,” he said. “No police. Not yet.”
“What do you mean, no police?” Phyllis glared at him. “We had the display case dusted for prints, and only two sets appeared. Cooper’s and Clyde’s.”
“It is natural for her prints to be on the case. Personally, I believe neither Mr. Petalonus nor Miss Cooper are involved in the theft. The real thief would obviously wear gloves. I do believe, however, that Miss Cooper has unwittingly been manipulated by Dr. Standish and his brother, Adam Grayfield.”
You could tell from Phyllis’s expression that she was disappointed she wasn’t about to see Cassie handcuffed and carted off to the slammer.
“Did you steal the amulet, Miss Cooper?” Ahmose asked.
This she could answer honestly. “No, I did not.”
Phyllis snorted and started to say something, but Ahmose silenced her with a scathing glance. “I believe Miss Cooper could be a valuable asset to us.”
“Excuse me?” She rounded her eyes and rolled out her best dumb-blonde routine. “I don’t understand.”
“Was the murder mystery theater Dr. Standish’s idea?” Ahmose asked. “Did he ask you to go along with it only after the amulet disappeared?”
“Yes,” Cassie admitted. “But I still don’t see what you’re getting at.”
“Think about it, Cassandra,” Phyllis said. “I fired you, and then Standish came to your rescue with this murder mystery theater idea. Now, why would he do that?”
“I don’t know.” Cassie shrugged, but a voice in the back of her mind whispered, Why indeed?
“Think, for once in your life,” Phyllis retorted.
Ahmose frowned at the curator, and then he spoke to Cassie in a gentle tone. “Here’s what I suspect happened. Dr. Standish was quite aware Ms. Lambert was looking for an opportunity to dismiss you. He and his brother, dressed as a mummy, staged a little drama for your benefit. Then Dr. Standish leaped to your assistance with an offer you couldn’t refuse.”
Cassie gulped. “I don’t get it. Why would Harrison do something like this?”
“You are being set up to take the fall for the theft. You’ll be the one going to prison, and they’ll get off scot-free with the amulet.” Phyllis snapped her fingers. “Put two and two together.”
“But why would Harrison even offer to rescue me? Phyllis had already accused me of taking the amulet. Why not just let me be arrested?”
“Timing,” Ahmose said. “And Dr. Standish needed to plant evidence so the case against you would be airtight.”
“Evidence? Like what? If they’re keeping the amulet, what could they plant on me?”
“Another artifact from the exhibit.”
The papyrus scroll? Cassie wondered. Was that what the baggage claim ticket and the crate had all been about? Was even Spanky Frebrizo in on it? She got a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.
“I’m clean. Search me.” She plucked up her handbag and shoved it at him. “Go ahead. Search me. Search my purse. Search my house. I’ve got nothing to hide.” Then a sudden thought occurred to her, and she jerked the purse back into her lap.
“Hey.” She pointed a finger at Ahmose. “Were you the one who ransacked my apartment last night?”
If he was responsible, the guy was cagey. His expression never changed. “Your apartment was ransacked?”
“Yeah? Know anything about it?”
“I do not. But perhaps your friend Dr. Standish faked a breakin for the opportunity to plant evidence.”
“He couldn’t have,” Cassie said. “He was with me all evening.”
“No, but his brother could have.”
There was that.
Ahmose leaned back in his chair and steepled his f
ingers. “Miss Cooper, have you ever heard of the Minoan Order?”
Uh, not until last night, and Harrison had been the one to tell her about it. “Isn’t it an extinct secret brotherhood cult?”
Ahmose shook his head. “Not extinct. The Minoan Order is alive and thriving in modern society.”
“Hmm. Imagine that.” She tried her best to look completely bored in spite of her racing pulse and mouth gone scarily dry.
“Members of this order believe that once the pieces of the amulet are reunited, a long-dead secret will be revealed. In fact, the Minoan Order has been caught several times trying to sell stolen artifacts. We’ve known for a long time they’ve been stealing them, we just haven’t known how. Your friend Dr. Standish holds the key.”
“What kind of secrets are you talking about?”
“I’m not at liberty to say.”
“Alchemy? The ability to control the weather?” Ka-thump, ka-thump, ka-thump went her heart.
“Something much more provocative than that, Miss Cooper,” he hinted.
“And you believe that?”
“I don’t believe it, but that’s not the point. The members of this order believe it, and they’ll stop at nothing to get what they want. My countrymen and I suspect that Dr. Standish and his half brother, Dr. Grayfield, are both members of the Minoan Order.”
“Really?”
“I can see you’re having trouble processing this information. Do you know what the symbol for the Minoan Order is?”
“Yes. A double ring with the Minotaur.”
“That is correct.”
She and Ahmose locked gazes. “And?”
He reached down for the briefcase at his side, opened it, and passed her a college term paper with Harrison’s name on it. She briefly skimmed the text. Her hand trembled, but she did her best to control it.
“So he wrote a paper about the Minoan Order. Big hairy deal. Who cares?”
“The Minoan Order cares. And Adam Grayfield has a tattoo of the Minotaur on his left shoulder blade.”
“A lot of people have tattoos.”
“The brothers own property together in Greece. A tavern. Want to know what it’s called?”