Relentless (Lodestone)

by Cherry Adair

  “No.” Her fingers tightened in his. “I don’t want you going off alone.”

  That elicited a short bark of laughter. He’d been shot, stabbed, and almost gutted over the years as an MI5 operative, but no one had ever given a damn. “It’s not my first day at kindergarten, darling. I’m going to double back to see if we’re being followed.”

  “Then we go together.” She met his gaze, his eyes shadowed by her glasses. Chewing her lower lip, Isis admitted, “Frankly, I don’t want me to be alone, either.”

  He should’ve considered that, especially after what she’d been through in the past few days. He rarely worked with a partner, so being autonomous was par for the course. And the last time he’d partnered up—

  Goddamn it, he didn’t want to be responsible for anyone else’s safety. Clearly he was shit at the job. Ask Lynn Maciej and Troy Ayers. “We’ll double back to that fountain where the kids are playing. We can remain concealed by the hedges along the way.”

  She smiled her thanks. They went back, then casually drifted into a rowdy group of teenagers and adults. No one looked as though they were skulking, but then, professionals wouldn’t. They, like himself, would blend undetected.

  It was an exercise in futility. Too many people about, and he had no way to ID the men in the tan car. Unless they happened to be in said car. “I don’t see anything. Let’s head to Husani’s and regroup.”

  HUSANI’S WIFE, RABIAH, WAS preparing dinner when they arrived. The small, crowded apartment smelled deliciously of roasting meat and spices. Isis’s mouth watered as she was urged to the table. While they ate, Thorne pretty much interrogated her friend.

  Husani and Rabiah had been surprised, but instantly welcoming when they showed up unannounced. “I’m sorry, Thorne doesn’t mean—”

  “Thorne does mean,” he corrected as he rested his hand on her wrist. “Someone is trying their damnedest to kill us. I want to know who, and how they know we’re even here. Are they after you or are they trying to kill me?”

  That was pretty plain and out there. “I’ve been thinking about this in my copious spare time,” Isis said facetiously.

  “Maybe someone thinks you know something?” Rabiah suggested, spooning another slice of fiteer onto Isis’s plate.

  The light, flaky pastry stuffed with lamb and white cheese was mouthwateringly delicious, and even though Isis was full, she took another delectable, gooey bite. “Then they should politely stop me and ask a freaking question.”

  “You were followed from the minister’s house, aiwa?” Husani gave her a worried look. “These men must’ve followed you from there.” Thorne cocked his head in response. “Or from the market.”

  Thorne looked grim, his mouth tight. “Either. Both. I’m here to assist Isis in finding this tomb her father claims to have found and lost. But it’s very possible someone from my past has caught up with me. I’m a British intelligence officer on inactive status. This man could be—probably is—behind these attempts. Both MI5 and the Mossad—”

  “You are working with al-Mosad lil-Istikhbarat wal-Mahamm al-Khassah?” Husani asked, clearly impressed.

  “Yes. Israel’s Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations is vested in helping me find a man or syndicate who has been stealing and selling the Middle East’s most priceless antiquities on the black market for years.”

  “And you believe that this man has heard of the professor’s claim of finding Queen Cleopatra’s tomb, and wants it at all costs?”

  “That’s where I’m heading. But as yet there’s nothing concrete to tie Professor Magee to Boris Yermalof.”

  “Other than a frigging queen’s ransom in priceless artifacts, you mean?” Isis said flatly, leaning forward, her arms on the table.

  “Yeah, I must admit, it’s the only thing that makes sense.”

  “It would’ve been nice of you to share your thoughts along the way,” she told him.

  “My contacts have drawn off the men chasing us this evening. I also have two men posted at the hospital in case your father’s attackers decide to go back. He’s secured, and no one followed us here. But Isis must be returned home, where she can be kept safe while I resolve this.”

  “I concur.” Husani cradled his coffee cup, a deep frown creasing his brow.

  “May I be allowed to insert a word in edgewise?” Isis straightened from the table. “My father was attacked only a few hours ago in Seattle. I won’t be much safer there than I am here.”

  “There you’ll be under the protection of Zakary Stark and a full security team.”

  Isis slumped back in her chair. “Excellent point.”

  “What do you need from us?” Rabiah asked quietly as she sat down beside Isis, who’d left a small amount of food on her plate as was the custom, so her hostess wouldn’t keep refilling her plate.

  “You’ve been more than gracious serving us this delicious meal, and giving us respite from the men following us.” Thorne smiled at their hostess. He had a sexy smile when he bothered, and seeing it now made Isis’s heart skip a beat.

  She picked up her glass of orange Fanta, sipping the sweet soda to prevent herself from lunging across the table to kiss him. Despite, or because of the danger, and the crazy rush of endorphins, pheromones, and whatever else, Isis wanted her hands on him in the worst possible way.

  “We’ll find a hotel off the beaten path,” he told their hosts, apparently oblivious to the neon sign over her head blinking out TAKE ME. “I’ll call in some favors. See if anyone on the street knows anything about these dangerous men. See if I can charter a private plane to get Isis out of the country as soon as possible.”

  “We own an empty rental apartment one floor below,” Husani offered after a silent communication with his wife got a nod. “It’s furnished. You can stay there as long as you like. I’ll lend you my computer should you need it.”

  TEN

  Claiming that the tiny room was an apartment was a stretch. Barely five hundred square feet, it held an aging sofa bed, an armchair, a hot plate, and a minibar-sized refrigerator. It smelled strongly of insect repellent and cleaning products.

  Isis placed her camera bag on the table beside an antiquated boxy nineteen-inch TV as she looked around. “At least it’s clean and varmint free—”

  Thorne grabbed her upper arm, spinning her around and into his arms. Off balance, she fell neatly against his chest, her hands coming to rest over his heart. Her eyes widened as he slid off her glasses and stuck them in his back pocket. He took her mouth. She tasted of orange Fanta and hot silky female. A lethal combo Thorne didn’t waste time resisting.

  It had been a long fucking day, and adrenaline still surged through his body despite several hours spent relaxing with her friends. The longer he’d sat there, trying to appear engaged, the longer he’d observed the sweet curve of her mouth as she talked, and the soft, plump outline of her breasts shifting under her thin cotton T-shirt as she breathed.

  Thorne was done observing.

  Her eager response made him crazy as she feasted on him, her lush mouth eager and active, her tongue dancing and playing against his. The taste of her went to his head like fine, aged brandy. So good in fact that the kiss almost blew the top of his head off. He forgot to breathe as he gathered her supple body against him, and ignored the surge of numbers tumbling through his brain like jumping beans before they streamlined into a long, endless parade of numbers superimposed behind his closed lids.

  2833290328332903283329032833290328332903 28332903.

  Bloody hell. Not now.

  Sliding both hands down her slender back, he cupped her shapely arse through the thin cotton of her pants. She arched against him, pressing her pelvis against his erection as her nimble fingers skimmed under his shirt and up his back, her short nails scoring his skin. His dick jumped in response. Without opening his eyes, he walked her backward toward a horizontal surface—the swaybacked sofa a few short steps across the threadbare carpet.

  Barely separating their m
ouths, he yanked her neon orange T-shirt over her head. Her moan of pleasure vibrated against his chest as he glided a hand up her side, then slipped his fingers inside the cotton cup of her bra to fill his palm with the sweet, silky weight of her breast. Her skin felt impossibly soft, slightly damp, her nipple puckered and hard against his palm.

  Oh, for God’s sa—283329032833290328332903.

  Skimming his hand up her back, Thorne unclasped the thin wisp of her bra as they came to a halt against the edge of the sofa. Isis’s fingers latched onto his belt buckle…

  28332903. He blew out a frustrated breath. Lifting his mouth a breath away from hers, he muttered thickly, “Where is it?”

  “Hmm?” She opened slightly dazed eyes. “Where is—what?”

  “You have an article on you that you weren’t wearing before. Hand it over.”

  He observed the glaze of passion clear a little. “Wow, you are good.” She pulled an inch-square chamois leather pouch out of her back pocket. “But can’t we finish the kiss first?”

  Thorne tilted her face up and raked his teeth on her bottom lip. “That and more,” he promised, voice thick as he shifted to put some space between them.

  Reaching back, she frowned and refastened her bra. “What we were just doing is more important than a cheap reproduction necklace.”

  Wasn’t it, though. The numbers, however, weren’t going to stop because they were randy. Loosening the cord, Thorne tipped the pouch over his open hand. A delicate gold chain slithered onto his palm, followed by what looked like a small oval amulet. The goddess Isis, her wings spread. He’d seen this image everywhere at the souk and even on posters at the London Natural History Museum. “Where’d you get this?”

  Her hair curled wildly over her bare shoulders, and Isis pushed it out of her face impatiently. He could see the dark areolas through the delicate beige satin of her bra, still-hard peaks begging for his touch. The dim lamplight shone on her skin, made it appear milky pale. He wanted to taste it, damn it.

  28332903.

  “My father gave it to me years ago—the amulet, not the chain. It’s my lucky amulet, but the chain is so delicate I don’t wear it very often. With all this crazy running around, I took it out of my camera bag and stuck it in my—You’re being very mysterious.” Isis bent to pick up her T-shirt from the floor. When she pulled it over her head it was inside out. Not a problem, since Thorne had every intention of stripping it off her again in a few moments.

  “Even though it holds great sentimental value,” she told him, squinting to apparently bring him into focus as she pulled the shirt over her hips, “it has no monetary value, you know.”

  2833290328332903283329032833290328332903 28332903. “I’m getting a GPS reading from it.”

  Her eyebrow rose into her bangs. “For Khan el-Khalili bazaar? Because that’s where he told me he bought it—”

  “Hold that thought.” Thorne pulled his comm out of his back pocket, handed her back her glasses, then punched in the longitude and latitude running through his mind like a ticker tape. “Valley of the Scorpions.”

  “Really? That can’t be right. He never found anything there.”

  “But that’s where he told you he was when he called you that night, right? Maybe he didn’t get this there three months ago. But this is the location I’m seeing.”

  “What? Are you telling me this is from Cleo’s tomb?”

  “I have no idea whose tomb it comes from, but it didn’t come from the bazaar.”

  “Are you positive?”

  “Unequivocally.”

  She drooped down to the sagging cushions of the sofa. “Are you saying he did find her tomb in the Valley of the Scorpions? For real? The same valley that’s below the dam and about to become a giant freaking lake for water-skiers and fishermen?”

  He sat beside her. The ancient cushions obligingly threw her against him. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders to steady her. “That would be the one.”

  “It’s being flooded next week; you remember that small detail, right?”

  “Take a breath, you’re hyperventilating. We need to get out there and see if this is even a possibility.”

  “They can’t be allowed to flood the valley if there’s even a small chance that Queen Cleopatra’s tomb is right there!” She pushed out of his hold and maneuvered herself off the lumpy cushions to stand up. “They can’t. Who do we talk to first? Minister of Water? Or Minister of Antiquities? This is the find of a lifetime. My God, my father was there—”

  “We don’t know that for sure.”

  “I know for sure! Thorne, he was digging in that valley a year ago. And now—now I bet that was where he was digging three months ago when he was attacked.”

  “He was discovered two hundred miles away from the valley, Isis. Two hundred miles. Possibly he found this little amulet a year ago and gave it to you as a memento. Do you have any proof that it was found in Cleopatra’s tomb? No.”

  “I just know it was,” she said stubbornly, folding it gently in her palm, then resting her fist over her breast. “It doesn’t have to be based on anything but faith. I’ve never doubted my father. He might be confused, he might be a lot of things, but he found her, I know he did.

  “Cleopatra was obsessed with Isis, and they say paintings and statues were all over her homes. If you’re sure this wasn’t purchased in the bazaar, as my father claimed, then it has significant value. And knowing him, if he lied about where he found it—even to me—then I know this came from her tomb. Just as much as I know that my father found the tomb, and was robbed of his discovery! And that tomb is about to be destroyed if we don’t put a stop to the opening of that dam. They moved Abu Simbel when they built Aswan; they can move the contents of Cleo’s tomb before they flood the Valley of the Scorpions!”

  “In less than a week?” he pointed out reasonably.

  Her cheeks were flushed, her nose pink, and her eyes looked enormous magnified by tears behind her glasses. “Yes. Whatever it takes.”

  Thorne leaned back, crossing one leg over his knee and stretching his arms out along the seat back. Bloody hell. This was already a clusterfuck without her trying to stop a massive decade-long project. “That takes years of planning. Particularly if this really is her tomb. The national spotlight will be glaring. Thousands of lives and billions of dollars are at stake. No one is going to be willing to risk so much on so little.”

  “Are you kidding me? The discovery of this tomb will be monumental. Bigger than the discovery of King Tutankhamen! We have to stop them from flooding the valley. That’s all we have to do. Stop the flooding. Look. Find if it really is her. We can go from there, right?”

  Thorne reached out to snag her wrist, tugging her back to sit beside him. In a well-orchestrated move he stripped her T-shirt over her head and crowded her down against the pillows. “We can’t do anything until morning.” He breathed in the scent of her skin as he kissed his way down her throat. Her pulse was rapid because of her agitation, but he was about to change that to a different kind of stimulation. “We have hours to kill before then.”

  “Hmm,” she murmured indistinctly, lifting her mouth for his kiss. “And you weren’t planning on sleeping much, were you?”

  “How about not sleeping at all?”

  LACING HIS FINGERS WITH hers, Thorne held them above her head so they were palm to palm, his hard chest pressed against her breasts. “You drive me mad, woman.” His breath fanned her face.

  “It’s purely intentional.” Isis bit his lower lip and felt a curl of satisfaction as he growled low in his throat and his mouth crushed hers.

  Lifting his head, he stared into her eyes as if he was reading her mind. The naked hunger on his face stole her breath and made her heart beat even faster. “Are you absolutely, positively sure? Because this time I’m not backing up.”

  Isis met his intense gaze inches from her own. Heart hammering hard against her rib cage, she combed her fingers through the short, velvety-soft pelt of his hair above h
is ears. “Absolutely, positively.”

  He reached out and plucked off her glasses, setting them somewhere behind him. A prickle of anticipation mixed with hot need as his head lowered the last few inches. His sensual mouth didn’t need to coax hers open; she wanted him inside. She met his bold, eager tongue with her own, craving more, wanting to crawl inside his skin.

  The hot, devouring kiss was unlike any she’d known or even imagined. She loved kissing, but this—locking lips with Thorne was more than she could’ve fantasized. She fell into it headlong, intoxicated by his heat and the rich, heady taste of the strong coffee he’d been drinking at dinner.

  Isis glided her fingers up his sides but kept getting distracted by hot satin skin and the kiss that was soul-eating and delicious.

  Tangling his fingers in her hair, he used one large hand to hold her head exactly where he wanted it, and the other to skim under her T-shirt and glide up her body. His fingers were hot, slightly rough, and in a hurry.

  He smelled so good—soap and starch, and man. And his own unique dizzying smell that was part all of those, and part the natural musk of his skin.

  He rolled off her without warning, leaving Isis blinking and bewildered as he toed off his shoes. Maintaining eye contact, he yanked his T-shirt over his head, tossing it on the floor. She’d wondered forever what his body would look like, and here he was, in living, spectacular 3-D. Tall, lean, muscular, and a hard ass, he was her every fantasy rolled into one delicious package.

  She drank him in. Tough guy. The dark stubble on his stubborn jaw made him look like a pirate. How was it possible for a mouth to be so serious, and yet so sensual? Isis wanted to stroke his face, to explore every masculine dip and curve. Satin skin stretched tightly over clearly defined muscles. His broad shoulders blocked out the lamplight behind him, and Isis imagined she could feel the glide of his shadow against her skin as he undressed.

  She admired the crisp dark hair disappearing into the waistband of his jeans as his hands went to his belt buckle. Her tongue stuck to the roof of her mouth and her heart beat loud and fast as she saw a wedge of dark hair behind his fingers.