by Serena Janes
“As well as can be expected,” John said, lowering his voice and draining his own bottle. “The usual funding cuts. Politics. Horny Norwegian chicks who can’t keep their hands off me.” He grinned. “Want one?” He dipped his head toward the diggers.
Tor laughed. “No, thanks. I’ve decided I need to steer clear of women for the next little while. Just me and the bike and the open road, you know?”
“Smart man. If Allison finds out about what I’ve been up to it’s going to be game over for me. I’ll lose the house, the kids, half my money. And I’ll probably have to pay her legal costs, too. Life just isn’t fair,” he said as he fumbled in the cooler for another beer.
Just then a shapely young woman wearing short shorts and a skimpy tank top stepped out of the pit and walked toward the two men. She wore that I’m-so-irresistibly-sexy simper on her pretty freckled face as she whipped off her hat and fluffed her blonde curls. She probably wasn’t more than twenty-one, just ripe for getting into trouble, Tor figured.
Keep the hell away from me. I’ve got enough problems, thank you very much.
John introduced Karen—one of his best students, he said—to his cousin, then dismissed her by saying they were having a private conversation. She sidled away prettily, casting a come-hither glance to Tor as she rolled her shapely hips.
Fuck! Can’t they leave me alone?
That was when he remembered the young Canadian woman he’d brushed off back at the institute’s offices. She was standing alone in the foyer when he came downstairs. She seemed lost, and babbled something about being disorientated and over-heated. But then she turned all businesslike on him when she introduced herself. She offered her hand, and he recalled how small and soft it felt. Vulnerable. Delicate. And sexy.
Fuck! Can’t I stop thinking about sex? I’m already running away from one woman. I don’t need any more. I have to keep my head down and my pants zipped up.
But that Canadian was really pretty. Classy, too. Elegant, even, in her pale pants and blouse. No jewelry, but thick chestnut hair. Really sexy eyes, dark and kind of naked-looking, whatever that meant. Her clothes were too loose for him to guess at her body—a wise move in this part of the world. But she was a little taller than most, and slender, he guessed.
Tor shook his head and tried to erase her image from his mind. He asked his cousin about his family. The answer took more than twenty minutes.
John had been married young to his childhood sweetheart. They had three children in rapid succession, a hardship for the struggling graduate student. But they’d pulled through, and now John was a full professor at one of Copenhagen’s best universities. He taught archaeology courses in the fall and winter, and led digs on site in the spring. During summers, he was free.
But the rigors of marriage, parenting and full-time academic life had not made John a happy man. Tor sympathized. He and John had been close, growing up, and shared many of the same values. They’d both wanted to travel. They’d both wanted to have lots of adventures before they settled down.
But an unplanned pregnancy had locked John into domestic life long before he was ready. Now, almost ten years later, Tor found himself fighting against the same fate.
Elsa came into Tor’s life two years ago. He was almost thirty, and she was barely in her twenties. Young as she was, she knew what she wanted. She wanted Tor. But once she caught him, she wanted even more. She wanted him to change. Then, she wanted a wedding. After that, she wanted two children—a boy and a girl. To house them all, she wanted a detached rural home. And a dog.
He and Elsa loved each other, Tor was certain. But he just couldn’t do it. He wasn’t finished playing. Sure, he’d done a lot of traveling, enjoyed a lot of adventures, several love affairs and many, many one-night stands. But he expected there was something more waiting for him out there.
Once he fell in love, though, he made compromises for Elsa. He’d moved out of his bachelor loft into a tidy two-bedroom with her and her cats. He’d stopped partying, and cut down on the number of business trips he took. Then he traded in his small motorcycle for a touring bike with a big cushy back seat. He wanted to ride around the world with Elsa tucked in behind him.
The problem was, Elsa didn’t want to go touring on the back of a bike. They’d had one disastrous trip to Holland, and that was enough to convince Tor that they were at cross purposes. She liked to travel in comfort, she explained. With a lot of luggage. Riding on the bike hurt her back. It dried out her skin and hair—her list of complaints was long. Her idea of a holiday was to fly First Class to a city with five-star hotels and high-end department stores.
Then came the hard part. Breaking up with Elsa had just about driven Tor mad. First there was her denial. Her refusal to accept the facts. Then came the anger, the acting out, the threatening, pleading, cajoling telephone calls, emails, and texts. Finally, she’d resorted to threats of suicide.
That was when Tor fled. In all fairness, he’d tried everything he could to deal with her pain. Talking, listening, crying. Even, against his better judgment, make-up sex. Then it was time to call for reinforcements—her mother, her friends, a counselor and a physician. She was diagnosed with depression and treated with the newest generation of anti-depressants.
Heavily-medicated, Elsa turned into another woman entirely. Introverted, passive—lazy, even. Tor was frightened. He felt responsible. And if that was what a relationship could do to a person, he wanted no part of it. He packed a few clothes, jumped on his bike and spun his wheels out of town. The plan was to head as far south as Aswan on the Nile. He’d never been to Egypt. Then he’d play it by ear.
He felt guilty, but he believed making himself unavailable to her would actually help her recovery. It had certainly helped him. He hadn’t seen her for a month, and every day he came closer to accepting that getting out was the best thing he could have done.
And he swore it would be a cold day in hell before he’d let a woman mess up his life again.
Chapter Three
After lunch, Bish had arranged to take everyone to explore Palmyra’s famous Valley of the Tombs. Julie had already visited the mile-long necropolis the year before, with Ahmed, but the tombs were some of the most interesting structures she’d ever seen, and she wanted to see them again. The tower tombs were especially fascinating, she thought. Unusual and rare, they were one of Palmyra’s best archeological features.
When she stepped out of the hotel into the afternoon sun she was shocked at the high temperature. Desert heat always surprised her in its intensity even though she always prepared as best she could. Off-white linen clothes covered her from wrist to ankle, and she wore a wide-brimmed straw hat. Her shoes were made of a breathable fabric with a rubber sole, hardly attractive but practical for the desert.
Again, the group climbed into the psychedelic bus, and again their local driver joked and laughed with his charges as the bus lurched and rattled all the way to the first tower tomb.
On the bus, Julie noticed that Marc was sitting beside her mother. Already he seemed to claim Hannah for himself. Julie watched her mother’s face light up each time he leaned toward her to speak, and she worried. Hannah had been divorced for two and a half years, and so far hadn’t met anyone she wanted to see more than casually. Marc seemed like an intelligent man. Reasonably good-looking. Relatively sane, as far as Julie could determine. If her mother liked him, well…that wouldn’t be such a terrible thing.
But why does she have to meet someone now? While we’re at work? Not very professional to fool around with the clients, mom. You won’t catch me doing that with Bish.
She squirmed a little when she realized she was being a hypocrite. Her carrying on with Richard was certainly no different. Maybe, she thought, she was just worried about her mother getting hurt again.
When they reached the first tower, everyone followed Bish through the narrow opening and up the stairs to a large, tall room stacked high with burial compartments. A pale dusty li
ght shone through the bars in the lone unglazed window. It was very hot, and the air smelled centuries old.
“These structures were designed so that the bodies were entombed on their sides. Then a carved bust would be placed at the end of the compartment to identify the deceased,” Bish explained.
Julie looked up at the tall stone shelves, built high enough to hold six bodies, one on top of the other. They were empty now, the busts gone, all broken off at the neck.
“The Danes arrived in the nineteenth century, and are responsible for carrying off most of the treasures that were once buried here. They were the ones who broke off the busts and took them back to decorate rich men’s homes. Some ended up in museums. I understand there’s a good collection at the Glyptotech in Copenhagen. We think we should demand their return. What do you think?” Bish looked at the curious faces around him, a self-righteous expression on his handsome face.
“I think that’s bullshit.”
Everyone’s head turned at once to see the owner of that statement. Julie froze in mid-turn as she recognized Tor’s Scandinavian accent before she saw the man himself. Her mouth fell open. Obviously he’d come in behind them, quietly.
“Excuse me?” Bish’s voice turned imperious. “Who are you?”
“Who are you to be spreading such propaganda? The Danes were not the only foreigners excavating in your desert. If you went to Russia, you’d find some of these pieces in the Hermitage. And then there’s the Germans. And the Norwegians. Don’t forget the Japanese, Austrians, and Poles.”
Bish seemed momentarily stunned. Then he straightened his back and glared at Tor. “Perhaps you have a point, but the Danes took the lion’s share. And we want it back.” His dark face had turned a mottled red
“Perhaps your national treasures would have been better protected if…”
“What do you know about what my people have had to—”
“Gentlemen,” interrupted Marc. “I think we understand the issues.” He stepped forward, placing a hand on Bish’s shoulder. “And we have several more tombs to explore. So shall we move on?”
Bish continued to glare at the interloper, who throughout the exchange maintained a steely-eyed stance. Julie stared at Tor, admiring the lines of his face, illuminated by the shafts of yellow light pouring through the windows. He was one handsome dude. She began to fiddle with the collar of her shirt.
Then he looked at her. As soon as she felt those eyes on her, she was overcome by a flush of pure desire. It started deep in the core of her body, passed along her arms and legs, right down to the tips of her fingers and toes. When it reached the top of her head, she managed to smile at him. When he didn’t smile back, she looked down at the hat in her hands, still smiling.
Holy shit, he’s sexy.
Everyone filed past him as he stood squarely at the head of a row of tombs as if he were protecting them. Julie left last, right behind Bish, who muttered something in Arabic under his breath as he passed the Dane.
“Asshole,” Tor replied softly, and then he looked at Julie. That was when he smiled.
Her knees almost gave out. She couldn’t move.
“Are you okay?” he asked.
Goddamn! “Uh. Yes. Fine. It’s just a little hot in here.”
She’d wanted another crack at beguiling him with her feminine charms, but now that she had it she was paralyzed.
“And you don’t like the heat. You said yesterday.”
“That’s right. And I don’t like arguments, either. I find them threatening.”
“Nothing to worry about. Just two guys having a pissing contest. I guess I won.”
“I guess you did.” She smiled weakly and put on her hat. For some odd reason she was feeling threatened by his attentions. Her attraction to him was much stronger than any she’d ever experienced. “I’d better go.” She moved toward the doorway.
“Where are you staying?”
The question seemed to come out of the blue. Julie was shocked. Confused, for a moment. This wasn’t what she’d expected at all. She hadn’t so much as batted an eyelash and he was already interested. She turned and looked up at him. “Um, at the Palm Guesthouse. You?”
“With my cousin. He’s renting a house.”
“Oh.” She couldn’t think of anything to say.
“Will I see you around town tonight?”
“Maybe. I’d better go. They’re waiting for me.”
“See you later then, Julie.”
He remembered my name! I didn’t even think he’d heard it.
She found her way down the ancient stone staircase without falling head over heels, and ran up to the psychedelic bus, idling in the heat, spewing clouds of burning oil into the desert.
That night the group walked a few blocks to a hotel restaurant for dinner. Bish had reserved a table large enough to seat them all, and Julie was pained to see how quickly he slid into the seat next to her. But it was all she could do to pay attention to what he was saying. Her mind was racing with probabilities.
Will I see him again? How will he find me? Where’s he eating? Why didn’t he ask me to meet him somewhere specific?
She’d taken extra care with her hair and make-up, and was wearing her most feminine clothes. Her white cotton blouse was delicately gathered at the neckline and showed her pretty collarbones. In this conservative Muslim country, she dared not show anything else. Her skirt was mid-calf in length, gracefully falling over her hips in silky folds of pale fabric. She thought she looked good.
And so, apparently, did Bish. He talked at her full throttle speed as she picked at her food. She had no appetite for the grilled vegetables on her plate, even though they smelled appetizing. Instead, she sipped a beer slowly, savoring its cool wet bitterness and tried to ignore Bish’s attentions. It was at moments like this that she was grateful she was staying in a tourist part of Syria, free to drink alcohol in public.
Being Muslim, Bish didn’t imbibe. But that didn’t stop him from growing increasingly aggressive toward her as the evening progressed. She moved her chair as far from him as she could, and turned to talk to Peggy.
But Bish couldn’t take a hint. Finally, after a second beer, Julie leaned over and said in a low voice, “Look, Bish, I’m really not what you want. I’m engaged to be married, and not about to fool around. Why don’t you go over and talk to Tina and Tanya? They like you.”
His head swiveled around to look at the opposite end of the table. The pale blonde twins sat together, their faces as smooth and pink as a couple of soft plastic dolls. In unison, they smiled at Bish, and instantly he got up to join them.
There! Problem solved. A little white lie never hurt anyone.
Now Julie could work on her plan. She had to get out there, somewhere outside, without looking conspicuous. And she couldn’t wander the streets alone. It wasn’t safe. When she overheard Marc offering to escort Hannah on a walk along the Great Colonnade, she interrupted him to invite herself along.
She noted the look of disappointment on Marc’s face when her mother said, “Of course, sweetheart. It’s a beautiful night for walking.”
Julie and Hannah went up to their room to change their shoes and pick up shawls. It might be close to a hundred degrees during the day, but evenings were chilly. Then they met Marc outside.
The sun had long since disappeared behind the hills, but the black sky was lit with the light of a million stars. As they approached the ruined colonnade of the once-magnificent city, Julie saw the floodlights begin to glow brighter. The entire scene was extraordinarily beautiful. The majestic Corinthian columns each reached up into the dark, the lights illuminating every carved detail. Julie loved stonework. Loved its beauty and permanence.
As she walked lazily, filling her lungs with the cool, clear desert air, she realized she was happy for the first time in many months. She hadn’t thought about Richard all afternoon, and was, at least for the moment, free of her fear of having it end.
&nb
sp; Yes, it was a good idea to leave town.
Vaguely, she heard her mother telling Marc about the ruined city’s history, and the queen who once ruled it.
“Queen Zenobia ruled the Palmyrene Empire, but the Romans put an end to that. What I’ve always found fascinating is that the Palmyrans were able to live side-by-side with the Romans but managed to retain their cultural independence.”
Marc seemed to be staring at Hannah as she spoke. Hannah kept her eyes ahead of her.
Julie felt a twinge of jealousy. He’s obviously smitten. I wish someone would look at me like that.
The sound of a small motor broke her reverie. It came closer, from behind, slowing just before it reached them. Julie couldn’t stop herself from turning around, her heart in her throat, and hoping…
It was just a local vendor, traveling around on his decrepit little bike, dozens of bead necklaces and bracelets swathed over his body. He smiled a brown-toothed grin and held out an arm ringed with his wares.
Hannah shook her head. Julie and Marc did as well. “No, shukran.”
The man nodded somberly, turned his bike around and drove off. Julie felt a stab of pity—he was just trying to feed his family. Tourism was down, political turmoil was the norm, and people were having a hard time of it.
Marc must have been feeling the same way. “Poor bugger. I feel like I should just buy the whole lot of them and chuck them over the fence. Then someone could find them and resell them.”
“Yes,” said Hannah, looking up at him. “I feel the same way.”
Julie looked at her mother’s suitor, too.
Maybe I don’t have to worry about Mom. God knows she’s done worse.
Just then the sound of another motor approached from behind. This was a bigger engine, Julie knew. She dared to hope again as she turned around.
Yes!
Tor wasn’t wearing his helmet and his hair was loose in the night air. Long, thick like a lion’s mane. The same color as a lion’s mane.
