A dog barked. He blinked, jolted back to reality. Appalled at his unruly reaction, he dropped her hand. “You lead. I’ll watch our backs.”
“Right.” Her face flushed. She turned on her heel and stalked off.
Disgusted with himself, unable to believe he’d lost control like that, he trailed her around the square. So they still had chemistry. It didn’t matter. He had no business touching Maya, no right to act on the attraction between them. He could never be the man for her.
And he sure didn’t need the distraction. Singh’s men would show up soon. Being careless could get them both killed.
Forcing himself to focus on his surroundings, he followed her up the narrow lane crowded with rickshaws, past shrines decorated with brightly colored prayer flags. Goats brayed. People streamed past. The pungent scent of incense filled the air.
Maya reached an antique shop and stopped. “How’s this?”
He peered through the dirty window, made out a rickety lamp hanging inside. Then he glanced up the noisy street again, and a sense of uneasiness prickled his spine. He didn’t like this. His head warned him to get off the street and hide. But they needed a direction, something to go on if they hoped to defeat Singh. “All right.”
Even more alert now, he stooped through the low doorway and followed her into the shop. He scanned the stacks of oriental rugs, the Tibetan screens blackened with age. A bearded man with a Nepali hat stood at a table, rummaging through a cardboard box.
“Namaste,” Maya called in greeting, and the man looked up. “I wondered if you might help us. We’re trying to find out what this is and thought that you might know.” She walked over, handed him the paper with the sketch she’d drawn.
The man flicked on a nearby lamp, held the paper to the halo of light. “Where did you see this?”
Deven shot Maya a warning glance, and she nodded that she understood. “On an old oil lamp my uncle has.”
The man stroked his long beard and studied the sketch.
“That’s only part of it,” she added. “The rest is worn down and hard to see.”
“Sorry. I have no idea.” He handed the paper back.
“Is it a signature?” Deven pressed, hoping for a clue. “Maybe the mark of the company that made it?”
“I don’t know.” The man fingered his beard again. “You could ask Mr. Verma, two streets over. He collects lamps. Or Mr. Advani. He runs a bookstore up the street. He might have seen it somewhere.”
“Thank you,” Maya said, and smiled. “We appreciate it.” The man nodded and turned back to his box.
Frowning, Deven exited the antique shop. As he’d expected, they hadn’t learned anything new. Worse, the shopkeeper could now identify them to Singh’s men.
His apprehension mounting, he swept his gaze down the crowded street. The growing throng made it harder to spot a tail, but would also help shield them from view.
“So what do you think?” Maya asked when she joined him outside. “Should we try the bookstore?”
His instincts warned against it. The more people who saw them—or that drawing—the greater the risk. But they still needed something to go on. “Yeah, but then that’s it. We have to get off the streets.”
They found the bookstore tucked beside a wood-carver’s shop at the end of the narrow lane. Deven followed Maya into a musty room crammed with bookcases. More books were stacked on the floor.
“Quite a collection,” Maya said as he trailed her through the maze of bookcases to the desk. “Hello?” she called when no one emerged. “Is anyone here?”
She turned back to face him and shrugged. But then a man shuffled out from the back, his brown face furrowed with wrinkles, his thin shoulders stooped with age.
“Mr. Advani?” Maya repeated her story and handed him the sketch. He set it on the counter, pulled a magnifying glass from a drawer and switched on a goosenecked lamp.
“Interesting,” he said after a moment.
Deven’s gaze sharpened. “Do you recognize it?”
“I’m not sure. I saw something once…” He hobbled to a glassed-in bookcase behind the counter, pulled a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Then he ran a gnarled finger along the spines of the hardback books. “No, it’s not here.” He closed and locked the case. “I might have the book in the back, though.”
“A book about what?” Maya asked.
“Dead languages.”
Deven’s heart skipped. Excitement coursed through his veins. But he kept his features blank, his voice carefully neutral. “You think that’s some kind of writing?”
“Possibly.”
“What was the language called?”
The bookseller shook his head. “I don’t remember. And I could be wrong. My memory’s not that good anymore.”
But it was possible.
Which meant he was on the right track. The medallion could be a clue—and the connection he’d been looking for to the deadly Black Crescent group.
“What are you thinking?” Maya murmured.
Deven shook his head to postpone her questions and looked at the bookseller again. “Can you look for the book? Now? We don’t have much time.” He pulled some rupees from his pocket, slid them across the counter.
The man nodded, pocketed the money and picked up the paper again. It shook in his palsied hands. “Give me an hour. I’ll know by then.”
Deven hesitated, reluctant to let the drawing out of his hands.
“I can stay here and help,” Maya offered, apparently sensing his dilemma.
Tempted to let her, Deven glanced uneasily toward the door. It might be safer to keep her here, hidden from sight, while he e-mailed his boss at Magnum that his cover had been blown. But if he left her alone and Singh’s men caught up…
He shook his head. He couldn’t do it. He met the bookseller’s eyes. “We’ll be back in an hour.”
But as he stepped outside into the busy street, his sense of disquiet grew. Singh’s men should be scouring the city by now. Why hadn’t he spotted them yet?
“What are you thinking?” Maya asked again when she joined him outside.
“We’ll talk later. Is there a place with Internet access near here?”
“Just around the corner.”
“Good. Let’s go.”
Keeping alert, he led the way around the corner, coming out on a teeming street. They plunged into the stream of pedestrians and threaded their way through the morning traffic, dodging mopeds and three-wheeled tempos, skirting vendors and construction debris. A jumble of voices merged with the roar of traffic and honking horns.
Sucking in a breath of exhaust fumes, Deven skipped his gaze through the crowds. Still no sign of Singh’s men—but he knew their luck couldn’t hold.
“Here it is,” Maya called, and he stopped. The sign in the window was written in various languages, which meant the Internet café catered to tourists, which was good—less chance that Singh would find them here.
He stepped inside, scanned the dozens of wooden library carrels crammed into the stuffy room. A handful of early risers pecked at computers—two bearded backpackers, a few European tourists—no one who’d pay attention to them.
Reassured, he nodded to the kid manning the front desk, then chose a computer near the rear exit, making sure he still had a view of the street. He squeezed into the booth and started the computer, while Maya dragged over another plastic stool.
She scooted close and her thigh bumped his. Her shoulder nudged his arm. Trying to ignore her scent, her curves, he fastened his gaze on the street and waited for his account to boot up. Buses and trucks rumbled past. Red-robed monks hurried by. He drummed his fingers on the table, then fired off one e-mail to the head of Interpol in Romanistan and another to Skinner, the head of Magnum, to let them know that his cover was shot.
That done, he exited the program and glanced at Maya. And he knew from the intent way she watched him that she was piecing together information, thinking over what she’d just seen.
Decidi
ng whether or not he’d told her the truth.
She dropped her gaze to the old scar slashing his face, then quickly looked away. And that hollow feeling unfurled in his chest again, the same dull ache that had plagued him for years—loneliness, fury at Singh, resentment over all he’d lost.
He blocked it off. He couldn’t go there. Some things in life couldn’t be changed—who he was, the revenge he needed to take.
“I copied Singh’s hard drive when I was in the palace,” he said.
Her eyes swiveled back to his. “You have it with you?”
“No. I didn’t have time to get it when I left.” Thanks to her. “But when I was making the copy, I checked his browsing history. He’s been researching ancient languages.”
“Ancient languages?” A small line furrowed her brow. “So there might really be something about my medallion he wants to know?”
“That’s what I’m guessing.”
“But what? What could it mean?”
“That’s what we need to find out. I thought we could check out some Web sites, see if anything jumps out at us, then see what the bookseller turns up.”
She crinkled her forehead, as if processing that news. “All right, but let me do it. I can type faster.”
And he could keep his eye on the street. He stood, pressed back against the wall to let her by. She started past him, but her backpack snagged on the stool. She stumbled, and he grabbed her waist to keep her from pitching over the desk.
“Thanks,” she said, sounding breathless. She regained her balance and continued by, but her jeans-clad bottom brushed his groin. His reaction was swift, uncontrollable.
They both froze.
His fingers dug into her waist. His blood pounded in his veins. And he grappled with the urge to bury his face in her shiny hair, pull her warm, pliant body back against his—and relive the ecstasy he’d denied himself for years.
But she wasn’t his anymore—no matter how badly he’d missed her, no matter how desperately he ached to relive her touch.
He swallowed, beating back the hunger with effort, and pried his fingers loose. She slid past him and dropped onto the stool. Moving stiffly, he lowered himself beside her, not daring to look her way.
“Anything specific I should look for?” Her voice sounded strained.
Still not trusting himself, he fastened his gaze on the screen. But he was far too conscious of her tempting heat, the alluring fragrance of her skin. “I don’t remember the Web sites, but he was checking languages of the Himalayas.”
“All right.” Her fingers tapped on the keyboard. “No articles yet,” she said, still sounding distracted. “Just links to textbooks.” She scrolled through the links, typed in a modified search.
He inhaled again, staring at the screen like a zombie, willing the fierce need to ease. But he couldn’t stop the barrage of unwanted images—Maya laughing with him, plotting with him, sitting beside him just like this—their hands clasped, their shoulders touching, smiling into each other’s eyes.
He gave his head a sharp shake, fighting to dispel the memories. He’d been so damned idealistic back then, so sure he could save the world. He’d planned to fight injustice, battle corruption, rescue those weaker than himself. And Maya had been right there with him. She’d been his partner, his fellow crusader, his soul mate.
No other woman had filled the void since then. None had even come close. And he realized with sudden clarity that he missed that friendship, that soul-deep connection, far more than the riveting sex.
And it was the one thing he could never regain.
“Deven,” she whispered, her voice oddly choked. “Look outside.”
He snapped his gaze toward the storefront window. Two men lurked by the door.
Singh’s guards.
He swore, grabbed her arm and pulled her under the desk. While he’d been moping about his lot in life, Singh’s men had finally caught up.
“Out the back door,” he urged her. “Go!”
Still cursing, he pulled out his gun, then crawled after her across the wooden floor. Maya reached the door, leaped up and yanked it open. A shot rang out, splintering the doorjamb near her head, and she lunged through the open door.
His adrenaline surging, Deven scrambled to his feet behind the carrel and fired at the men now charging across the room. The panicked tourists screamed and dove to the floor.
He squeezed off another round, forcing Singh’s men to take cover behind the desks. Then he turned, raced after Maya. He pulled the door shut and turned the lock, but knew it wouldn’t hold.
And this wasn’t an exit. They were trapped in a storeroom! He glanced around and swore.
“Over here,” Maya called, dragging a box to the wall. She hopped up and yanked off the cardboard covering a broken window. Grateful for her quick thinking, he rushed over and gave her a boost. She heaved the cracked window open, clambered over the ledge and leaped.
The door rattled behind him. Bullets riddled the wood. Hurrying, he hoisted himself onto the sill. The door crashed open just as he swung his legs over and jumped.
He hit the dirt, regained his balance, spotted Maya sprinting down the alley ahead. He took off behind her, but a sudden burst of gunfire razed his path. He zigzagged, lunged behind a parked rickshaw and fired back.
The shooting stopped. Silence rang in his ears. He glanced behind him, breathing heavily, and made sure that Maya was gone. Then he fired again to keep the men pinned down, and raced through the alley to catch up.
He found her waiting around the corner, her hand braced against a wall. “Back to the bookstore?” she asked, gasping.
“Yeah.” They needed to find out what that inscription meant and get out of town. He ejected his spent clip, rammed another in place, then slid the gun into the holster at the small of his back. “Let’s go.”
She nodded, took off running, and he followed her down the busy street. Noisy trucks lumbered past. Car horns blared, punctuated by ringing rickshaw bells. He inhaled the billowing exhaust fumes, his lungs burning from the pollution as he wove through the surging crowds.
He couldn’t believe the mess he’d made. Singh’s men would call for backup. They’d swarm the area now. Instead of finding clues to that medallion, he’d endangered Maya more.
He was still berating himself when they reached the bookstore. He glanced down the narrow lane, making sure that the coast was clear. “Stay behind me,” he ordered, then ducked inside. He paused near the door, felt a deep, unnatural silence charge the air.
He tensed, held out his arm to keep Maya back. “Wait here.”
“But—”
“I said to wait.”
Her eyes flashed. She opened her mouth to argue, but he ignored her and pulled out his gun. His pulse rising, focused fully on the musty bookstore, he crept forward, straining to hear. A grandfather clock ticked nearby. An electric fan whirred softly. Muted voices came from the street outside, along with the distant blaring of horns.
He wove his way through the bookcases, careful not to make any sound, then reached the counter and stopped. Books were strewn over the floor.
His belly tightened. The place had been ransacked. Singh’s thugs must have followed them here.
Behind him, a floorboard creaked. He whirled around and took aim. Maya. He lowered the gun, and his anger flared.
“Damn it,” he whispered as she stepped forward. “I could have shot you.”
She winced, mouthed an apology, and his attention returned to the room. He held up his hand, signaling for her to hang back, hoping she obeyed this time.
He inched around the counter, heading toward the back. There was still no sound, no sign of the bookseller. Foreboding snaked through his gut.
He skirted another pile of books and continued down the hallway with Maya dogging his heels. The door to the back room hung open, and lamplight spilled into the hall. A dark smear glistened on the floor.
Blood.
His heart skipped. He glanced at Maya
to warn her. She stared at the bloodstain, the color leached from her face. Then she stooped down and picked up a book near the trail of blood, turning the cover to show him. Dead Languages of the Himalayas. He nodded, and she tucked it into her pack.
“Paper?” he whispered, but she shook her head. There was no sign of the drawing they’d left.
Cursing the mess he’d mired them in, he crept toward the open door. They had no clues. Singh’s men were closing in fast. And if the sketch of that inscription was gone…
He shoved away that disturbing thought, closed the final distance to the door. His weapon raised, he burst inside.
The old man lay motionless on the floor.
“Oh, God,” Maya whispered from behind him.
His heart still speeding, he lowered his gun. He walked to the body, turned it over with his foot, and his hopes shriveled.
Maya let out a strangled sound. “Is he—?”
Deven met her horrified gaze. “Yeah. He’s dead.”
Chapter 5
Maya gaped at the bookseller sprawled across the dusty floor, his thin gray hair matted with blood, his once-vibrant eyes vacant, his mouth frozen in a soundless scream.
She clamped her hand to her lips and closed her eyes, struggling to block out the gruesome sight. Such senseless, needless violence. And for what? A lousy book? An inscription on a good luck charm?
What on earth was going on?
She opened her eyes, averting her gaze from the lifeless man, and fought back a swell of bile. Even worse, this was her fault. It had been her idea to come here. She’d brought danger—terrible, tragic danger—to this poor, innocent man.
Sickened, she battled to compose herself, to push back the rush of remorse. She couldn’t let her emotions overwhelm her—not now. She had to think, concentrate on surviving this mess. They hadn’t escaped the danger yet.
Still in shock, she watched Deven prowl the room, his wide shoulders rippling with tension, the tendons standing out in his arms. He moved with power, menace, and fingered his gun with practiced ease.
A frisson of fear skidded through her, and she clutched the medallion around her neck. He looked lethal—as deadly as Sanjeet Singh. But then, he’d admitted he was a mercenary….
The Royal Affair Page 5