Relentless (Lodestone)

by Cherry Adair

  Dylan’s face darkened. “I was quite ill, and then he returned to Seattle…”

  “That’s right, you weren’t able to go with him on that last dig. What was it? Food poisoning?” Her face, reflected clearly in his glasses, showed her disbelief. She’d never been good at poker. What she thought came through loud and clear in her expressions. Fortunately she didn’t care if Dylan saw them or not.

  “Right, bad fish. Awful.”

  Thorne glanced down at her with a small frown, then directed his X-ray eyes at Dylan, like a death ray right through his sunglasses. “I heard it was the flu.” His tone was cool and clipped.

  “Right, right. Both, actually. It was touch and go.”

  “One has to be careful what one eats here, that’s for sure. Are you here on a dig?” Thorne asked conversationally.

  Dylan moved into the shade of the awning, out of the hot sun. “I am. I came to hire a few more men…” He glanced over at Husani, who gave him a stony look in return. There’d never been any love lost between them. Husani had a keen nose for bullshit. Now that she’d gotten a whiff of it off Dylan, it was easy to sense. What exactly had she seen in him beyond his Ken doll looks?

  “Oh?” Isis said curiously. If the son of a bitch was anywhere near her father’s site she’d—she’d sic Thorne on him. “Must be something important to work here at this time of the year. Who’s lead on the dig?”

  “I am.”

  “Really?” She made sure her contempt of that notion came across loud and clear. “And where is it?”

  “Abusir,” he answered smoothly, trying to brush a fly off his cheek. Unintimidated, it stayed put, as flies here had a tendency to do. Apparently the fly knew bullshit when he smelled it.

  She narrowed her eyes, jaw tight. “Abusir?”

  Thorne squeezed her hand when her entire body jerked in reaction. “And what’s there?” he asked her calmly.

  “A two-thousand-year-old temple to the god Osiris,” she said through gritted teeth, giving Dylan a death stare. “It’s an ancient site at the third-century BCE Taposiris Magna temple.

  “My father dug there a year ago and found nothing of note,” she continued. “What a strange coincidence that you’re back in the exact same place without him, especially since I believe you were the one who said it was a ‘colossal’ waste of time.”

  “We were off by half a mile,” Dylan said with a defensive shrug. “And even if he had found this particular tomb, he never went deep enough. Besides, he dug elsewhere that year, remember? He had several digs going at the same time. I told him then, and I’m telling you now. He spread himself too thin, spread our resources too thin… You must admit patience was never the professor’s strong suit.”

  “Here’s a good idea,” she snapped. “You don’t talk about my father, and I don’t punch you in the nose for stealing his find.”

  Dylan rotated his shoulders, a sign he was uncomfortable. “You were never prone to violence, babe. What’s wrong with you? You know how this business works.” He leaned against the heavy metal pole supporting the awning, the picture of nonchalance and innocence as he tucked his fingers in the front pockets of his loose khaki pants. “The professor had thirty years to find the tomb. Now it’s my turn.”

  “Using everything he taught you, and stealing his claims and maps?”

  Dylan picked the fly off his sweaty chin, dropping it to the ground, then stepped on it. “How—Don’t start accusing me just because your father is washed-up. It’s early days, yet, but I believe I’ve found Queen Cleopatra’s tomb. I’m sorry, Isis. I was going to call and let you know as a courtesy to your father.”

  “Were you?” Her fingers ached, and she realized she was holding so tightly to Thorne’s hand that her fingers had gone bloodless and numb. She loosened her grip a little. “What made you decide to revisit the site?” He was a moron. There was absolutely nothing in those tombs. She’d been with her father when he and Dylan had discovered them. Empty, nada. Not a scarab.

  The fact that Dylan was back in that location was odd. He was an opportunist, not a fool. Digs were expensive, the red tape extensive. If he was there it was because he believed he would discover something of value—which meant that when he’d worked for her father, he’d discovered something and not passed on the knowledge.

  “Radar survey identified three underground sites, not just the one. The area was untouched, ripe for excavation.”

  Ripe to rape and pillage, he meant. “And what? You hit the jackpot? Did you find her actual tomb?” Anger clarified her senses, heightened her need to protect her father. Get rid of the skunk bastard they’d trusted. Thorne could help her hide Dylan’s body.

  “We found ten nobles’ tombs nearby—”

  “Interesting, but not Cleo.” Would he tell her if he had? The answer to that was yes. If he’d excavated and pulled out all the artifacts and documented them. The answer was no if he’d barely started and didn’t want her poking a stick into the wheels of his dig. She could go back to the ministry and reopen her father’s claim.

  “Twenty-some coins with her face and name inscribed on them. I also discovered a ceramic fragment of a mask I believe was of Mark Antony.”

  “You found Mark Antony’s death mask?” If this was true, Dylan had made the discovery of the century. Her father’s discovery. Her stomach knotted.

  Dylan shrugged. “It has the cleft chin of the Roman general—”

  She made a rude noise. “Maybe it was a prop for Richard Burton’s role as Antony in the movie,” she suggested, trying to unclamp her tight jaw.

  “Denial is a waste of time. Your father had his day in the sun; now I’m having mine. And if you think for a moment that I didn’t cover all my bases with the MSA, you’re mistaken. The professor’s rights to those sites ran out weeks ago.” The Ministry of State for Antiquities was responsible for regulating, conserving, and protecting all antiquities and archaeological excavations in Egypt. Dylan had always had an excellent rapport with the members of the Administrative Council. Her father had not. “Where’s the money coming from, Dylan? Who’s bankrolling you?”

  “I have several sponsors. Just as the professor had.” He pushed away from the pole, making the tassels lining the top edge of the awning dance in the harsh sunlight.

  “I’m trying to figure out,” Thorne inserted, voice deceptively quiet, “what the fuck your angle is, Brengard. One minute you’re sucking up to an old flame, next you’re doing everything in your piss-poor arsenal to tick her off. Not smart.” He deliberately moved into Dylan’s space. “Piss her off, and you piss me off. We’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and we’ve been chased, shot at, and run off the road. What do you have to do with that?”

  Dylan’s mouth tightened and he took a step back. “Absolutely nothing. I didn’t even know Isis was here until a second ago, and I resent your insinuation that I—”

  Isis sensed Thorne’s simmering anger, and was rather sorry that he remained rooted in place. His animosity was—to her, anyway—crystal clear. “If I discover you had anything to do with putting Isis in any danger, I’ll rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.”

  Stunned at how something said in such a calm voice could make every hair on her body quiver, Isis demanded of Dylan, “Have you been following us?”

  “What on earth would I follow you for? I’ve found Cleopatra’s tomb, Isis. You have nothing I want.”

  “Fortunate.” Thorne lifted their clasped hands to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “Because Isis has everything I want, and I don’t share.”

  “THAT WAS SCARILY IMPRESSIVE.” Isis’s cheery tones followed him as they got into another Mossad-supplied vehicle parked in the garage near the mosque. She took off the straw hat, tossed it in the backseat, then ran her fingers through her hair as he got in on the driver’s side. The last thing she acted like was scared. His ego warmed as he acknowledged that she sounded, if anything, impressed.

  “I did my job.” His job as an MI5 oper
ative, not a Lodestone agent. He buckled up and indicated she do the same.

  “You threatened him and staked a claim in two seconds flat.” She fastened her seat belt while he went through the compartment under his floor mat. A second Glock. Couple of clips. Knife. Thorne left everything, but shoved the clips in his pockets.

  “About that,” he said flatly. “I’m sure it doesn’t need pointing out, but I come from a long line of cold bastards. I don’t do warm and fuzzy.”

  She turned big brown eyes on him. “And you’re telling me this non–news flash—why?”

  “I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.” He didn’t want to give himself the wrong idea, either. Her future happiness had nothing to do with him. Couldn’t have anything to do with him. He was all about his job. Without MI5 he didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself, and he couldn’t do Isis Magee as a temporary filler until he was back at the agency. There were rules. And he’d abide by them. Even if they were of his own making.

  She gave him a narrow-eyed glance. “What kind of wrong idea? That you were serious back there? Trust me, I didn’t—don’t.”

  Bugger it. She was hurt, and why the fuck wouldn’t she be? A woman like Isis Magee only saw the good in people. He’d lost his halo a long time ago—with no apology. But she deserved the white-picket-fence fantasy she’d planned, so long as she didn’t picture him at her outdoor BBQ wearing a checked apron and holding hamburger tongs. His gut clenched at the image.

  Better to get any illusions settled, bruised feelings or not. “Glad we are on the same page.” Gazing ahead, he heard her shift on the seat. “As much as I enjoy the sex, when this is over, I’m going back to my job at MI5.” Sure, he felt like a shit for being so blunt, but the cards had to be on the table before she started embroidering him into her rosy, happily-ever-after needlepoint. This was not a conversation he’d ever had with any other woman he’d been intimate with. They all knew the score and didn’t need it spelled out for them. Isis was different. “Operatives must remain unencumbered for obvious reasons.”

  Isis flushed, her skin moist from the heat. Pushing her glasses up the bridge of her nose, she turned to face him. Without blinking an eye, she lobbed his plain speaking right back. “I enjoy the sex, too. No worries—I have zero expectations. You’re a warrior, not a hunter-gatherer.” Her lips tilted but the smile didn’t reach her eyes. “Your bachelorhood is safe with me. I promise, I won’t drag you kicking and screaming to the altar.”

  Uncomfortable at the picture she presented, he spoke somewhat defensively. “Marriage isn’t in the cards for me. Never has been.”

  “You’ve made your point, Thorne.” There was a bite to her voice now as she adjusted the air vent. “With a sledgehammer. I get it. There’s no need to flog a dead horse.”

  Isis’s annoyance angered him, creating a desire for her to understand. And what? Give her fucking blessing for him being an ass?

  Last night Isis had taken Thorne to another level of sexual awareness, her damn touch imprinting itself on his skin. He shivered in memory. Mentally, physically, she’d forged a connection he’d never experienced before. Her caress, her openness, her willingness to be a partner as they’d joined in the best sex of his life.

  Still. He wasn’t marrying her. Coldhearted now, he imagined by looking at his father that he’d only get chillier with age. Then Isis would be miserable, they’d divorce, and she’d be left with shattered dreams. Better to keep away from the get-go. As soon as his doctors signed off on him, he’d be back in the thick of things.

  “I don’t think anyone has ever threatened Dylan that way. I must admit, I enjoyed seeing him squirm.” She neatly changed the subject, cutting him loose.

  Thorne didn’t like feeling like a right bastard for stating the simple truth, but he didn’t want to hurt her. He couldn’t let it go. “I like you. The time we’ve spent together.”

  “No happy ending, Thorne.” Her voice, matter-of-fact, challenged him.

  “Right, then.” He turned on the engine, cranking up the air, then gestured for her to hand over her glasses. She did, and he cleaned the lenses with the bottom of his shirt. “I never say anything I don’t mean, and never make threats I don’t intend to follow through.” He handed her back her glasses.

  “Thanks. I think you may be the one flogging that dead horse. Things over here are crystal clear.”

  No crying, no pouting. Digging in his pocket he took out a fifty-piastre coin. “Call where you want to go.”

  “What are my choices?” Her brow arched. “Back to bed?”

  Expecting a small debate on the virtues of marriage, he was pleased to find her reacting sensibly instead of emotionally. And hell, if sex was still an option, she probably wasn’t too pissed about the matrimony thing.

  His views left no room for argument.

  Isis enjoyed taking charge of things, so maybe she appreciated having the situation spelled out, with no room for misinterpretation.

  “Unfortunately,” he said in a dry tone, “that wasn’t one of the choices. Heads, Valley of the Scorpions. Tails, Abusir to see what Dickhead has really found.”

  “Heads.”

  Thorne flipped the coin, then slapped it on the back of his hand. “Tails.”

  She shrugged. “It doesn’t matter. I still believe Cleo’s resting in the Valley. There first, then when I see Dylan again, if I’m incarcerated for his murder, I’ll know where she is one way or the other.”

  “Valley it is then.” The air-conditioning kicked in, blasting like a furnace inside the already broiling vehicle. “If Brengard’s responsible for all that crap yesterday?” he continued as if they hadn’t paused to make choices. “Bloody right I’ll hurt him.” Just because he wasn’t offering marriage didn’t mean he had no feelings for Isis. And when it came to her protection, he fought to win. “Are you all right, after seeing him?”

  “I’m fine…”

  He gave her an incredulous look.

  “Honestly? Not really.” Isis wriggled in her seat to get more comfortable, her back against her door, her knee curled on the seat. “That encounter left me shaking. Look.” She held out a flat hand, not a shake in sight, but her voice was tight, and after dropping her hand into her lap, she curled her fingers into a fist.

  “I’m annoyed. Scared. Incensed. He knew I was here. I know he did. And if so, how? People leave at this time of year. Go where it’s cooler. This is the worst season to dig. I’m suspicious times two.”

  “He needs something from you.”

  “What? I don’t have anything. If I did, I’d be the one financing a dig. Okay, I wouldn’t be able to do that, but in theory. I’d be the one digging. With my bare hands if I had to.”

  So far her father’s “clues” had given then bugger-all. Thorne doubted even the professor’s mind could be jogged with the random items he’d left. A tassel from a minister’s carpet. A broken stick… Not a shitload to go on.

  “He claims to have a crew and sponsors,” Isis continued, incensed. “He didn’t put that together yesterday! That takes months to set up. Which means the slimy bastard was working this site while my father was working somewhere else. Thorne, this has to be my father’s find. Dylan wouldn’t have had time to verify a potential dig and get the backing that quickly all on his own.”

  The air pouring out of the vents grew cooler. The Range Rover was another souped-up vehicle with bulletproof everything. Fucking annoying as hell that it was a necessity at all, but obliging of the Israelis to be so accommodating, considering his vehicular track record on this trip.

  “Has he really found Cleo?” Isis shrugged. “Who knows? I can contact the director of MSA, see where Dylan’s excavating—if he’ll tell me. He and my father never exactly saw eye to eye.” Her voice was dry. “But he might tell me if indeed my father’s permissions were revoked and why…”

  “You sure Brengard isn’t just flat-out lying?”

  “I believe Dylan—he’s working a site. He probably does have a le
gitimate claim to excavate wherever the hell he is. Husani and his father are our friends. If Dylan went to them to hire on more men, he’d know they’d check on my father’s behalf to make sure he was on the up-and-up. They worked with him when my father was around, and while they didn’t actually come right out and say so, I know they never liked Dylan.”

  “Good instincts.”

  She frowned, apparently at her own lack of instinct about the man. “Apparently.”

  “We’ll call the minister and confirm that. Also confirm exactly what Brengard’s location is. Either he’s located Cleo’s tomb at the Abusir site, or he hasn’t. Your amulet tells me it was found near the dam. Perhaps your father told you he purchased it so that if anyone asked you about it, that’s exactly what you’d tell them. All I know was where it was found. I have no idea what archaeological significance it might have. A hundred miles separate the two locations. One thing we know for sure: Cleopatra wasn’t buried in two places at once.”

  She leveled her gaze at him, the knots of her fists turning whiter. “Do you think he suspected I’d come back to see what my father found the last time? Maybe he had someone watching for me at the airport?”

  “Maybe.” Thorne pulled out of a side street and merged into the free-for-all that was normal traffic. Lifting his hip, he took out his phone and handed it to her. “Call the ministry and get that ball rolling, unless you want to stop by their offices?”

  “No, a call should do it.” Isis took the phone and keyed in the number, clearly from memory. “It’ll take—what? A couple of hours to get out to the dam? Half the day will be gone by the time we get there.”

  He’d give her this, an afternoon to at least see where her amulet had been found. Then he was putting her on a plane back to Seattle, if he had to hogtie her to do it. He’d hire Doug Heustis to accompany her, instruct him to sit on her if necessary.

  His preference was to make a U-turn and take her to the airport right now. But he knew Isis-bullheaded-Magee well enough now to know she’d refuse to go.