"I owe you, Annie. Thanks. Oops, I'm late. Got to go. Love ya."
"But, how do I..."
The telephone line went dead. For a few seconds, Anne paused, listening to the buzz. She replaced the receiver on the cradle and sighed.
Anne looked down at her brown linen pants-suit. It was not flashy, but she would hardly call it dowdy. No, not dowdy. It was serviceable. And the cream blouse, with its ruffled collar, gave her an air of professionalism. She frowned. It could hardly be considered dowdy either. She examined her shoes. They were sturdy, brown Oxfords. Not the fad pumps worn by her students, but her shoes served their purpose. She could hardly traipse around in heels at desert excavations, could she?
Anne tucked Ramesses in the lab storage drawer. She checked her watch. It was set for Cairo time, a quirk of hers. She calculated the seven-hour difference, realizing that she was late. Grabbing her battered briefcase, she dashed to the laboratory door. Before she ventured into the modern world, she gave one long, loving look at the old.
Chapter 2
Anne got out of her beat-up Ford, locked the door, and immediately shrugged into the full-length overcoat. She buttoned it right up to her neck, pulling the belt tight. She was already sweating on this hot summer night in the middle of August, and the bulky coat was stifling to the max. She longed to take it off, but didn't dare. Angel's short skirt and even shorter top made her feel exposed, uncomfortably exposed, showing more of her flesh than she had ever showed before.
She picked up the heavy, old-fashioned tape deck, grimacing at the weight. At the last moment, she had found herself scrambling to locate a recorder. As usual, Angel had not bothered with troublesome details, like lending her microcassette or giving directions. To the contrary, her sister had fired back a flippant retort before dashing out to the popular disco, Pier Xanadu.
Anne trudged through the parking lot, her thoughts centering on her sister's foolish decision to risk losing her job for a night of dinner and dancing. Reporting for the Intruder was Angel's third job in as many years. Anne couldn't afford for her sister to lose it. The last time that Angel was out of work, Anne had had her on her hands, financially and emotionally, for months. Anne groaned, remembering how she had been coerced into the task of finding Angel a job while Angel had managed to suck the life out of her life.
The tape deck banging at her leg broke through Anne's thoughts. She entered the chrome and glass lobby of the sports dome, giving silent thanks to the Nile gods that she knew where the IWC press conference was held since the building sprawled several city blocks. When she had attended a cultural symposium there last year, she had gotten lost in the maze of shops and cafes and the many freestanding stalls.
At the elevator, she set down the recorder and wiped the perspiration from her face. She longed to shed the overcoat, feeling silly for being inappropriately dressed. Instead, she punched the elevator button in rapid succession and checked her watch. It was always the same with these monuments to modern architecture: slow, crowded, over-utilized elevators.
She checked her watch again, gave up the wait, and headed for the distant sign indicating the stairs. She took the corner and charged straight into an obstruction placed solidly in her path. The force of the collision made her stagger backwards. She steadied herself, her hand coming into contact with warm, firm flesh. She had not collided with a solid brick wall, but with a man. She looked up, way up. He was the largest man-a pyramid among men-that she had ever seen.
"Oh. Sorry," the man said, his voice rich and deep. Anne felt his arm wrap around her waist, setting her on her feet. She saw him glance down, way down, and a brief flash of recognition registered on his face.
"Ms. Seymour," he said coldly with a curt nod, before striding on down the long expanse of the lobby corridor.
Anne stiffened at the chill in his voice. A chill so unlike what she was feeling. From that moment of contact, she felt burned. She fingered her skin where he had touched her. She looked for him in the crowd, finding his tall form easily.
She stared at him while he waited for the elevator. Although he was in the center of a boisterous group of people all seeming to want his attention, her eyes locked with his. Her world faded away until she shook herself from the daze.
Get a grip, she thought, a phrase picked up from one of her students. Nevertheless, she stared on, studying him, until he pointedly turned his back. At the ding of the elevator, he stepped through the doors and disappeared from her view.
Wiping perspiration from her face, Anne pulled herself. She craned her neck, relocating the exit sign. She sprinted over and up the stairs, her legs performing automatically, without direction, for her mind was daydreaming of the gorgeous man with the hair of gold.
Chapter 3
The press conference had only been underway for several minutes. To Anne, it seemed like an eternity. She was over-warm and uncomfortable, the wool of the overcoat scratching her skin and the noise in the press box hurting her ears. When a burly, overweight reporter brushed against her, his breath smelling of onions and sauerkraut, she prayed for the appearance of this Valkon of Aesir.
There was a sudden eruption when the doors to the crowded conference room were flung back with a crash. The reporters quieted, their shouts ending in mid-yell. All eyes, except Anne's, turned in anticipation to the entrance.
"Ladies and gentlemen," a telecaster sung out from the makeshift stage. "I have the privilege of presenting to you, the Nordic lord of sports entertainment, The Golden One, the five-time champion of the International Wrestling Conference, Valkon of Aesir."
"Thank the Nile gods," Anne muttered, reaching for the microphone to the tape deck. The cord was trapped under the fat man, along with a good portion of the tail of her coat. She jerked at them both, pulling hard, until they were freed. She reached down to push the button on the recorder. Just then, the fat man rose to his feet, in a surge of flesh, knocking her over. She was shoved forward to bang her head on the seat in front of her. She turned around to look at the portly culprit. He was clapping his hands madly, excitement making his flushed face redder.
Anne picked herself up, adjusted her overcoat, and squirmed back into her seat. From her tiny, cramped cranny, she craned her neck and looked around, her eyes fixed on the stage.
It was the man from the lobby-yet not the man from the lobby. She saw before her now a man with a body so perfectly proportioned that an Olympian would have wept from shame. She watched as he stalked across the stage, his bronze skin reflecting in the spotlight, lavishly exposed. Although normally prim, she did not look away. To the contrary, her eyes roamed over the perfection of his body, lingering on the revealing tee-shirt, the bulging trunks, the huge belt of silver and gold.
Valkon of Aesir snatched the microphone out of the hand of the telecaster and pushed him aside. When the telecaster stumbled back, Valkon sneered with contempt.
"Joey Flex," Valkon roared. "Know this. I am the IWC champion. I am The Golden One, the best in this business. You want a title shot. I'll give you a title shot. I'm gonna whip your ass like it has never been whipped before. Right here! Right now!"
He flipped the mike back to the telecaster, who barely had time to catch it, before Valkon strode away into the arena, his hair fluttering like a sail in the wind.
The crowd of reporters pushed forward, following Valkon like a herd of noisy cattle. Anne turned to exit, but she was caught up in the stampeding humanity. She struggled against the surging bodies, but her strength was no match for the tide. She was pushed and shoved into the arena of the sports dome, where a screaming maniac of a fan packed every seat.
In the semidarkness, fireworks exploded everywhere, dazing Anne and obstructing her view. In the clearing smoke, she watched as Valkon entered the ring. Despite herself, despite his unbelievably rude behavior, she was drawn to this man. There was something compelling about him. She analyzed it and realized that it was his raw, sexual power. As Eve was drawn to Adam, as Cleopatra was drawn to Anthony, as Fema
le was drawn to rutting Male from the beginning of time, so was she.
For once, Anne was glad that she was pretending to be her sister. She could let her imagination run free. She stared openly at Valkon's broad chest, firm pecs, his even firmer nipples-pointy and hard, erect and proud. She could almost feel them pressing against her, tempting her. She ached to wrap her tongue around them, to tease them until the man beneath her was tortured with passion, and took her with equal torture.
She had never felt this way before, the desire to touch and to feel, to make this man know her as a woman. The desire was like potent lava, generating heat between her legs. She felt her upper lip, the sweat there. She was hot, restless, unable to sit still.
This is what it is like to be horny, she thought. She wanted to have, needed to have, a man on her and in her, letting his essence permeate her entire being.
"IWC fans are in for an unexpected treat tonight at the sold-out First Union sports dome in Philly," a sportscaster at ringside said. "What started out as a VIP press conference has turned into a knockdown-showdown between the champion, Valkon, and the challenger, Superfine Joey Flex. I'm Shane Esposito, here with partner in crime, Victor Victorious. Vic, your thoughts about Valkon's surprising decision to rumble with Joey Flex tonight."
"Oh! Oh!" Vic hooted out. "Shaney, my thoughts are these. Joey the Flex-Man has bitten off more than he can chew by challenging The Golden One. Val's a fighting champ. He's got the scars to prove it. I predict that Val's gonna take Joey Flex apart, bit-by-bit until there ain't gonna be enough left to send to the Undertaker."
"The action is set to start at any moment," Shane said, leaning over the microphone. "The crowd's getting impatient, waiting for Joey's entrance into the squared circle. Wait! I see yellow boa. I see silver lame. I see the rainbow feathers. Joey's on his way. Vic, he's not waiting for the bell. He's going right after Valkon. Look at that shot to the head."
Anne sat stricken by the scene playing out before her eyes. To her, this was Roman bread and circuses at its most ugly--two gladiators fighting to the death to thrill of the crowd.
"The fans are seeing a spectacular show tonight," Victor Victorious said. "Val's in great shape. Oh! Oh! Look at those muscles rippling. Uh-oh, a headache is a-coming."
Anne watched in horror when Valkon whipped Joey into the steel stairs. Blood spurted from Joey's mouth, staining his face, to drip down his gaudy tunic. Valkon circled and then went in for the kill. He gripped Joey's thinning hair and sent him, face first, into the turnbuckle.
"This match has turned nasty," Shane said, pumping up the crowd. "It's gotten personal with a capital P. Valkon has obviously, totally, lost it. Wait! He going to the top rope, setting up the Thunderlock. Like the Sharpshooter, the Pedigree, and the Rock-Bottom, Valkon's Thunderlock is IWC legend."
"Val's the only pro-wrestler who can execute it," Vic said, throwing up his hands. "But can he lock it in? Oh! Oh! He can. Ugh. I bet that hurt."
Anne tried to follow what was happening, but it was all happening too fast. She sensed that Joey was no match for Valkon, that he would soon be a victim of Valkon's brutality. Was this the real world? Were such things really permitted? She shook her head, craving the civility of ancient times. The pharaohs married their sisters, slept with their daughters, poisoned their rivals, and buried their architects alive, but they had also ruled great civilizations.
Anne's eyes widened when Valkon picked up a metal chair. He folded it with a slam, returning to where Joey was lying, helpless, on the mat.
"Someone stop him!" Anne shouted, jumping to her feet. No one stepped forward; no one moved to help. To the contrary, the roar from the crowd grew louder as if the fans wanted blood.
In fear and in hope, Anne looked at the referee. Surely, he will end this, she thought. But the man in the black-and-white stripped shirt merely stood by when Valkon held the chair high over his head and brought it down hard, very hard, on the back of Joey Flex's head.
Valkon circled the ring, his timber-like arms outstretched. The pose caused the muscles along his ribcage to undulate. He vaulted to the ropes, bouncing on them and pointed at the crowd. They booed. He leaped down. With ultimate disdain, he wiped the sweat from his brow and flung it in the direction of his defenseless opponent.
When he picked up the chair, intending to strike again, Anne could stand no more. Throwing all caution, all reserve, all sense to the wind, she threw off the overcoat, jumped over the press box and into the arena pit.
"Oh! Oh! What's happening?" Vic said. "It seems like fan interference."
"I'm not sure what's going on." Shane flipped the pages of the script in front of him. He shook his head at Victor Victorious, the frown lines in his face deepening.
"I don't know, either. What was up with that coat? Oh! Oh! This fan, whoever she be, is T&A material."
Shane flipped through pages of script on the announcer's table. He covered the mic with his hand and leaned over to Victor. "Why don't they tell us these thing?" he whispered. "I don't see it in the script." He checked with the control booth overhead. The stage manager gave him the thumbs-down sign.
Anne stumbled through the ropes in the high-heeled pumps. She circled Valkon like a brown mouse sniffing around a baited trap. When she faced him, she saw shock, confusion, and then puzzlement pass over his handsome face, to cascade into astonishment when she snatched the chair.
"Oh! Oh! This is unbelievable, Shaney," Victor Victorious said, incredulous laughter in this voice. "This T&A babe is standing up to The Golden One. How do you figure? Is she Joey Flex's new squeeze?"
"We all know that Joey is quite the ladies' man. They don't call him The Sex Machine for nothing."
"Stop it, you barbarian!" Anne shouted. "Can't you see that this poor man is hurt?" Anne flung herself in harm's way, throwing her body across the prone Joey.
Valkon walked towards her. He was a walking mountain. No, that was not strictly accurate. He was 275 pounds of walking mountain.
From Anne's position on the mat, Valkon looked larger than ever before, his super-broad shoulders and his ultra-wide chest blocking her view. He stalked towards her, his entire body radiating arrogance. He lunged, faking, teasing her with his power. He was in control and he knew it. He lunged again, enjoying the fear on her face.
Tears filled Anne's eyes. No one was going to help her. She looked at the referee who was counting, ticking the numbers off with his fingers. From far away, she heard the clang, clang, clang of the ringside bell.
Valkon seized her arm in an iron hold, his fingers like bands of steel. Anne looked down at them, noticing how pretty they were. She imagined his fingers under different circumstances-stoking her back, holding her tight in the rush of passion.
Valkon pulled her up and towards him. He raised his fist, a fist formed by those pretty fingers, high.
"Oh! Oh! The T&A babe is in primero trouble." Victor rubbed his chin, quirking his eyebrow. In sotto voce, he said to Shane, "This ain't gonna be a good thing."
"No way," Shane disagreed, but he covered his eyes. The mic barely picked up his voice when he said, "Even Valkon wouldn't hit a helpless woman who was only coming to Joey's aid."
"The fans want to see it," Vic said. "The fans want to see it. Oh! Oh! The fans want to see it." The ring announcer did not know who this woman was or what was her game, but she had electrified the arena. She and Valkon were like liquid steam. He felt their energy. The fans felt their energy. They were putting on one hell of a show. Scripted or not, he would go with the flow.
Anne trembled and closed her eyes, not wanting to see Valkon's fist as it slammed into her face. Tears seeped through her eyes. She hung her head.
"Please don't hit me."
To Valkon, her voice was soft, dreamy, like the purr of a kitten.
It went straight to his heart.
He raised her to her feet and wiped away her tears. Her face was warm. Her skin was flushed. Her lips were like two rose petals, kissing. He leaned closer, bewitched by her sc
ent. His mouth was inches from her. He swooped down. His lips brushed hers. He rejoiced in the contact. He wanted more. He pressed harder, intensifying the kiss. The fans in the arena faded into nothingness. There was only him and her-a man and a woman-and a kiss.
He wrapped his powerful arms around her tiny waist, encasing her. He felt her swift heartbeat and the rise and fall of her breasts. Her breathing was shallow as if she wanted to pant like a she-wolf in heat, but was ashamed to do so. He deepened the kiss, sucking her top lip. He gave the same treatment of her bottom one, soothing with his tongue where he had once sucked. He felt a bolt of electricity and the voltage was high enough to start a fire.
She shivered in passion, arching her body into his. He explored her mouth thoroughly, and then expanded the kiss, sliding his lips across her cheek, down to her neck. He nibbled the skin there. He inhaled deeply, once again intoxicated by her scent. Cinnamon and roses went straight to his head and nearly drove him out of his mind. He gripped her buttocks, marveling in the firm, ripe roundness of her ass. He gripped her, pulling her into his hardness. Perching her there, he pumped and pumped again.
He broke the contact, shocked at what had happened. He felt drained, out of place. And, in pain. Pain caused by the stiff, steel rod in his trunks. And, wet. He had never been more embarrassed by the so, so, so apparent evidence of his excitement. He retired to the ropes, his legs moving as if mired in cement.
"Oh! Oh!" Victor Victorious hooted, once his mouth had stopped dropping. "I can't believe my eyes. Will you look at that? The fans don't like. The fans don't want it. Val's machismo just crashed fifty points. He won't recover. Stick a fork in him because he's been shot, skinned, and fried."
"It's not often that the champ cops," Shane said, with a speaking glance at his co-announcer. "I guess Valkon of Aesir, The Golden One, can be tamed by beauty."
"What's gonna happen next?" Vic asked.
"I wish I knew," Shane said.
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