Relentless (23 page)

I
will procure two men to go with y—” Husani’s gaze flickered over Isis’s shoulder. His face hardened. “Brengard approaches on your right. He is already schooling his features as if surprised to encounter you.”

They’d accompanied her friend to the souk the next morning so they could pick up a new car. Isis half turned, moving closer to Thorne. She saw herself reflected in his sunglasses. Once again the humidity had turned her hair into a dark cloud of out-of-control curls around her shoulders. Husani plopped a wide-brimmed straw hat on her head, and she twisted the unruly mass into a knot, stuffing it beneath the crown to bare her neck to any stray breeze. There wasn’t one, but she lived in hope.

Even the hours of delicious lovemaking the night before couldn’t compensate for her lack of sleep. She felt sweaty and disheveled and decidedly grumpy. Thorne looked cool, calm, and annoyingly affable.

They’d stopped only long enough to buy more new clothes—something
not
in Isis’s budget. At least Thorne was a cheap date. Thank God he was happy in jeans and
a navy blue T-shirt, which did lovely things stretched over his broad chest. She grabbed jeans and a purple T-shirt with her namesake Isis, wings spread across her boobs.

Everything she owned in the world was slung across her chest in her camera bag.

“Do you believe in coincidences?” Through her darkened glasses she watched Dylan’s approach. Thorne, too, tracked him as he wove his way through the throng of people, heading directly for Husani’s shop.

“Never.”

She looked up at Thorne. His features had turned grim, dark, and immovable. A different man than the tender lover she’d discovered the night before. “Neither do—”

“Isis? My God. Is that you?”

She turned to face her father’s protégé. “Dylan. What a… surprise.” Just seeing him pissed her off, and she deliberately kept her tone borderline rude. He was no more surprised to see her than she was to see him, and she hated that they were playing this fake social game.
Was
he the moron who’d shot at them last night and tried to run them off the road?

“It’s great to see you!” When he looked as though he was going to pull her in for a hug, Thorne blocked him, taking Isis’s hand and tugging her against him. She liked feeling his hard body against hers, even if they were in the middle of the souk with Dylan blocking the way. Husani came to stand on her other side. It was sweet of the two men to want to protect her, but Dylan wasn’t likely to do anything in a public market. Thorne gave the
other man a cool nod. “Thorne, Isis’s fiancé. You must be Brengard.”

Dylan’s gaze flickered from him back to Isis. “This
is
a surprise. This is the last place I’d expect to see you, what with your father…”

Isis liked that Thorne didn’t pretend he didn’t know who Dylan was, or mangle the other man’s name just to prove a point. She, however, wasn’t quite as evolved. She pushed her glasses up her nose with her giving-the-bird finger. “He’s doing much better, thanks for asking.”

Dylan flinched at her sarcasm. “If you’d give me a minute, I was just about to. How is the professor?”

“Fighting fit, and in top form,” Thorne inserted smoothly.

Dylan looked momentarily nonplussed, but regrouped quickly. He was like a damned cat, always landing on his feet. Isis had known he was a little too smooth, but she hadn’t realized until this very second that he wasn’t smooth, he was
slick
.

“That’s… That’s good to know. Is he here with you?” He glanced around somewhat nervously, as if expecting her father to jump out of one of the nearby baskets.

“No, he’s getting ready to go to London for his exhibit.” He would be, if he remembered the event was about to take place. Which he didn’t, having freaking
Alzheimer’s
. Of course Dylan would know that if he’d really paid any attention to her father or cared about him. Isis’s entire body bristled with resentment. Directed at whom, she wasn’t quite sure, but since Dylan was standing in front of her, he’d do.

Dylan frowned. “Ah.” He glanced from Thorne to Isis. “Fiancé?”

“It’s very recent,” she said dryly. Like a nanosecond ago. “You look well.” He did, annoyingly. Tanned, fit, and ridiculously handsome. A Ken doll, dressed in ironed khakis and his usual affectation: a brown felt Indiana Jones fedora. Indiana Jones could cream his ass with his whip hand tied behind his back. Thorne could do it with
both
hands tied behind his back and his eyes closed. Isis would buy tickets for
that
match.

“Seriously, how’s the professor after that incident?” He fingered a length of purple silk piled haphazardly on the table. To avoid eye contact? Oh, yeah. He quickly dug into his breast pocket, took out mirrored aviator shades, and slid them on, effectively blocking where he was looking and the expression in his eyes.

Ass
. “Curious as to why you haven’t inquired after his health in all this time,” Isis told him coolly.

Dylan’s face darkened. “I was quite ill, and then he returned to Seattle…”

“That’s right, you weren’t able to go with him on that last dig. What was it? Food poisoning?” Her face, reflected clearly in his glasses, showed her disbelief. She’d never been good at poker. What she thought came through loud and clear in her expressions. Fortunately she didn’t care if Dylan saw them or not.

“Right, bad fish. Awful.”

Thorne glanced down at her with a small frown, then directed his X-ray eyes at Dylan, like a death ray right
through his sunglasses. “I heard it was the flu.” His tone was cool and clipped.

“Right, right. Both, actually. It was touch and go.”

“One has to be careful what one eats here, that’s for sure. Are you here on a dig?” Thorne asked conversationally.

Dylan moved into the shade of the awning, out of the hot sun. “I am. I came to hire a few more men…” He glanced over at Husani, who gave him a stony look in return. There’d never been any love lost between them. Husani had a keen nose for bullshit. Now that she’d gotten a whiff of it off Dylan, it was easy to sense. What exactly had she seen in him beyond his Ken doll looks?

“Oh?” Isis said curiously. If the son of a bitch was anywhere near her father’s site she’d—she’d sic Thorne on him. “Must be something important to work here at this time of the year. Who’s lead on the dig?”

“I am.”

“Really?” She made sure her contempt of that notion came across loud and clear. “And where is it?”

“Abusir,” he answered smoothly, trying to brush a fly off his cheek. Unintimidated, it stayed put, as flies here had a tendency to do. Apparently the fly knew bullshit when he smelled it.

She narrowed her eyes, jaw tight.
“Abusir?”

Thorne squeezed her hand when her entire body jerked in reaction. “And what’s there?” he asked her calmly.

“A two-thousand-year-old temple to the god Osiris,” she said through gritted teeth, giving Dylan a death stare.
“It’s an ancient site at the third-century BCE Taposiris Magna temple.

“My father dug there a year ago and found nothing of note,” she continued. “What a strange coincidence that you’re back in the exact same place without him, especially since I believe you were the one who said it was a ‘colossal’ waste of time.”

“We were off by half a mile,” Dylan said with a defensive shrug. “And even if he
had
found this particular tomb, he never went deep enough. Besides, he dug elsewhere that year, remember? He had several digs going at the same time. I told him then, and I’m telling you now. He spread himself too thin, spread our
resources
too thin… You must admit patience was never the professor’s strong suit.”

“Here’s a good idea,” she snapped. “You don’t talk about my father, and I don’t punch you in the nose for stealing his find.”

Dylan rotated his shoulders, a sign he was uncomfortable. “You were never prone to violence, babe. What’s wrong with you? You know how this business works.” He leaned against the heavy metal pole supporting the awning, the picture of nonchalance and innocence as he tucked his fingers in the front pockets of his loose khaki pants. “The professor had thirty years to find the tomb. Now it’s my turn.”

“Using everything he taught you, and stealing his claims and maps?”

Dylan picked the fly off his sweaty chin, dropping it to the ground, then stepped on it. “How—Don’t start
accusing me just because your father is washed-up. It’s early days, yet, but I believe
I’ve
found Queen Cleopatra’s tomb. I’m sorry, Isis. I was going to call and let you know as a courtesy to your father.”

“Were you?” Her fingers ached, and she realized she was holding so tightly to Thorne’s hand that her fingers had gone bloodless and numb. She loosened her grip a little. “What made you decide to revisit the site?” He was a moron. There was absolutely nothing in those tombs. She’d been with her father when he and Dylan had discovered them. Empty, nada. Not a scarab.

The fact that Dylan was back in
that
location was odd. He was an opportunist, not a fool. Digs were expensive, the red tape extensive. If he was there it was because he believed he would discover something of value—which meant that when he’d worked for her father, he’d discovered something and not passed on the knowledge.

“Radar survey identified three underground sites, not just the one. The area was untouched, ripe for excavation.”

Ripe to rape and pillage, he meant. “And what? You hit the jackpot? Did you
find
her actual tomb?” Anger clarified her senses, heightened her need to protect her father. Get rid of the skunk bastard they’d trusted. Thorne could help her hide Dylan’s body.

“We found
ten
nobles’ tombs nearby—”

“Interesting, but not Cleo.” Would he tell her if he had? The answer to that was yes.
If
he’d excavated and pulled out all the artifacts and documented them. The answer was no if he’d barely started and didn’t want her
poking a stick into the wheels of his dig. She could go back to the ministry and reopen her father’s claim.

“Twenty-some coins with
her
face and name inscribed on them. I also discovered a ceramic fragment of a mask I believe was of Mark Antony.”

“You found Mark Antony’s death mask?” If this was true, Dylan had made the discovery of the century. Her
father’s
discovery. Her stomach knotted.

Dylan shrugged. “It has the cleft chin of the Roman general—”

She made a rude noise. “Maybe it was a prop for Richard Burton’s role as Antony in the movie,” she suggested, trying to unclamp her tight jaw.

“Denial is a waste of time. Your father had his day in the sun; now I’m having mine. And if you think for a moment that I didn’t cover all my bases with the MSA, you’re mistaken. The professor’s rights to those sites ran out weeks ago.” The Ministry of State for Antiquities was responsible for regulating, conserving, and protecting all antiquities and archaeological excavations in Egypt. Dylan had always had an excellent rapport with the members of the Administrative Council. Her father had not. “Where’s the money coming from, Dylan? Who’s bankrolling you?”

“I have several sponsors. Just as the professor had.” He pushed away from the pole, making the tassels lining the top edge of the awning dance in the harsh sunlight.

“I’m trying to figure out,” Thorne inserted, voice deceptively quiet, “what the fuck your angle is, Brengard. One minute you’re sucking up to an old flame, next you’re
doing everything in your piss-poor arsenal to tick her off. Not smart.” He deliberately moved into Dylan’s space. “Piss her off, and you piss me off. We’ve been here less than forty-eight hours, and we’ve been chased, shot at, and run off the road. What do you have to do with that?”

Dylan’s mouth tightened and he took a step back. “Absolutely
nothing
. I didn’t even know Isis was here until a second ago, and I resent your insinuation that I—”

Isis sensed Thorne’s simmering anger, and was rather sorry that he remained rooted in place. His animosity was—to her, anyway—crystal clear. “If I discover you had anything to do with putting Isis in any danger, I’ll rip your balls off and stuff them down your throat.”

Stunned at how something said in such a calm voice could make every hair on her body quiver, Isis demanded of Dylan, “
Have
you been following us?”

“What on earth would I follow you
for
? I’ve found Cleopatra’s tomb, Isis. You have nothing I want.”

“Fortunate.” Thorne lifted their clasped hands to his mouth to kiss her knuckles. “Because Isis has everything
I
want, and I don’t share.”

“THAT WAS SCARILY IMPRESSIVE.”
Isis’s cheery tones followed him as they got into another Mossad-supplied vehicle parked in the garage near the mosque. She took off the straw hat, tossed it in the backseat, then ran her fingers through her hair as he got in on the driver’s side. The last thing she acted like was scared. His ego warmed as he acknowledged that she sounded, if anything, impressed.

“I did my job.” His job as an MI5 operative, not a Lodestone agent. He buckled up and indicated she do the same.

“You threatened him
and
staked a claim in two seconds flat.” She fastened her seat belt while he went through the compartment under his floor mat. A second Glock. Couple of clips. Knife. Thorne left everything, but shoved the clips in his pockets.

“About that,” he said flatly. “I’m sure it doesn’t need pointing out, but I come from a long line of cold bastards. I don’t do warm and fuzzy.”

She turned big brown eyes on him. “And you’re telling me this non–news flash—why?”

“I don’t want you getting the wrong idea.” He didn’t want to give
himself
the wrong idea, either. Her future happiness had nothing to do with him. Couldn’t have anything to do with him. He was all about his job. Without MI5 he didn’t know what the fuck to do with himself, and he couldn’t do Isis Magee as a temporary filler until he was back at the agency. There were rules. And he’d abide by them. Even if they were of his own making.