by Serena Janes
Last year, on the advice of a colleague, she’d hired a wonderful man in Damascus. But Ahmed had retired since then, and offered the services of his nephew, Bish. In his late twenties, Bish had a university degree in history and excellent spoken English. He was also handsome—maybe too handsome, Julie thought. He was clearly full of himself as he preened and paraded around in front of his Canadian charges like a rooster in a henhouse. He carried more luggage for the week than Julie had packed for the entire month. She and her mother wondered what was in those big bags of his.
With Hannah, Bish was borderline efficient and polite to the point of being obsequious. But with Julie he was unreserved and flirtatious, not shy about having identified her as the most attractive female of the group.
She didn’t really enjoy his attentions, however. She might have been looking for a little fling, but she wasn’t about to start carrying on with one of the locals. It wasn’t professional. Of course her mother would find out, and that would be embarrassing. Especially after Richard.
Besides, Bish annoyed Julie. He was too aware of his good looks, too casual about his flirting. She tried to avoid him, but she’d already had to ask for his help with a dozen little things. He made a big deal out of every one of them, implying that Julie should be grateful for his expertise, and perhaps consider rewarding him.
The next morning, Bish hired a local bus to take the group to the Temple of Ba’al. They all laughed when it lurched up to the front door of the Palm Guesthouse, looking like a refugee from a nineteen seventies movie about Marrakech. Painted with psychedelic motifs and peace symbols, it sported ric-rac fringe on top of its cracked and dirty windows. As everyone boarded, they were greeted by a grinning driver with a hand-rolled cigarette hanging out of his mouth. Julie couldn’t help smiling when he drew her attention to the dashboard. He seemed proud of his collection—an icon of the Virgin Mary, a statuette of Ganesh, a string of Nepalese prayer flags and a pink plastic piggy bank. She dropped a few coins into the piggy bank and made her way to a seat covered in ancient cracked turquoise leatherette. The bus was in pretty bad shape—both doors were missing and a stair at the back exit had collapsed. Surprisingly, it managed to get them to the temple without breaking down. She helped Bob and Rhonda negotiate the missing stair, then put on her sunglasses and straw hat. It was going to be hot.
She wasn’t up to sightseeing in the heat, and felt boredom settling over her. She was also annoyed with Bish, who was busy playing the cock of the walk as he led everyone through the admission gate. She trailed listlessly behind the group, taking a few photos and trying to erase the image of Richard’s lying face.
They were in love, she and Richard. Or at least that was what Julie had believed. But after almost a year of his procrastinating, she was having some serious doubts about his feelings for her. He’d promised, at least a half dozen times, to arrange his life so they could move in together. He’d promised that it would be after his daughter’s surgery, which, it turned out, was just a nose job. And then it was going to be in the spring, after his son graduated high school. It was spring now, and Julie was still living alone in her studio apartment in the West End, paying far too much rent.
Of course there was always another excuse. “You couldn’t possibly understand, honey. The life of a divorced man is never simple,” Richard insisted, caressing her cheek after a particularly quick bout of love-making at her apartment. “Now we’ve got to put the dog down. Finally, thank Christ.”
She’d rolled her eyes at the ceiling and put on her clothes. “And this is your problem why?” The dog lived in Kerrisdale with his ex-wife, Betty, and the two teenagers.
“Betty’s in hysterics over it. She can’t take him in. I have to do it.”
As far as Jackie could see, Betty must be the most inept person on the planet. She couldn’t seem to make a single decision—or complete the simplest of tasks—without Richard’s help.
Julie sighed, but Richard wasn’t finished. “And you know the department’s under review. And how stressed I’ve been,” he said with just a hint of petulance in his voice as he buttoned his shirt. “Let’s talk about this later, okay? After the damn dog’s dead, and my review is finished, when I can relax a little.” He kissed the tip of her nose and put on his coat. “I can’t see you until the weekend. Where do you want to go for dinner on Saturday? I’ll make reservations.”
Two weeks later it was his mother. She was ill and needed Richard to run her errands. Shortly after that, a distant cousin arrived from back East and Richard was pressed into more family duties. The worst excuse he dared to make was when he said he couldn’t come with Julie to look at apartments because his car needed new brakes. She almost walked out after that one.
But she didn’t. She loved him. After every emergency or celebration or simple life event, he would apologize, make love to her, and promise all over again.
Once or twice she had tried to end it, feeling ashamed of carrying on with a non-committal type of man—a non-committal man who was making no moves to change. A cowardly, lying, procrastinating, son-of-bitch non-committal man. Each time Julie grew cool toward him, Richard would redouble his efforts to string her along. He took her to fancy restaurants, on romantic weekend getaways. Rented a pretty little cottage in the woods, then a penthouse suite in downtown Victoria. And, once, they went on a mini-cruise to San Francisco.
At first, Julie had loved Richard with all the enthusiasm of a healthy, earnest, intelligent young woman. Of the men she’d known, he was the smartest, the funniest, the most charming. Maybe he wasn’t the best-looking. Maybe he was starting to lose his hair, and his body was getting a little slack. But she loved him regardless. She had convinced herself that he was the love of her life.
They’d met on her first day of graduate school. He was the hot-shot professor in the History department, and she was his new research assistant. At first, she wasn’t particularly interested, but through his slow, relentless pursuit she began to believe she was somehow special. After all, she was the one he’d singled out as his personal assistant. Therefore, she reasoned, she must be special. He was always surrounded by admirers, both male and female, but it was Julie he wanted to be with. She was flattered.
Then it was just a matter of feeding her enough white wine to wear down her defenses.
Julie knew that Hannah hadn’t been impressed when she learned that her only daughter was Professor Richard Wakeman’s new squeeze. One day, over a home-cooked dinner in her kitchen, Hannah had broached the touchy subject.
“Sweetheart, you know that every year he chooses a new student as his personal assistant.”
Julie wouldn’t meet her mother’s eyes. “Yeah. I know.” She pushed the grilled halibut around on her plate.
“And you also must know that at the end of every academic year, that young woman is unceremoniously replaced by a younger model.”
“But this is different.” She felt tears start to rise as she looked up at her mother.
Hannah sighed and put down her fork. “How is it different?”
Julie might have been too embarrassed to face the ugly facts of Richard’s character, but she wasn’t as much embarrassed as she was in love. She was so in love that she wouldn’t hear a word spoken against him.
“We’re in love. And we’re going to move in together. Then we’ll get married.” Julie wished she felt as confident as she sounded.
“Oh, Julie! Surely you can’t believe that!”
Now she was embarrassed. “Why not? People change.”
“Sweetheart, people don’t change.”
Julie sat motionless, saying nothing.
“Especially not men. Remember your father?”
Julie heard the tremor in her mother’s voice.
“Richard’s nothing like Dad! How can you even think to compare them?”
She felt sick, and stood up. “Just because you couldn’t hang onto Dad doesn’t mean that I can’t hold onto a man.” Shoc
ked at saying such a terrible thing, Julie walked to the door and put on her coat. “I have to go now. Thanks for dinner.”
All the way home Julie fought back the stinging tears of regret and pain. She knew there was a good chance her mother was right. And it was killing her.
The next day she dropped in to Hannah’s office and apologized. Then she said that, if the job was still vacant, she would love to accompany her again as her assistant on her cultural tour of the Middle East in May.
Julie squinted up through her dark glasses at the bas-relief carving of the seven planets known to the ancient world. She was standing in the northern chamber of the temple, trying to ignore Bish’s running commentary. Surrounding the planets were images of the twelve signs of the zodiac. When she was younger, she wouldn’t have given two hoots about astrology. But now that she was more mature, she knew better than to discount any kind of belief system,
They’re so old. It’s hard to imagine living in a world that knew only seven planets and relied on horoscopes to make life decisions. But maybe that’s better than relying on your emotions.
Bish’s self-important voice kept grating on her nerves. “Two thousand years ago, the Temple of Ba’al was dedicated to the worship of a Semitic god,” he said. “It was the most important religious building in the Middle East. Its earliest form was Greek. But there are only a few stones left from the Hellenistic period. Over there.” He pointed to a half dozen smooth stones in the corner. “The rest of the remains combine near-eastern and Greco-Roman elements. Very rare. Take pictures.” He turned to Julie, who was standing as far away as she could without appearing rude. “Are you interested in architecture, Miss Julie?”
“Yes,” she said flatly, rolling her eyes behind her dark glasses. She hated that he called her Miss Julie.
Duh—I’m here, aren’t I?
“Come over here and take a closer look at the detail of these carvings. You won’t see anything like this again.” His smile was borderline lecherous as he motioned with his hand. He could have been inviting her into his bedroom.
He was right about the artwork, Julie knew, but she didn’t want to play his game. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to excuse me for a moment.” She turned on her heel and walked toward the public restroom.
It was only mid morning, and the sun was hot in the pale sky, bleaching the landscape. She kept her face down as she picked her way over broken bits of stone, bricks and tile. She didn’t want to sprain an ankle on their first day in the field.
That was when she saw them.
The tire tracks.
A chevron pattern, leading her to her heart’s desire.
Again, in the powdery sand they looked as clear as if they’d been cast in concrete. She followed them with her eyes, and almost gasped when they ended under the bike. It was missing its driver, parked in front of the administrative buildings just outside the compound walls. A helmet was resting on the seat, but no backpack.
With a furtive glance at her mother and Bish—still discussing the carving techniques of the ancients, she assumed—she picked up her pace and walked quickly toward the bike. Not really knowing what she was going to do once she reached it, she took off her hat and smoothed her hair.
Three young men, locals, were sitting on a stone wall beside the bike. When she drew near they leered at her, one of them pointing toward the public toilet.
“Ten pounds,” he said, holding out his hand. Julie frowned, but then she saw the small, hand-lettered sign for the ladies’ toilet. Ten pounds. It was a pittance, in Canadian money—about a dime—but she didn’t need to use the toilet.
She shook her head and kept walking until she got to the main entrance of the largest building. The structure appeared to be divided into offices, according to various signs, all in English. But one sign leaped out at Julie—The Danish Archaeological Institute. Second floor.
Aha! The plot thickens. Maybe he’s an archaeologist. That would be awesome.
She pushed open the heavy door and was met by a wall of stale, stifling air. No air conditioner. It was eerily quiet, and she felt like a trespasser.
Just as she spotted a staircase leading to the second floor, she heard a door open and close somewhere above her head. Then heavy footsteps. The footsteps stopped at the top of the stairs and she looked up to see boots. Serious boots. From her vantage, they looked pretty sexy. Thick black leather. And then they were coming down the stairs toward her. She saw a fine pair of legs encased in lightweight grey pants. Not riding pants. Stay-around-town pants. A leather belt around a trim waist. A pale grey cotton shirt, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Strong brown arms. A pair of square shoulders and a smooth brown throat.
Then all she saw were the eyes. Grey and hard as steel. The owner of those eyes glared at her. She tried to step toward him, but found she couldn’t move a single muscle. Her body seemed to have gone numb.
“Can I help you?” he asked in English, with an accent that threatened to melt her bones.
“I, um, no. I mean, no, thank you. I was just looking around and I thought I’d come in out of the sun. It’s awfully hot already, although it isn’t even ten yet. I’m not used to the heat, and…”
The look on his beautiful face stopped her short. He was clearly not impressed. She shut her mouth.
God! I’m such a dope. Get a grip.
Extending her hand, she took a deep breath and stepped toward him, saying in a completely different voice, “Hello. My name is Julie Stevens, and I’m traveling with a cultural tour from a university in Vancouver, Canada. I’m afraid I may be a little jet-lagged and culture-shocked at the moment. But I am very glad to meet you.”
He took her hand in his. He was strong, but he shook it lightly. It was exciting. She thought she’d never felt so much pure masculine energy in a handshake before. When he let go she was momentarily confused.
Then she heard what he was saying to her in his lilting English.
“I am Torval Jensen, from Copenhagen. You can rest in here for as long as you like, but I must excuse myself. I have a meeting. Goodbye.”
He walked past her and out through the door.
Gone. Just like that.
Julie was rigid with surprise. And deeply disappointed. She thought she’d never see her mystery rider again, but here he was. It was as if the gods, the muses, or the planets had conspired and aligned to give her a perfect opportunity to get over her wounded heart. But the Dane, damn him, wasn’t cooperating.
He was still in town—yes—yet she couldn’t keep him engaged for more than five seconds. She needed to try harder. She wanted another crack at him.
Her body was making it perfectly clear to her head that she had to see him again. Somehow, she felt, it was fated.
Chapter Two
Tor turned off the highway onto an unpaved road, eased the throttle of the big BMW, and relaxed back into his seat. The road looked softer than it was. A layer of fine sand lay on the surface, but underneath it seemed as hard as concrete. It probably hadn’t rained out here for a hundred years, he thought.
He could see evidence of the dig up ahead—a few jeeps and some scooters were parked haphazardly under an expanse of pale blue sky. A makeshift tent provided shelter from the burning sun. There was also a portable latrine. But he was still too far away to make out his cousin John and the team of European archaeology students who’d chosen to spend their spring semester digging in a sweltering pit in the middle of the Syrian desert.
Christ, when I was their age I chose to wait tables on a party boat in the Mediterranean. And then there was the year I worked that crazy bar in Majorca. Easy work. Lots of cash. Lots of fun.
But Tor hadn’t been having much fun these days now that he was a grown-up, with a grown-up’s problems.
He slowed down and veered off the rutted road onto the even more rutted parking area and shut off the motor. He sensed about a dozen people watching him take off his helmet and shake the dust from his clothe
s. A tall blond man leaped out of the excavation and walked toward him, hand extended, a big smile on his face.
“Torval! You found us,” he said in Danish. “I thought you were lost.”
“Yeah, it took me a while to get my bearings, but here I am.” Tor answered in Danish, his native tongue sounding a bit strange after weeks of speaking mostly English.
“Come on out of the sun. Do you want a drink? We’ve got cold Tuborg.”
“Excellent.”
The two men walked to the tent and sat down on overturned plastic crates.
“So tell me about your trip,” John said as he handed Tor a beer.
“It’s been good. Long. Tiring. But good.” Tor took a strong pull on the bottle.
Ahh. Delicious.
Throughout northern Syria, Tor had problems finding liquor of any kind. Muslims didn’t drink, of course, and tourists had to be pretty savvy to find purveyors of any kind of alcoholic beverages. He’d managed to secure some second-rate wine in Hama and Aleppo, and this was the first good beer he’d tasted since Bulgaria.
“Any problems en route?”
“Not really. I’m lucky to have made it this far without any major incidents.” If I don’t count almost getting my prick cut off by that crazy son-of-a-bitch in Istanbul.
“How long have you been on the road?”
“Just over three weeks. I haven’t been in a hurry.” He stared at the Danish lettering on the bottle in his hand. He wasn’t feeling homesick yet. It was good to be away. “I stopped a few days in all the major cities on the way—Berlin, Prague, Bratislava, Vienna, Budapest.” He drained the bottle and set it in the sand beside his feet. “Then down to Sofia and east to Istanbul, where I stayed four or five days. One night in Hama, two in Aleppo, and here I am.”
“Want another?”
“Thanks, maybe one more. That was great.” He swept a hand out toward the hole full of students, now industriously back at work. “How’s it going for you?”
