EIGHTEEN
A light wind moved sand and water particles, ruffling Isis’s hair around her face as they stepped outside the tomb entrance. The black-streaked sky was a soft, predawn, dove gray, the air cool from the mist coming off the rising waters. Thorne sucked in a deep lungful of fresh, damp air. They’d never get the bat stink out of their clothes, but of prime importance now was seeing the spillway from the higher dam pouring hundreds of thousands of gallons of water in a gleaming ribbon to pound and froth with hellaciously loud sound effects into the valley below. Hence the roar filling the air and the mist. Felt damn good on his skin, but the ramifications of the early water release were huge.
Isis gripped his hand, squeezing as she looked across the valley where a sheet of rippled pewter stretched as far as the eye could see. “Najid opened it a week early!”
It was impossible to tell how long the spillway had been open, or how deep the water in the hundred-mile-long valley was. Suffice it to say the entire length held water, and while its rising was too slow for Thorne to discern, he suspected by the hard rush of water coming from the spillway across the basin that it would fill quickly.
“It’ll take days for the water level to reach this high, even longer to reach the actual tomb,” he assured her. “We have time.” Not plenty of time, but some, if he could move fast and call MI5 into play.
Thorne surveyed their options for getting to the rim. He’d worry about the next step when he got there. The tomb entrance was approximately three thousand feet below the rim of the proposed lake. Half a mile. Above and surrounding the entrance was a vertical ridge of rough rock, loose shale, and sand. Even if he didn’t have a bum leg, Isis wouldn’t be able to scale that.
A barely perceptible track indicated where the thieves had driven their vehicles close to the tomb entrance. The track led to the tarred road that had, at one time, bisected the valley floor. But that was gone now, part of it already submerged in the deepest part of the valley. There was, of course, no vehicle standing by for them to help themselves to. The road up to the rim was at least a mile away. Not a bad walk all things considered.
“Let’s head that way. Once we’re up top we’ll find a vehicle.”
The dirt track—clearly recently in use—was a downhill trek and not too arduous, unless a person had already put in several hours of walking and a torturous stair climb on no food and little water. “Okay?” he asked as Isis trudged silently beside him, her fingers still tight around his. The few rocks were easy to avoid, and the hard-packed sand was a f*cking cakewalk compared to the path they’d just traveled.
The paved road, running from north to south through the valley, was submerged, but at the north end it was still viable. A steep uphill grade, but doable.
“Where are we going to find a car?” Isis asked, between fast breaths, as they came to where the dirt met the paved road. The sky had lightened to a dirty gray pink, smudged with thick charcoal clouds. Would people start appearing to go to work? Or to see why the spillway had been opened early? The Minister of Water could easily account for the precipitous opening with any manner of reasons. No one would question him.
“No idea.” He walked a little faster, and Isis kept pace, even though her breathing quickened and sweat streaked the dirt on her face. He should be horsewhipped for not getting her on that flight back home before she was thrown into the middle of all this. Thorne, furious with himself for not protecting her properly, said, “We just will.”
“Okay. Just don’t expect any scintillating conversation, because I’m now officially pooped.”
And still no complaints. He lifted their joined hands to brush a kiss across her knuckles. Isis was more priceless than any artifact in that tomb. “Keep that shower and big bed in mind as we go.”
He could tell she was on her last legs. The farther they went, the slower her pace became. “You need to rest?”
She lifted her chin, a determined slant to her eyes. “No. But I want to know, what are we going to do with Dylan when we find him?”
“You mean besides stringing him up by his balls?”
She laughed a little, apparently cheered by the thought. “Well, that might improve his singing voice, but it’s not going to make him fess up to what he and Dr. Najid have done. My father is still getting screwed out of his life’s work.”
“What did you have in mind, then?”
“What if we bury him with the artifacts and come back in twenty years?”
Thorne kissed her forehead, the skin salty but soft to the touch. “And you say I’m harsh. Remind me never to give you a reason to hold a grudge against me, love.”
“Seriously, though.” She took a breath and tugged at him. “What are we going to do if he’s being protected by Yermalof?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Then perhaps we ought to turn them against each other and let them have at it.”
She twisted her mouth slightly in a way that begged to be kissed. “Do you really think we could do that?”
He winked, determined to be as upbeat as Isis, though his leg was killing him. “Bait and switch. One of the oldest tricks in the book. And I think Yermalof and Brengard are greedy enough to fall right into it. If they each think Dr. Najid intends to cut the other out by pinning the blame of our deaths on them, it just might work.”
“Can we do that?”
He kissed the back of her hand. “Together, my queen, we can do anything.”
The thought of besting their enemies brought a little more bounce to her step as she walked beside him, her hand in his. He’d never had anyone look up to him like that. A distinctive ache built in his chest. What would happen to them when this was all over? He shook his head. He couldn’t afford to think of tomorrow. All he could do was focus on the road that was growing closer one step at a time.
It took almost an hour to cover the distance, but they were rewarded when the valley road ended in a compound for service vehicles. “Pay dirt.” The fenced-off area was full of backhoes, heavy-duty trucks, flatbed vehicles for hauling pipe, and small specialized vehicles used in construction. “Let’s take that one.” Thorne indicated a dusty, battered-looking pickup truck at the other end of the lot near the gate.
Dog tired, he jimmied the driver’s-side door lock with a screwdriver he’d found when they’d passed an unlocked tool chest. He hiked Isis up into the seat. “See if you can find anything useful while I get her started.”
“You have the most unusual, yet useful, skill set,” she said with an accepting smile.
Getting up into the cab was a feat in itself, but Thorne used his arms and his good leg to get the job done.
Isis knelt on the seat rummaging through a compartment behind it, as Thorne peered under the dashboard and yanked out the wires.
“My namesake is smiling on me right now. I just found a Coke!” Isis said with a tired laugh. “There are a couple of bottles of water, and one PowerBar. A feast. We’re all set.” At the deep purr of the engine, she plopped her arse down on the bench seat, her treasures in her lap. “Oh, you did that quickly! I’m impressed by your hotwiring prowess, Thorne. If Lodestone or MI5 doesn’t pan out for you, you can always take to a life of crime. I’ll share my Coke with you…”
“I’m impressed that you’d share. Water’s good.”
Isis twisted the cap off a bottle of water, handing it to him as he headed for the locked gate. She popped the tab on her can and took a long drink. “Ahhh, ambrosia… Should I get out to open the gate? How will I open it, though?”
“I’ve got it.” Thorne revved up the engine, slammed the gas pedal to the floor, and hit the gate at sixty per, then drove over the metal, smashing it into the dirt. He floored the engine and shot down the road in the semidarkness.
“There is something very satisfying in that.”
He smiled, finishing off another bottle of water. Their headlights bounced over the road as he pushed the lumbering vehicle to its maximum speed. Isis laughed. “Dirty Harry has nothing on you, Thorne.” She drank half her cola in one long draft, curling her feet up beneath her on the seat. “How are we going to implement Operation Striking Cobra?”
“Striking what?”
She gifted him with a wide smile. “Striking Cobra. Our plan to bring down these thieves and kidnappers needed a name. I thought it had a nice ring to it.”
He chuckled. Striking Cobra. The boys back at MI5 would be rolling on the floor with that one. “I don’t suppose you found a phone back there, did you?”
“Unfortunately not. Here, honey, I made you dinner.” She handed him three-quarters of the protein bar.
He didn’t argue, eating it in two bites. He glanced into the mirrors just to be sure Yermalof didn’t have eyes on them. “We need to ditch this and find something else in case someone sees us.”
“Ew! That was disgusting.” Isis pulled a face, hastily washing down the bar with her drink. “I’ll make you a real dinner, Thorne, when our lives are back to normal. Something much better than that mummified protein bar.”
“I promised you room service, remember?”
“It’s all that keeps me going. Oasis in an hour.”
“Sooner if we see anything we can help ourselves to.”
There was nothing available to steal any sooner than the oasis, and since the truck was gassed up, and they were halfway there, he decided to keep going. They made good time, reaching the center of Cairo right in the middle of the early morning commute.
“Where now?” she asked, using both hands to push her hair off her face. It was a lost cause. The mist and sweat had sprung her hair into wild curls, which Thorne found both charming and sexy.
“We need to ditch the truck and find a phone.”
“I didn’t see anyone, but is there any chance we were followed?”
“No one was behind us on the road from the hydroelectric plant to here. I kept a close eye out. No one is that good at tailing, especially when we traveled fifty miles with no one in sight either way. I think we escaped undetected. Why?”
“Husani probably hasn’t left for the shop yet. And even if he went in early, Rabiah works from home. We’ll have the use of a phone, or computer, and a shower.”
“Sounds good. We’ll head out there.”
It took forty minutes to cross town, and another fifteen for Thorne to find a parking garage with a big enough entrance to hide the truck.
BOTH RABIAH AND HUSANI were home when Thorne and Isis arrived at their apartment. The couple looked slightly stunned by their appearance but didn’t ask questions. While Rabiah supplied Isis with a change of clothing for both of them, Thorne made a couple of calls to set the ball rolling.
Isis went into the small bathroom to wash before eating. Horrified, she stared at herself in the mirror. “Dear God, seriously?” After all they’d endured it was no wonder she looked as bad as she did, but somehow it was worse seeing herself up close.
Her hair was out of control. Wild and frizzy, and curly around her head and shoulders like the Wild Woman of Borneo. Her pale face wasn’t just dirty, it was filthy, the sand and grit smeared around from her hasty attempt at washing while in the tomb. Her sunken eyes looked bruised, her lips dry and cracked. Her clothing was beyond filthy. Hastily yanking off the top two T-shirts, she was marginally cleaner. And while washing her hands and face several times with soap and hot water helped, she was dying for a hot shower and a scrub brush. She left the bathroom and, seeing that Thorne was off the phone, said, “It’s all yours.”
He passed her in the short hallway and closed the bathroom door behind him. The mouthwatering, stomach-rumbling smell of frying eggs, toast, and coffee lured her to the kitchen.
Rabiah motioned Isis to a seat at the kitchen table, where a glass of Coke on ice waited for her. “I love you, Rabiah! Thank you.”
Her hostess smiled. “You look much better.”
“Hard to look worse,” Husani told her grimly, ducking when Isis threatened to bop him on the head with her glass. “Are you sure you two don’t need a doctor? I have a friend I can call to come here—”
“I’m okay, but I’m worried about Thorne’s leg. He needs a cane, and since he won’t ask, I will. Do you have anything for him to use temporarily?”
“I have some in the storeroom downstairs. Why don’t I get him a cane while he’s getting cleaned up? I’ll be right back.”
Husani went off to get the cane.
“Your Thorne is very nice-looking, even when he’s scruffy,” Rabiah observed as she slid more bread into the toaster.
“He can be very charming when he isn’t dragging you from place to place with bullets flying.”
Rabiah quirked a brow. “Oh, sexy and dangerous. That’s a deadly combination for a woman’s heart.”
Isis bit into the warm toast, letting the crunchy texture of it roll about in her mouth. Rabiah was right. No matter which way she tried to frame things, she and Thorne had crossed a line somewhere in those tombs. And she ached to think what her life was going to be like without him in it once they tricked the bad guys and saved the tomb.
The last thing she wanted was to bring any danger to her friends, but the excitement of her father being right buzzed in her veins, making her lightheaded. She couldn’t wait to tell the world. But Thorne said they needed to wait. Timing was everything when it came to outwitting people like Yermalof, Dylan, and Dr. Najid, and they needed to be precise in their planning.
The bathroom door opened, and a few moments later Thorne limped to the table, his face washed and his hair damp, just as Husani returned. He set a carved cane against the back of Thorne’s chair. “Should you have need of it.” His nonchalant way of saying it made it easy for Thorne to nod his thanks.
“Appreciate it.” Thorne picked up his coffee cup and drank as Rabiah set plates of food in front of them, then joined them at the table.
While they ate the Western-style breakfast, they filled their hosts in on what they knew.
“This was a very involved plan, but the theft of antiquities happens here every day,” Husani told Thorne. “For the most part the authorities turn a blind eye.”
“It’s a disgrace,” his wife said, her voice angry. “They are stealing our national sovereignty. There is a new syndicate to stop such things. I hope they punish these men to the full extent of the law.”
Husani shrugged. “Like our Minister of Water. It is not uncommon for ministry officials to be involved with antiquity theft. It is hard to police such actions, and even harder to prosecute.”
“You don’t mind that a discovery like Cleopatra’s tomb has been raped and pillaged by these men?” Isis asked, her tone hard on behalf of her father. “That Cleo’s wealth is being sold off to the highest bidder and taken out of your country, never to be seen again?”
“I understand your anger, little bird. But such sales and thefts have been happening for thousands of years. It’s almost impossible to stop. Too many people benefit by turning a blind eye.”
Thorne cradled his cup. “What are the penalties when these men are apprehended?” His tone was casual, but Isis suspected that it wasn’t an idle question. Besides, she presumed he already knew the answer if he’d been chasing down Yermalof for years.
Her friend shrugged again. “The new law increased prison sentences for smuggling artifacts out of Egypt to fifteen years and a million-pound fine. Double that of ten years ago.”
“Clearly this hasn’t impacted the sales of antiquities,” Thorne pointed out with inflection. If this was the case, what recourse did anyone have against Dylan and the minister? After all this, were they just going to get a slap on the wrist and be let go?
“No, it has not.” Husani cast a worried frown at Thorne. “My father—”
“MI5 has had people with him around the clock since this started. He’s safe. I don’t advise you to open the shop until we know everyone has been rounded up.”
“No problem. I can do paperwork from home. Is there anything I can do for you?” He looked from Thorne to Isis, and back again as his wife cleared the table, then poured Thorne another cup of coffee, and brought another Coke to Isis, who drank it down like a crack addict.
“It’ll take my people some time to round everyone up. We’ll lie low until they do so. I gave them the number here.”
“I’ll come downstairs to fetch you as soon as they call.”
“I GET THE SHOWER first,” Isis told him unequivocally the moment the door to the downstairs apartment closed behind them. “I must smell like a thousand-year-old mummy.”
With a piratical smile, Thorne turned her around until her back slammed into the door she’d just shut. Without a Mother May I, he started nuzzling her neck with hungry lips. Lacing his fingers with hers, he held them beside her head. “You… smell…” He punctuated his words with biting kisses up her throat. “Sexy. As. Hell.”
Prickly heat swept over her skin, and her breasts instantly tightened with need. Her fingers curled helplessly between his. “You’re a crazy man. Let me go, at least until I—” His gaze dropped to her mouth and Isis forgot how to form coherent words as her heart hammered unevenly against her ribs. “You promised me clean sheets and a shower, and then—” There’d been something about leather, and baby oil… That thought made her hotter.
Thorne cupped her nape, pulling her so close she felt the hard ridge of his penis through his jeans, right where she needed to feel it, damn him. Sparks of scalding heat traveled from their points of contact to zing through her bloodstream like liquid fire. “I’ll deliver—when I’m more rational. Right now I don’t give a damn about the trappings. I. Just. Want. You.” He kissed her senseless, sucking away her right mind, leaving her panting and lust-crazed.
“Don’t talk.” Still nuzzling her throat, he turned her around and started down the short hallway with her clasped in his arms. “Don’t think,” he told her thickly. “Just feel.”
“I feel filthy,” Isis groused, wrapping her arms around his waist as he walked her backward toward the bathroom in what felt like a perfectly choreographed dance.
The all-white tiled bathroom had a blue-and-white-striped plastic shower curtain and a tiny window high on the wall that let in a stream of brilliant white sunshine across the floor.
Thorne laughed. “We’ll fix that.” Reaching over, he turned on the shower, then backed her against the wall and continued kissing her. His rough jaw abraded her skin as he kissed her forehead, then worked his way across her cheek to her mouth. He tasted of rich, dark coffee and a need too strong to contain.
The bathroom filled with sweet-smelling steam from sandalwood, and he paused kissing her only long enough to add cold water, then tested the temperature on his fingers before returning to crush his mouth down on hers once again.
He skimmed his palm up under several layers of T-shirts to her bare waist. “Your skin is so soft,” he said as his damp fingers slid slowly up her sides. “Softer than the most expensive satin.”
“Hmm.” Isis figured if he was determined to do this, then they should both be naked. Her fingers shook with impatience as she fumbled with the button on his jeans. The ridge of his erection pulsed under her unsteady fingers as she freed him, then she shoved his jeans down as far as she could without being more than an inch from his mouth, which was giving her so much pleasure she vibrated like a tuning fork.
God, she loved kissing him. She loved the smooth texture of his lips, and the way he angled his head to accommodate her. She loved the slick glide of his coffee-flavored tongue mating with hers, and the suck and pull as he played tag inside her mouth. She could kiss him all day and night…
“I want to be naked this time,” she managed to say, panting slightly because she’d forgotten to breathe through her nose. She used both hands to pull his T-shirt up his body, letting her lips follow the path, up the narrow line of dark hair on his lower belly, up to his rock-hard abs, which vibrated as she kissed a damp trail between his pecs. He helped her pull his shirt over his head.
His skin burned her hands as she ran them over his shoulders. She leaned in to press kisses to the crisp dark hair on his chest, then pressed her mouth there and simply held on as she inhaled deeply. The smell of his skin was like a powerful aphrodisiac. Hot male. Primitive. Primal.
“I assure you”—his voice was tight, his eyes glittering as if he had a high fever—“in less than fifty seconds you’ll be in the shower, wet and bare-arsed naked.” He pulled the T-shirts over her head before she knew it, and was
back nibbling at her bottom lip before she missed him.
“Fifty seconds? You’re losing your touch, Thorne.”
Picking her up, he tugged her jeans down her legs and tipped her gently onto her feet in the bathtub.
Hot water swirled about her feet and ankles, and she made a grab for the tiled wall with one hand and his shoulder with the other. “I’m wet now.” She let go of the wall, because Thorne was all she needed to steady her.
Climbing in with her, he slid his hand between her thighs and gave her a devilish look. “And so you are.” For several breathless minutes she could do nothing but dig her nails into his arms and ride his clever fingers. She came twice in quick succession, and could barely gasp out what she’d been trying to say as she pressed her face to his chest, and hung on limply.
She slid her hands down to squeeze the hard flesh and muscle of his taut ass. “This is the order of things, Connor Thorne. You’ve mixed them up a bit, so here’s the new order of things.”
He cupped her breast, stroking the erect nipple with his thumb as he edged her back under the deliciously hot spray. “Uh-huh.”
Isis took a moment to enjoy—enjoy the sensation of hot water sluicing over her parched skin, enjoy Thorne performing amazing sleight of hand between her legs… “The order of things is as follows: first, soaping and s-scrubbing. Getting shiny clean—”
He pressed his mouth to her neck and took a little nip, making her simultaneously wince and become even more turned on. “Hot, down-and-dirty sex,” he murmured at the underside of her jaw.
“Okay. First.” Isis ran her palm over his short, wet hair, loving the feel of him, loving to pet him when he made muffled sounds of pleasure low in his throat. “Hot sex where we try very hard not to drown ourselves or each other. Then shiny clean. Then fall onto that overworked sofa bed and sleep until you’re called to duty. How does that sound?”
His arms tightened around her, bringing them both under the hot spray. Reaching out, he grabbed the soap, using her breast and his hand to work up a lather. “You left out the part between fall onto that overworked sofa bed and sleep.” He ran his soapy hand over her arm, then under her arm, then around her back.
Soap trickled down her breast onto her belly, tickling its slow path down her body and waking any nerve endings that might still be napping, so her entire body was on red alert. “There was nothing between the two.”
He soaped her other arm, glided his fingers over her breasts, then curved his hand around her back and all the soapy, slick way down to her bottom. “Make love slowly on a horizontal surface.”
“What?” she asked, dazed and hyperaware of what was soaped and what was not. The soap suds felt like an extension of his nimble fingers as they slid slowly down her body. “You’re insatiable.”
“You talk too much.” He kissed her while he made sure all her girl parts were sparkly clean. Then, when she was limp and didn’t give a damn what order things happened in, he slid his hand under her knee and guided his hard length into her soapy channel. Isis stifled a scream against his shoulder.