Seduce Me
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are
used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
Copyright © 2009 by Robyn DeHart
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced,
distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the prior written
permission of the publisher.
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First eBook Edition: August 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-55202-8
Contents
“The gods wanted to curse her for her beauty.”
Heat from his body engulfed her as he rose to stand behind her chair. His head was nothing but a breath away. She stopped
reading and swallowed.
“Continue,” he said, his deep voice caressing the wisps of hair that dangled by her ears.
“Can you not see the text yourself?” she asked, her voice breathy.
She met his glance and nearly forgot her name or where she was. Her mouth went dry. He looked as if he were prepared to devour
her. Not in a lecherous fashion, but rather one she instinctively knew would be incredibly pleasurable. She grabbed a handful
of the material at her thigh.
Oh for mercy’s sake.
Without a second thought she leaned in and mashed her lips against his and held them there for a while. After sitting back
she eyed his reaction.
“Miss Worthington, if you’re going to kiss me, you must do so with more passion than that.” He placed one hand beneath her
chin.
Absently, she realized that his other hand was kneading the back of her neck. But his mouth demanded most of her attention
as it moved elegantly, seductively across her own.
This
was kissing…
To my oldest and dearest friend, Amy White. We’ve grown up so much since those late nights on the sofa watching silly movies
and laughing until we couldn’t breathe, but our friendship has never faltered. And who knew crackers were so versatile. Thanks
for always being there. No, this isn’t Olivia and Simon, but I promise you’ll love Esme and Fielding just as much.
And, as always, to my husband, Paul. Thank you for dealing with all my craziness, too many pizzas to count (not that you ever
mind that!), and for always offering to make the scrambled eggs. You are my hero in every sense of the word.
No books are truly written alone, and this one was no exception. So to my critique partners, Emily and Hattie, you put up
with more of my whining than any two people deserve. To my fantastic agent, Christina Hogrebe, who always gushes at the right
moment and who, quite frankly, is a perfect matchmaker. Special thanks to everyone at Grand Central for the fantastic welcome,
especially my brilliant editor Amy Pierpont, who gave me a new definition for revisions. Your insight is nothing short of
astounding, and this book is better for it. Thank you for believing in me and this project. And I would be remiss not to mention
Kelly Harms; though you’ve moved on to bigger things, I know my career would not be where it is today without your support
and guidance, and for that I will always be grateful.
Near Alexandria, March 1887
S
weat and sand mingled and dripped into his eyes, clouding his vision. Fielding Grey, the Viscount of Eldon, swiped an already
damp rag across his mud-streaked face. There was never anything easy about crawling into a cave or digging up a tomb. Or excavating
a temple, which was what he was doing now.
The grit and grime didn’t matter. Nor did the object he sought. All that mattered right now, as Fielding squeezed himself
into a small antechamber lit only by the lantern in his hand, was the huge sum of money his client would pay him once he found
what was left of the Great Library of Alexandria.
The royal library had once been the largest in the world, housing such treasures as Aristotle’s private collection. By royal
mandate, Ptolemy II had stormed ships to confiscate any books or scrolls on board to add to the library. Legend had it that
the library was destroyed by Julius Caesar’s command, but most claimed warning had come in time to relocate the vast collection.
More than sixteen months of research had finally led Fielding here: the Temple of Isis on a small island off the coast of
Egypt and not far from Alexandria.
He jumped to the ground of the antechamber, the sound of his feet slamming onto the stone floor echoing through the room.
The two Egyptian men he’d paid to assist him entered next carrying more lanterns. The new light shone about the stone room,
illuminating hieroglyphics. The colored drawings depicted several versions of Isis nursing Horus, as well as a full-grown
Horus.
Fielding walked the length of one wall, running his hand against the cool stone. There would be a lever or a loose stone,
something that would take them into the next hidden chamber. But he felt only smooth brick beneath his palm. He knew he needed
to go down as deep as possible. The remains of the library would be hidden there; in particular the rumored secret writings
of Socrates, a prized possession in Aristotle’s collection. These writings were what the man who’d hired him was specifically
interested in.
A six-inch black scorpion scuttled over his boot, trying to find a way into his pants. Fielding kicked his foot out, causing
the offending insect to fly across the room. His assistants jumped simultaneously and huddled together against the wall.
“We need to go deeper,” he told them in their native tongue. He wasn’t fluent, but he knew enough from previous digs to get
by.
The two brown men nodded but made no further movement.
Looking down, he noted a slight groove in the sand where he’d kicked away the scorpion. “Hand me the water.” He reached out
his arm and one man, the braver of the two perhaps, stepped forward to give Fielding the canteen.
With his boot he moved additional sand away, revealing more of the groove. He knelt and poured a small amount of water into
the crevice. The liquid bubbled with the sand, turning light brown, and then it thinned out, leaking somewhere below. Fielding
scraped more of the sand aside and pressed his ear to the floor. Then he poured more water, this time a greater amount.
It disappeared into the crevice, and Fielding could hear the drips landing somewhere far below them.
“There is another chamber beneath this one,” he told his assistants. “Look around for a way to open it.” He pointed to the
two men, who still stood pressed against the wall. “Shuffle your feet around; move the sand away from the stones.”
When they still hadn’t moved, he said to them, “And stop being so bloody afraid of a curse. This is a temple, meant to welcome
people for worship.” He didn’t add that the closer they got to the legendary library, the more likely it was they’d run across
some danger. People went to great lengths to protect items of value from treasure hunters like himself.
Another scorpion crawled across the sand-covered stone floor, making its path toward one of Fielding’s diggers. The man jumped
over the creature, landing hard on a stone to his right. Suddenly, the entire floor shifted, leaving huge gaps between the
stones. The offending insect fell through the opened floor. Fielding grabbed onto the wall to his right.
“No one move,” he warned.
For several seconds they all stayed motionless. Gingerly, Fielding took one step forward and then another. His third wobbled
enough that he leaned into the wall, and when he did a loud click sounded behind it and the floor below him gave way.
He cursed loudly as he fell several feet into the chamber beneath them. He landed with a painful thud, the lantern he’d been
holding shattering next to him, dousing the light. He could barely see the glow of his two assistants’ lanterns above him.
“Throw me down a torch,” he yelled.
They did as commanded, but the unlit torch landed somewhere to his left, swallowed by the shadows. Briefly he tried to feel
for it, but remembering the scorpion was down here with him stilled his hand.
“Lower one of the lanterns on a rope so I can see.”
The lowered lantern shed enough ambient light around the room for him to find the fallen torch. He quickly lit the thing,
and warmth from the fire soon heated his face. A quick cursory glance around the room showed two more torches hung on the
wall. He lit them both, and the room filled with a soft glow.
There was a tunnel going off to the right, which warranted exploration. Whether he found his client’s ancient library or not,
whatever he found down here would fetch a pretty price.
“Lower the rope back down so I can climb up when I’m finished.” Neither of the men answered him, but the rope once again dropped
to hang through the hole into which Fielding had fallen.
There were more hieroglyphics in this room, but instead of being painted on the walls, they were carved. Fielding inhaled
deeply, the chalky chilled air filling his lungs. The tunnel proved smaller than he’d anticipated, and he found he would have
to travel through it on his hands and knees. Not an easy task when one needed to carry a torch at the same time.
Carefully he set out down the tunnel, clumsily crawling on three limbs while he held the torch in his right hand. He was halfway
into the narrow space when he realized the tunnel might not be complete. With his left hand, he tested the space directly
in front of him, gauging the strength of the stone, but it held firm.
He inched forward, noting the darkness in front of him grew increasingly blacker. It was several rapid heartbeats before he
could see the tunnel continued past a considerable gap in the stone.
He was getting close. Someone had gone to extreme measures to protect whatever was on the far end of this tunnel. He crawled
to the edge and peered down into a rock-walled chamber that dropped off into darkness below.
Ordinarily his height was a hindrance to his job, as he was always having to squeeze himself into the tiniest of places. But
in this regard, Fielding wagered he could make it across. He leaned over the edge, holding the torch low to see what fate
he would meet if he were to fail. The sand at the bottom of the chamber was littered with bones and wooden spikes that shot
up from the ground.
He took a steadying breath and, holding the torch in his teeth, made a leap to the other side. The distance was wider than
he’d anticipated, and although he managed to get his upper body across the divide, his legs dangled down toward the yawning
gap below. The bag around his waist shifted, changing his balance, and he began to slide. Using his hands and feet, he scrambled
for a hold on the slick walls of the chamber and managed to stop his descent.
