How had Gran managed to wrangle this?
“You speak Masri, Mr. Death?”
He nodded, then proceeded to say something that made the attendant giggle and blush. Rowan knew a little bit of Egyptian Arabic, but she couldn’t follow their conversation. She didn’t need to understand the language to know he was chatting her up, though. Typical. Death was probably the only thing that would stop this guy from flirting.
Ugh.
He doesn’t flirt with you.
Yeah, well, I am a client.
But something didn’t sit well with her at the thought she may be the only woman alive he didn’t find attractive.
You don’t want him anyway.
That wasn’t the point.
And…you’re being childish.
She couldn’t argue with that.
Once the hostess left to attend to another customer, Rowan lowered the partition to get his attention. He turned to face her, his eyes slightly wild. Was he afraid of flying? That was kind of cute.
But she wasn’t going to ask him about his fear. She didn’t want to know something that would make him more accessible. “Do you speak many languages?”
He stared at her, golden-flecked hazel eyes darkening.
“Never mind.” She fished the in-flight menu from its pocket. He doesn’t even want to talk to you.
“No.” He held up a hand. “I am counting.” A few more seconds of silence, and then, “Thirty-seven.”
“Languages?”
“That’s how many I speak. I can read another dozen or so but wouldn’t know how to pronounce them since they’re no longer spoken.”
And he wasn’t lying. There was something about his expression, or the tone of his voice, but she knew he was being completely honest with her. “But how?”
He shrugged, then reached into the storage compartment and withdrew a book. “Like it’s hard.”
The best linguists in the world would struggle to remember and speak that many languages.
Who is this guy?
Was he some ex government agent who had received special language training? Maybe he couldn’t speak of all them fluently.
Frowning into the menu, she realized she was in way over her head. And with that, came an even worse thought: he’s intelligent.
If anything, that was more appealing than his damned good looks.
Chapter 9
Yael used to love to fly; soaring through the sky, nothing but the wind in his face, sun on his back, and the ground far beneath him. Losing that ability had burned almost as much as losing his place in Heaven.
As in, it had hurt like fuck.
But he was currently revising his opinion.
Why the Hell do humans do this?
Eleven hours of torture later, he had finally been able to leave the wretched tin-can of a plane. He hated flying. At least, he hated flying now. Even the free whiskey hadn’t helped, and he’d downed enough of that for the cabin crew to give him the side-eye.
Too bad it hadn’t hit the spot.
And during all of this, Rowan had ignored him.
Ignored.
Him.
There were very few people on the planet who would be capable of doing that, especially when he had tried to make conversation. But he’d been shut down. Nothing. Nada. Instead, he’d been left painfully aware of her presence; the brightness of her hair contrasting with the sterility of the plane, the soft lemongrass scent of her, the little movements she made when she read her book. None of which had helped to distract him from the unpleasantness of feeling like a sardine.
And since he’d only brought War and Peace with him—which he had finished halfway in—he had plenty of time to think. Being human would suck, he’d decided. And now, since he was pretending to be one while babysitting Rowan, he had to stick to their restrictions. He had to travel their way.
Although, this is nothing like babysitting.
No, it would be all kinds of wrong if it were.
Because yet again, she’d made the skin of his palm burn when he’d touched her, igniting a cascade reaction that had been completely inappropriate, and that didn’t even consider the fact she was human.
Or thought she was human, anyway.
According to Raze, conduits were descended from primordial gods back in the hunter-gatherer days, but still. All that meant was she wasn’t entirely human, even if she didn’t believe in magic.
This, of course, was the tl;dr version. Raze had probably spent a good hour summing that shit up for him.
This is going to give me a migraine.
And angels didn’t even get headaches.
It was time to get his mind back in the game. They were travelling in a private car to Cairo city, where they’d spend the night. There, Rowan would have dinner with her boss, who’d flown over in his private jet.
How that must hurt Lucifer.
It sure as Hell hurt Yael, so it was a fair assumption.
Rowan sat to his right, pressed into the corner of the car like that would help her avoid him in the confined space. But at least she’d talked a little bit, the excitement at arriving briefly overriding her desire to pretend he didn’t exist.
This was, apparently, the first time an excavation permit had been granted in the Valley of the Kings for almost a decade. It was the most well-known burial site of Egyptian pharaohs, making it a career-changer to even be here. Rowan suspected the only reason permission had been granted at all was because Luke M. Starre had offered to build a new museum in Cairo.
What a shitty pseudonym.
Lucifer must have laughed himself silly coming up with that one. Especially since humans seemed to fall for it so easily.
The air outside the car was thick with smog, giving the city a smudged and grimy appearance, despite its vitality and vibrancy. He’d been to Cairo several times over the centuries, and he’d always enjoyed it. History was embedded in the very bedrock of the city; ancient magic and old souls haunted the modern world that thrived above it.
Plus, he liked the food.
Tomorrow, Rowan had warned him, they’d get on another plane and fly to Luxor, where they’d stay for the next several months.
Months.
Too bad he’d only just learned that today. Would have been nice if Dora had bothered to tell him the usual length of an archaeological excavation. His quick research into modern archaeological practice—Time Team and Indiana Jones—certainly hadn’t prepared him for the truth.
He was meant to be searching for Heaven’s Heart, but instead, he was going to be stuck living with a bunch of dead people. Well, surrounded by a bunch of dead people, anyway. And normally, he’d be okay with that because he would be the one causing death.
Lucky me.
*
They were in a luxury hotel apartment in Cairo city; the stainless steel and neutral tones reminding him of Heaven. Angels liked the whole maximum-comfort thing, even though soldiers were expected to live ascetically. The thick carpet beneath his feet made him feel guilty that he hadn’t taken his boots off. Not that he was going to. He might need to spring into action at any moment, although he doubted it was likely.
Rowan just didn’t seem particularly…kidnap-worthy.
Despite her status as a conduit, she appeared entirely human. Most demons would just walk right on past her. No, that wasn’t fair. She was very attractive for a human; they might view her as sport of some other kind. But he seriously doubted they’d try and steal her away. Humans weren’t so fun when they were being held captive. Demons got off on torture, sure, but they enjoyed it more when the person didn’t realize it was happening until it was too late. You know, psychological stuff.
In the adjacent room—they shared a living area—Rowan was on the phone, and she didn’t sound too happy. He had a feeling she was talking to Dora.
Shock would have been a mild way of describing her expression when they’d checked in to the hotel and
she’d been told they were sharing a room. If spontaneous human combustion was possible, she would have experienced it, and he’d have had an awkward tan to explain.
Yael ambled into the small kitchenette. Maybe they’d have some cookies—or better yet, a minibar.
“Fine!” Rowan shouted. She stormed into the common space and came to a sudden stop at the sight of him hunched over the fridge. She narrowed her green eyes. “What are you doing?”
“Getting a drink. Here.” He straightened and handed her a tiny bottle of vodka. “You look like you could use this.”
She snatched the alcohol out of his hand. “Aren’t you meant to be protecting me, rather than trying to get me drunk?”
He eyed the small bottle. “If that’s all it takes to get you drunk, then we’re going to have a problem.”
She glowered at him and set the bottle down on the glass table with a click. “Let’s get a few ground rules sorted.”
He snorted and crossed his arms over his chest. This was going to be good, he knew it. “Go right ahead.”
“Gran says that I can’t try to ditch you, or she’ll hire another three bodyguards who’ll dog my every step. So, we’re going to have to learn to live with each other. Rule number one, leave me alone. I work better without someone hovering over me.”
“Uh, I can’t leave you alone. That’s kind of the point of why I’m here.”
“No hovering.”
He scowled. “I don’t hover.” He might loom in a menacing fashion, but he didn’t hover.
“I go to work alone.”
“No can do.”
Clearly, she didn’t understand the concept of a C.P.O. He had to have a body to guard.
“I sleep in my room alone and you never come in unless you knock first.”
Sure, that was easy enough. “I don’t plan on watching you sleep, if that’s what you’re scared of. I’ll knock first unless I think there’s something wrong. How’s that?”
“And—”
“How about we work it out as we go? I am not here to stalk you. I’m here to protect you.”
“Yeah, but I don’t need protection.”
He shrugged. “Then this is going to be an easy gig for me. Now, what time are we meeting your boss?”
“We?”
“Yep. I gotta eat and I can’t leave you alone. Let him know you’ll have an extra person at the table.”
Her cheeks flushed in irritation, but she nodded. “Fine. But don’t embarrass me in front of him.”
“Now, why would I do that?”
Chapter 10
Rowan wished Yael had decided to stay back at the hotel. His presence was a burning brand against her back. After they’d left the room, the slight smirk he’d perpetually worn since offering her the vodka had died, and he’d turned professional in the blink of an eye.
And scary.
She had no doubt he’d kill anyone who tried to harm her; or mess up anyone who looked at her funny.
He was dressed in black from head to toe, and had even slid on a pair of sunglasses, which was ridiculous, since it was nighttime. At least he isn’t wearing a suit.
But it wasn’t the clothing, or the concealed weapons that told her he was dangerous—it was just him.
If anything, his handsomeness just added to the menace.
They entered the restaurant that Luke had picked—Le Deck—which happened to be on the ground floor of their hotel. Convenient. According to the brochure in their room, it had a Michelin-star chef.
They were hurried to the table at the back of the restaurant, one that overlooked the Nile River. Luke was already seated there, his long brown hair tied up in a bun. He’d shaved off his small beard, so his jawline was exquisitely visible. He wore a deep-gray suit with a scarf, and his dark-blue glasses glinted in the candlelight. He stood slowly, eyes lingering on her, like she was wearing a beautiful ballgown, rather than a shapeless black dress. He reached out, grabbing both her hands, before kissing her politely on the cheek.
Over her shoulder, Yael coughed.
Luke’s pale-gray gaze snapped to her bodyguard, and he scowled, the welcome in his eyes replaced by something cold. “Rowan, would you introduce me to your friend?”
She pulled out of his hold and stepped to the side, disconcerted by how quickly his mood changed. Funny how her skin didn’t tingle at his touch, yet he was far more beautiful than Yael.
“This is Mr. Death.” She cringed at the flush of warmth in her cheeks, the telltale sign of her embarrassment. “He was employed by my grandmother as a bodyguard.”
Luke’s eyebrows rose. “You need a bodyguard to work on an archaeological excavation? If I’d known, I could have hired you one myself. There will be plenty of security guards in attendance, I assure you.”
His disapproval was obvious.
Had she already ruined her chance to work on the dig?
“I’m good with a shovel.” Yael shrugged, removed his sunglasses and sat at the table. He draped a white linen napkin over his lap before the caramel-skinned waiter had the chance. The server’s face scrunched in displeasure.
Rowan wanted to bury her head in her hands, but instead said, “My grandmother is overprotective. I believe I did mention that earlier.”
Luke’s attention swung back to her, warmth returning. “And so you did.” He retook his seat at the table, the waiter appearing instantly at his side to deploy his napkin. Both glared at Yael as he did so.
Luke nodded his thanks and then turned to Rowan, his expression serious. “We sometimes have to make great compromises for the sake of our relatives.”
Yael choked on his water.
Rowan gave him a couple of whacks on the back, and then took her own seat at the table. The server flicked out her napkin with efficient disdain, and then poured her a glass of white wine.
Rowan hadn’t planned on drinking but took a cautious sip. Smooth, fruity and sweet, the wine was delicious. I’ll have to take it easy. Last thing she needed was to be carried back to the hotel by her damned minder.
“Your food will arrive shortly.” The dark-haired waiter announced, then swiftly walked away from their table.
We don’t get to choose our meals?
“So, Mr. Death, have you got any experience working on an archaeological excavation?”
Yael gave a small smile. “No, but I have a certain familiarity with history.”
“You do?” Rowan blurted.
Something wicked sprung to life in his hazel eyes. “Yes, you could call it a hobby of mine. Researching the past.”
Maybe that was why he knew so many languages?
“And what about your experience as a bodyguard?” Luke persisted.
“I was a soldier prior to going into close protection work.”
“Why did you leave the army?”
Yael met her boss’ pale stare. “There was a small misunderstanding.”
“You got kicked out.”
“That’s one way to describe it.”
There was a sinister undercurrent to the conversation, and she was missing the subtext. But she didn’t like how Luke was trying to undermine Yael. Sure, she hadn’t asked for—nor did she want—his presence, but Gran didn’t hire hacks. If she’d contracted this guy, then he was the real deal.
“But you’ve been working as a bodyguard since?” Rowan asked, trying to change the tone of the conversation.
“No, I’ve worked largely as a mercenary.” He took a sip of the wine, and the look on his face challenged her to take issue with his employment history. “The pay is better. Being a C.P.O. is riskier, in some ways.”
“What’s a C.P.O.?” Luke asked, leaning forward, as if vastly entertained by the conversation.
“Close Protection Officer. We prefer the term to bodyguard. Don’t want to remind people of Kevin Costner too much, you know?”
Luke’s eyebrows lowered. “Who?”
“You don’t know who
Kevin Costner is?” Rowan asked with a light laugh. Sure, the movie, The Bodyguard, had come out the year she was born, but her gran had loved both it and Whitney Houston.
She’s gone too, now.
All the good ones died young.
“Is he someone I should know?” Luke asked.
She smiled. “He’s an actor. Pretty famous.”
Her boss waved a dismissive hand. “Ah, hu—I mean, actors. I don’t watch a lot of T.V.”
“No, I don’t imagine there’s much time, considering your art collection.”
“You really should come back and review more pieces.”
Yael snorted.
“What?” Luke snapped.
“That sounds like you’re asking her to come and study your etchings.”
That earned a laugh from Starre, but his enjoyment didn’t seem entirely honest.
It’s like they’re competing against each other. Sizing up who was the real alpha male here.
She hated the chest-beating stupidity.
The waiter returned, placing a bowl before each of them, the contents a soup the color of chartreuse.
“So,” Rowan said, tasting the dish; artichokes, it reminded of her artichokes. “Tell me all about the excavation to date.”
A flicker in the corner of her vision caught her attention, like someone had moved across the glass wall in front of them. But when she focused on the window, there was nothing there, just sodium-yellow outdoor lights and the night-dark Nile.
“Well, we’ve set up the site, done some ground-penetrating radar, and prepared the dig house. You’re the last excavation director to arrive, so we’ve been waiting for you.”
“There’s more than one director?” Her heart sank. She’d really been hoping this was the place she could prove herself; if she had to compete with another archaeologist…
“The government wanted a local archaeologist as a director as well. So, I decided to split the role. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No, that’s okay. It makes sense.” She couldn’t believe she hadn’t considered this before. Most countries preferred locally trained staff working on their sites. “Who is it?”
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