Heather Graham (26 page)

Two men read the article with intense interest.

Both were in the Necropolis of Luxor, in very different places.

Wayne Randall read the paper furiously. When he finished the article, he ripped the paper to shreds, then berated himself for the action. D’Alesio! How involved was she with the man?

D’Alesio, announcing that Alex would be protected by him.

Somehow he had to get through. Alex still loved him, he was certain. Somehow he would manage to see her.

Wayne Randall sat down to calculate how to handle the unexpected turn of events. It should all have gone so smoothly. Alex should have come to him.

Dr. James Crosby read the paper by the light of his torch. And then he tossed it into the air as he laughed.

“I knew,” he mumbled joyously to himself, “that one of them in that threesome had to have some sense!”

The waiting would be almost over.

He sat in the dirt again, trembling for a moment in relief. Then a smile lit his features and he picked up the dusty paper again.

You did well, my friend D’Alesio, he mused. I just hope you know that you are holding one of the most ancient forms of treasure a man can find.

He bit his lip broodingly. Take care of her, D’Alesio, he implored silently, I have to trust you to do so. And it’s only just beginning. …

F
ROM THE HEIGHT OF
the balcony of their group of suites in the Hilton (Ali had insisted that they needed separate suites), Alex stared out across the distance to the Great Pyramids of Giza. She was glad to be back in Egypt—even if she left the suite only long enough to spirit herself into the Cairo Museum for the day and then back into virtual hiding. Dan and Ali had chosen the Hilton because Ali’s Cairo home would be too obvious a place for curiosity seekers to find them, and the Victoria was also a bad choice because Dan was known to frequent that quaint establishment. The Hilton might be the third most obvious establishment, but they had to stay somewhere, and in this case obvious was also inconspicuous because the Hilton was so crowded with tourists. They could come and go with the crowds.

Cairo was always magical to Alex. It was often dirty, riddled with the poor, the bullet scars of recent wars and a mixture of peoples that was simply fascinating. The old stood along with the new. Where other ancient cultures were measured in centuries, that of Egypt was measured in millennia.

It was a wonderful place, with the cries of the muezzins calling the people of Islam to prayer, the hawkers on the streets shouting loudly, the fellahin grabbing on to the buses as they jerked their noisy way down the streets. Below her people were rushing about, concerned with business. And in the distance, rising like magic, were the pyramids.

Alex smiled as she felt a warm touch on her shoulders drawing her back against Dan. Night was falling; the air was golden and it seemed that the ancient stone structures were shining as if in sunlight.

“They are amazing, aren’t they?” Alex murmured with a touch of awe.

“Umm,” Dan agreed. He slipped his arms around her waist and pointed to the largest. “Whose is that?”

“Khufu—or Cheops,” Alex returned with a soft smile. She had spent the last week trying to describe the intricate dynasties of the ancient Egyptians to Dan, and in many ways he was surprisingly astute. But he could never remember the name of the pharaoh who had built the largest of the three pyramids of Giza.

“Don’t smirk at me,” Dan protested, even though he couldn’t see her face. “I’ve got it now. Khufu—fourth dynasty. Hated by the priests because he cut back on sacrifices. Actually he wasn’t such a bad guy. He knew that the living needed the sacrifices more than the dead, and that the priests were getting rich on the sacrifices. Also, it’s possible that his hundred thousand workers travailed during the months when agriculture was at a standstill, and therefore that he fed the peasant workers when they might otherwise have starved.”

“Very good!” Alex laughed. “Except that it’s all still speculation. Herodotus didn’t write quite so nicely of Khufu.”

“Ah, but he was a tourist to the land.”

“I’ll tell you, D’Alesio,” Alex teased, “you certainly are trainable.”

“Thanks.”

“You’re welcome. Oh, Dan, it is a beautiful view, isn’t it?”

“Very,” he agreed, resting his chin on the top of her head. “And you know what? Just because it’s so beautiful, I’m going to take you out to dinner.”

“Really?” Alex spun about in delight. They had met a few determined reporters at the airport, but since then they had kept such low profiles that they were almost flat.

In a way, she had loved the time. She would never have believed, after their first meeting, that she and Dan could be not only ardent lovers but the most congenial of friends. Often serious and brooding, Dan had a marvelous sensitivity and a wonderful sense of humor. He would sit with her as she delved through tedious work at the museum, and returned with her when the day was done, determined that she not be out of his sight. He would know when she was excited and encourage that excitement, and he would know when she was depressed and cajole her from that depression, often angering her first but then causing her to laugh until she would wind up in his arms.

Their nights beneath the Egyptian moon lost none of their magic or splendor.

But in a week Alex had seen no one but the curator and professor assistant at the museum, Dan, Ali and Rajman, who had returned to his native land just hours after they did.

Rajman performed a very specific duty, which his hotel training had left him well equipped to handle. He was the buffer zone. He filtered all calls and kept stragglers off their floor. Alex had become vaguely aware that Ali had other men around them. She and Dan were always followed to the museum and were always followed home. And when they would all meet for dinner and progress talks in the evening, she knew men stood outside the saloon door.

When she mentioned the eerie feeling being so guarded gave her, Dan had replied firmly. “We don’t know yet what happened to Jim. Until we do know, I’m grateful that Ali has the wealth and power to keep his goon squad around you at all times.”

Now Dan glanced into her eagerly shining eyes and smiled. “Really. We’ve probably been around long enough for the excitement to die down. And we’ll go to a small, out-of-the-way restaurant that one of Raj’s cousins owns. We should be okay.”

“Wonderful!” Alex spun away from him and headed for the bedroom, which was supposedly hers but in actuality shared with Dan. “If we’re actually going out, I’m going to dress!”

Dan kept smiling as he watched her scamper through the salon with the lithe yet regal tread he had come to love. Then his smile slowly faded. There were so many things he was keeping from her.

He had never mentioned the newspaper article Ali had shown him, in which Wayne Randall had claimed he intended to work with his “wife” on finding James Crosby. And he never even attempted to tell himself that the reason was the possibility of Randall being a suspect. He had nothing to go on in that direction except Haman’s insistence that Jim Crosby had been very wary of his ex-son-in-law. But Haman was still the most suspicious figure around. He was in Egypt now himself; Ali had informed Dan that Haman’s men had been following his own men who had been trailing every movement Dan and Alex made.

It was a confusing puzzle, still nowhere near being solved. But as for Wayne Randall. … He had been trying to get through to Alex all week. And Dan hadn’t felt a qualm about having Raj keep the man at bay.

Unconsciously Dan clenched his fists as he stared out at distant Giza from the balcony. He wondered bitterly what Alex’s reaction would be when she did discover that her ex-husband had been trying to contact her. She would probably be furious that he had kept her from Randall, and then determined to find a way to throw herself back into his arms.

A slight breeze raffled the dark hair over his forehead as he stood there, as stiff as the faraway Sphinx. He didn’t have an overall plan, and he couldn’t define what he wanted for the future. At the moment, he was simply determined that Alex should not return to Randall. They had made a deal, he told himself harshly. She was his until they saw the whole thing through. And he’d be damned if he’d allow another man—any man—so much as to touch her while she was—under his protection.

That was the logic he would admit to.

Inside, where the fires raged, where primal human emotion and desire reigned supreme, he was simply a man who had claimed a woman, beautiful, tempestuous, bright—and sweetly, wonderfully sensual. From the first time he had taken her, covering her soft ivory nakedness with his own hard bronze body, he had claimed her for himself alone with a fierce and elemental possessiveness more ancient than the civilizations of Egypt.

She could be the most prim, the most elegant, the most sophisticated of women. … But he could touch her, whisper in her ear, and she would spin into his arms, her eyes brilliant with lime and amber, sensually shaded by those incredible lashes, and become the most beguiling wanton, trembling, then sweetly giving, opening to him like a golden burst of the sun.

No! Damnit! He was going to make sure she didn’t get back with Randall, a man capable of emotionally abusing this rarest of prizes who had loved him.

Dan was surprised to discover as pain riddled the side of his fist that he had crashed it against the railing. Ruefully he rubbed it, gave himself a little shake and wandered into the salon. He poured himself a shot of Scotch and leaned casually against the portable bar. Getting a little carried away here, aren’t you, D’Alesio? He sipped his drink and smiled as he remembered how he had once rudely tossed her out of his rooms. He had thought of her as a powder puff, not realizing that Alexandria Randall was a lady as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. Ali had forced him to see.

He laughed out loud and lifted his glass to the air. “To you, Ali, you old scoundrel. Conniving, manipulative—and so charming about it!”

He hadn’t realized until this moment just how much Alex had come to mean to him, how he changed daily because of her. For the first time he wanted something more than what he had. He wanted something permanent. He never tired of her—of touching her, of just being near her, hearing her voice. …

There was a tap at the door, and Dan automatically issued a “Come in.” It was Ali, as he had expected. What he hadn’t expected was the secretive way Ali moved into the room, looking about the place.

“What is it?” Dan asked with a frown.

“Where’s Alex?” Ali countered.

“Dressing.” Dan automatically lowered his voice. “Why, what’s up?”

Ali sighed. “I had really begun to suspect Haman was the culprit in this situation,” he said, delving into the bar and pouring himself a soda. “Brother,” he mumbled, “if I weren’t such a stinking good Muslim, I could really go for a drink.”

“Ali! What’s happened?”

“You and Alex were trailed today—and not only by my men and Haman’s men.”

“Are you sure?”

“Positive. You know I don’t allow my people to slip up.”

“By whom?”

“Well, we can say that the gang is all here.”

“Wayne Randall?”

“That’s right.”

Dan shrugged. “Randall has been around all week. You know he keeps trying to call Alex. It isn’t really a great shock that he was following her.”

“Not shocking,” Ali agreed. “But very interesting.”

“Interesting, yes.” Dan grimaced. “But it takes us back to the same puzzle. Jim has disappeared. But Haman is still sniffing around, and Randall—who Haman says made Crosby very nervous—is also on our tail. If the two men we suspect are following us, then what did happen to Jim?”

Ali was quiet for a minute.

“There’s the obvious solution,” he finally said softly. “Jim could be dead. Perhaps he died by mistake—someone perhaps tried to force information out of him and he refused to cooperate. With him gone, that same someone would need Alex.”

Dan glanced at the bedroom door, assuring himself that it was still closed and Alex was out of range to hear their conversation.

“I don’t believe that, Ali,” he said softly. “I have a gut feeling that Crosby is alive, and hoping we will find him. I believe he knew that someone was after him, and that he couldn’t get help. Someone wants in on that dig badly. The question is—who? Haman kidnapped Alex; I sincerely doubt that his principles extend too far. But from all I can gather on Randall, his morals are nonexistent. What do you think?”

Ali chuckled softly. “I think, my friend, that you would be very happy to put Wayne Randall behind bars.”

Dan scowled and then shrugged. “That’s probably true. But I’m trying to be objective. What do you think Haman is doing? Does he want to be involved so badly that he would resort to murder? If not, what is he doing here, following us?”

Again Ali hesitated before answering.

“I do not think that Haman would resort to murder—but then we don’t know that anyone has been murdered. I think Haman feels he can perhaps deal with Crosby if he is found, offer Crosby a large sum of money if he will just allow him to participate—be in the background perhaps—when the expedition goes into full swing.”

“Or perhaps he wants Alex back,” Dan said uneasily.

Ali exhaled a long breath. “I do not trust Haman where Alex is concerned. We are not in the desert now. It is easy to abduct a woman in Cairo and disappear into a dark, winding alley. But whether Haman would take Alex again—or merely try to use her to get close to the expedition—I do not know. While he does nothing wrong or illegal, we can do nothing except watch. Strange. …”

“What?”

“Perhaps I am prejudiced against Randall myself. For no sound reason I feel that Haman is just an annoyance, strenuously seeking a little glory. I worry more about Randall.”

“So do I,” Dan murmured.

Ali smiled secretively.

“Would you quit grinning like a damned cat!” Dan exclaimed.

“You are very protective,” Ali commented. “Admirable. But you are also possessive.”

“Thanks to your conniving.”

“I didn’t connive—”