Relentless (Lodestone)

by Cherry Adair

  Since he wasn’t moving farther into the room, she didn’t, either, but the narrow opening between the bathroom door and mirrored closet was forcing her to stand closer to him than she felt comfortable with and gave her a fantastic view of his backside. Isis was confused and disgusted with herself. Men had died. How could she be even remotely aware of Thorne’s body, his very alive body, when things could’ve fallen apart so easily? He could have died. She could have died. And what the hell was going to happen when the authorities discovered the bodies in the underpass?

  “First thing in the morning, we have to report both the accident and the men who attacked us, and see if anyone retrieved our luggage from the cab.”

  Not that she was looking forward to reliving their experience, nor going to the local authorities, who could just as easily accuse them of both crimes. They hadn’t shown any concern for her father when they’d found him wandering the desert alone and injured. In fact, at first they’d accused him of murdering his crew himself. Isis shuddered and rubbed her upper arms, more for comfort than warmth.

  “Already done.”

  How long had she been in the shower? She locked gazes with him. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve gone with you.” And hated every second of it, but she should’ve been with him. She at least owed him the courtesy of standing beside him since he’d gotten her through the incident alive. “What time do we have to go in for questioning?”

  “We don’t. It’s all squared away.”

  She gave him a narrow-eyed look. Moves like that took bribes. Expensive bribes. “Thorne, I can’t afford baksheesh. I told you, I’m doing this on a shoestring—”

  “You didn’t mention that, actually,” he pointed out dryly. “But don’t worry about it. I assure you, it’s taken care of. I know people.”

  Isis bit back a sharp reply. He’d saved her life tonight, and his leg must be killing him. Maybe his royal lineage got him places she couldn’t go, like the museum. She blew out a breath, determined to be fair. “Your networking skills are impressive. Remember that I hired you, and that I’m responsible for expenses, okay?”

  Heavy bribes—baksheesh—were the cost of doing business here. Everyone expected them, especially the authorities. They weren’t in her budget.

  “I told you not to worry.” He stared at her as if that was all that needed to be said.

  She lifted her chin in defiance. Okay, three times was enough. She needed to reestablish the ground rules. “Seriously? You work for me. I think we’d better establish who’s the boss, and who signs your paycheck.” Isis dropped the finger she’d pointed at him and stuck her hand in her pocket. Anger was good. Healthy. Much better than finding his arrogance sexy.

  “Zak Stark signs my paycheck, and while we’re here, I’m the boss. If you don’t like it, feel free to hie your pert arse back to Seattle and wait for my report.” His British accent became more clipped and pronounced and she got the feeling he’d prefer it if she left.

  “You can be such an ass.” She said it without rancor. He was who he was. And it was clear he wasn’t going to change his tune just because… what? She was Isis Magee? A paying client? Her lips almost twitched as she realized she was giving herself a pep talk. Right?!

  “So I’ve been told.” He stuck his fingertips in his front pockets. Loose, but controlled. “We have no idea who those men were, or if they’ll come after us again.”

  “The ones you left alive and still able to walk, you mean?” she demanded, matching his sarcasm. She refused to believe the police had let him get away with murder. Even if it had been warranted. There was more to Connor Thorne than met the eye. She had to stop letting his appeal distract her.

  “Yes, those. And whatever friends and relatives they want to cut in on the deal.”

  Reality check, Isis Cleopatra. She fell back against the bathroom doorjamb with a thump. “You don’t think it was random, do you?” Oh, God. She’d been hoping her suspicions were wrong. It was hard to maintain her anger at him, even when he deserved it, when she had withheld what might be relevant information. Now who was the ass?

  “Thorne—I—Those men—The accident. The ambush. I think they might be the same men who attacked my father. I’m sorry. I had no idea I’d be bringing you into danger. Not that you weren’t amazing at defending us. But now that you’re in danger I think you should go back to London, or Seattle. I don’t want you to get hurt because of me.”

  He raised a dark brow that spoke volumes.

  Her cheeks heated. She didn’t want him to go. But she had no right to ask him to stay. He could’ve been killed tonight. She could’ve been killed tonight. She walked farther into the room, but he didn’t follow her, so she went back to where he stood reflected in the mirrored doors of the closet. One Connor Thorne was enough for any woman. Two was overkill.

  She stuck her hands in the deep pockets of the robe and forced herself to maintain eye contact. Confessions sucked, especially when she was the one in the wrong. “I think those men might have been after me. You were in the way, which is why you took the brunt of the attack.” Guilt gave her a pain in her midsection as she considered what happened from this point of view. Not random. Deliberate. Her fault.

  Isis saw her too-big eyes, huge in in her pale face, reflected beside him. Her wet hair was slicked back off her face and moisture dribbled down her throat, tickling her skin. Thorne said nothing. He towered over her petite frame, and even though he was only a foot or so taller, he was big, broad, and incredibly masculine.

  “My father didn’t make up his attack—I think even you have to believe that after tonight.” Not an ounce of empathy was evident on Thorne’s face as she spoke. “I’m not going to let a bunch of thugs scare me off. I’ll hire some bodyguards. Tonight’s events convince me more than ever that my father found Cleo’s tomb—” She sucked a painful breath into her aching chest.

  God. What a mess. What a scary, insane mess.

  “Someone wants to discredit him. And now I think those men knew I was here to find it—”

  “Before you confess to masterminding the entire attack yourself”—he paused and sent her a look verging on kind—“this is Cairo. It’s possible the attackers followed two rich Europeans from the airport with the express intention of robbing us.”

  “What thieves would go to that much trouble to attack two tourists? I’m not dripping in diamonds, and you…” She waved her hand at his nice but not too nice black-on-black ensemble. She stumbled over her words and caught herself from calling him gorgeous out loud. “Or, we could be close to uncovering a clue to the whereabouts of the tomb, and those people were sent to stop us,” Isis insisted stubbornly, distracted by the path his eyes were taking as he followed a drop of water that trickled from her hair down her throat.

  “Stop us from—what exactly?” He put his hand on the door handle and gave her a politely inquiring look that held a trace of heat. “Arriving at the airport and taking a quick drive through the souk?”

  She cinched the belt around her waist and wished she’d ignored her repugnance to re-dress in the bathroom. Even though she was decently covered from throat to ankles, she knew that he knew she was naked underneath.

  “My father was well-known here. At one point his reputation was unimpeachable. People know the name Magee. Many people in antiquities know me, or at least my name. Maybe they’ve been watching the airport to see if my father came back. You have to at least entertain the idea that we’re on to something, and those men may have tried to stop us from getting close to the tomb.”

  “I’ll add the info to my list.” Thorne’s gaze was fixed on her mouth.

  Was he actually listening to her, or just looking? The terry cloth abraded her nipples as she shifted. “You have a list?” He was sex on a stick, Isis thought, annoyed with herself. It was impossible to concentrate on what was important when her body was hyperaware of him all the time. She wished there was an off switch for a few hours so she could think straight. “What kind of list?�
�

  His warm hand slid under her hair and his fingers closed around her nape without him seeming to have stepped closer. She certainly didn’t step back.

  “I never rule anything out.”

  Her vision blurred, her insides melting as his thumb lightly caressed the base of her skull. It wasn’t that she didn’t want Thorne to kiss her—God only knew she did, and badly. “About these men—”

  “Don’t want to talk about them right now.”

  “Then about my father—”

  “Definitely don’t want to discuss him now, either.”

  “But—”

  He brushed his other thumb over her lower lip, effectively boxing her in. Her lips throbbed with anticipation. She sighed as he took her mouth in a deep, slow kiss that mated their tongues in a slick, hot dance.

  Isis liked to have the upper hand, and he was taking that away with his persuasive, marauding lips. When she was in control, she could stop. Not easily, but she could. When he took that away from her, she was helpless to resist. He was taking the balance of power from her, and she shouldn’t like it. Shouldn’t want it—but God help her, she did.

  She opened her eyes to see the darker outer ring of green around his irises. Abandon hope all ye who enter here. Isis broke the lip-lock and had to clear her throat before she managed to say, “This isn’t very professional.” It sounded a whole lot more breathless and inviting than she intended.

  His hand slid down her back and around her waist and he drew her up on her toes with his palm on her back. “Not in any way, shape, or form,” he admitted with a breath from her lips. The penetrating green eyes saw right through her bravado, saw right down to the part of her that was naked, willing, and wanton. It would be foolish to claim she didn’t want him when her desire for him was evident in every atom of her body.

  He brushed her lips with his and murmured, “You should lodge a complaint.”

  “You don’t listen to complaints.” Isis slid her palms up his chest, feeling the tensile strength of solid muscle. She bracketed his face with both hands as he angled his head, pulled her in tighter, then parted her lips with his tongue. His jaw was rough, he hadn’t shaved, his skin was warm, his mouth decadently pliable. Stroking his cheeks with her thumbs, she hummed her pleasure as she ran her stiffened tongue over the roof of his mouth.

  Thorne shuddered. She let her tongue soften, slinking over his to prowl along the hard edge of his teeth. His fingers tightened on her back.

  He was a Master Kisser. And Lord help her, Isis was a woman who loved kissing. But he took it to a whole new level, to uncharted reaches. She loved the slip and slide of meshing tongues, and the firmness of smooth lips. She loved the heat, and the textures. She loved hurtling into the unknown. For her, a kiss wasn’t necessarily the endgame or a prelude to bigger and better things. A kiss was its own entity, to be savored and enjoyed while it lasted.

  A hot, trembling need swept through her body, filling every cell with want. They’d fight for supremacy—later. For now she sank into the kiss and enjoyed every moment of it. He tasted of whisky, smoky and powerful, but more profoundly, he tasted achingly, wonderfully familiar.

  By the time their lips parted, they were both breathless. Isis dropped her head to his chest as she waited out her crazy heartbeat and breathlessness. Her lips buzzed deliciously. “Wow. That was…”

  “Yeah.” His breath blew hot on the crown of her head.

  Isis stepped out of his arms and smiled up at him through a haze of lust. She had to clear her head. “I’ll get dressed. Thank you for bringing me—What did you bring me?” Her body hummed.

  “Something to wear tomorrow.”

  “Was the boutique open? What time is it?” Well after midnight.

  “The hotel staff opened the shop for me briefly so you would have something to wear. You can choose what you like in the morning.”

  Like any woman, Isis loved new clothes, but her thrifty side insisted they might get their luggage back, and if not, then she wasn’t willing to pay the exorbitant prices at the upscale hotel boutique. “Not at those prices I won’t.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll pay.”

  “No, thank you. I’ll pay my own expenses. And would you please stop telling me not to worry?”

  His chest rose and fell and her fingers ached to touch him. “There isn’t a snowball’s chance in hell of ever seeing those suitcases again. Probably stolen before we came to a full stop after the accident. Fortunately I had our papers and passports on me.”

  Isis stared at his lips as he spoke. She was mesmerized. How could a man so controlled kiss like a bohemian? It was great news, but it still wasn’t an answer. “And a gun, apparently.” She gave him an even look. “How did you manage to get that through customs?”

  “I have a permit.”

  Connections and money—a life much different from hers.

  “I know some little shops in the souk. When we go to see Beniti, I’ll take a quick detour to find something suitable.” And cheap. “I can’t believe this.” Isis put her hand to her belly. “I think I’m actually hungry.”

  “Get dressed.” He jerked his chin toward the bathroom. “The dining room is open for another half hour.” Hot green eyes held hers. “Unless you’d rather stay in and order room service?”

  SIX

  The Israelis were just as eager as Thorne and MI5 to capture and prosecute the Russian tomb raider who for more than a decade had been stealing priceless antiquities and spiriting them out of Egypt and Israel to sell on the black market.

  Thorne’s arrival in London must’ve alerted Yermalof’s people to his return from the dead.

  Thirteen months earlier, Thorne and fellow MI5 operatives Lynn Maciej and Troy Ayers had followed Boris Yermalof’s trail through Cairo into Israel. It was on Israeli soil that the kidnapping of Maciej had occurred. Seven members of the Mossad were killed in the resulting bloodbath that night.

  With the aid of the Israelis, Thorne and Ayers tracked Yermalof to an oasis just outside Cairo where he was holding their female partner. What the sick fuck had done to her still turned Thorne’s iron stomach. He’d seen a lot in his job, but that…

  The Russian had extracted his pound of flesh for their audacity in hunting him down like a dog. Not to mention the sales he’d lost due to MI5’s months-long, relentless pursuit.

  He’d committed atrocities on Maciej before Thorne and Ayers had arrived. The trap had slammed shut behind them. Gut shot, Thorne had been incapable of defending himself—although God only knows he’d tried. The bastard used his knife to slice him from knee to balls. Thorne’s stomach roiled. Experienced enough to know just how much pain to inflict and still keep a man alive, the Russian had kept them all in excruciating pain for hours. Yermalof enjoyed his work and had made it last. When he thought he’d ensured Thorne would die from blood loss, he’d turned to work on Ayers.

  Bleeding like a sieve, Thorne had hung on to consciousness by a thread as he watched, through dazed, slitted eyes, the excruciating deaths of his partners. The memory of their screams, pleading with Yermalof to put an end to their agony, still fucked with his ability to sleep through the night. The Russian had laughed as he strolled out of the stifling warehouse, believing them all dead.

  Three Mossad operatives had hauled Thorne’s arse out of there and carried him miles to medical help, then evaced him to a hospital in Tel Aviv before he was shipped back to London.

  He’d put in a call to his field officer at Thames House in the early hours of this morning to read them in. MI5 was willing to step in if the connection to Yermalof was confirmed.

  Suspected, not confirmed.

  Thorne considered Isis’s confession that the incidents the day before had something to do with her father. Maybe. But most likely not. As far as he knew, no one was aware that she was in Egypt.

  No. Yermalof had clearly followed him from London. Now he knew he had to get Isis back to Seattle with a minimum of fuss.

  He was reminded by
MI5 that he still had months left on his medical leave of absence, and that Yermalof had last been seen with his mistress across the globe in Argentina. In other words, basically, “Fuck you for your years of service to Her Majesty the Queen.”

  With a second call to friends in high places, Thorne had procured a car and some extra muscle. Accompanying the armor-plated, bulletproof-glassed, four-wheel-drive vehicle was a well-armed Mossad driver. Both waited outside the hotel for them that morning. Doug Heustis, a big guy with white hair who looked like someone’s kindly grandfather, didn’t warrant a second look. But Thorne knew his sharp eyes missed nothing. A good man to have at his back. Professional.

  “What happened?” Thorne asked him after a firm handshake. “You get demoted?” Heustis had been one of the men who’d hauled Thorne to safety the last time he’d been here. The man was instrumental in saving his life. If there was anyone Thorne owed a debt of gratitude, it was this man.

  Heustis opened the door for Isis, then shut it to walk around the front of the vehicle with Thorne. “Drew the short straw for babysitting duty, Thorne. You can’t seem to keep your butt out of trouble.”

  “It’s a skill,” Thorne said as he opened the back door. “Keep your eyes and ears open. We seem to have gained a fan club.”

  “Will do.”

  It was nine in the morning, and already heat shimmered on the streets and made the air thick enough to chew. Isis, wearing a new eye-popping orange T-shirt and loose-fitting white cotton pants, turned in her seat to look at him. Her glasses, as usual, were smudged.

  “You owe me seventeen more answers,” she told him, as Heustis drove them to the souk without further comment. Oblivious to where Thorne’s thoughts were, she wanted to take responsibility for something that had nothing to do with her. But if he told her that neither she nor her father had anything to do with this, he’d have to tell her about the Russian.