Prisoner of Shera-Sa

by Reese Gabriel

  PRISONER OF SHERA-SA

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, June 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1337 Commerce Drive, #13

  Stow, OH 44224

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0272-5

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  PRISONER OF SHERA-SA Copyright © 2005 REESE GABRIEL

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Pamela Campbell.

  Cover art by Syneca.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Prisoner of Shera-Sa has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  Prisoner of Shera-Sa

  Reese Gabriel

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following word marks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  Indiana Jones: Lucasfilm Ltd.

  AK-47: patent held by Mikhail Timofeevich Kalashnikov

  Chapter One

  Doctor Minarra Hunt was beyond fuming by the time she reached the Archeology Department office. “Don’t bother telling him I’m here,” she stormed past the chairman’s frizzy-haired secretary Freida. “He’ll only try and run out the back door.”

  “Minarra,” Dr. Malcolm Rey braced himself as she breached the inner sanctum, an odd assortment of relics and artifacts bound by walls of books, stacked seven feet high with priceless volumes bound in red, blue and green leather. “Just give me a chance to explain…”

  The raven-haired expert on lost civilizations glared through ice blue eyes. “Explain?” She tossed the memo onto the polished mahogany desk, covered at the moment with photocopied hieroglyphic scrolls representing the myriad self-proclaimed accomplishments of Pharaoh Tutensahet IV. “What’s to explain? I think treason speaks for itself quite nicely.”

  Professor Rey held out a pair of small, elflike hands, untrained for any sort of physical labor. His curly red hair and beard were turning gray now, but his eyes still held the passion of a young man. “Minarra, be reasonable…”

  “I’m tired of being reasonable, Malcolm. Time and again, I have been overlooked because of my sex and my lineage and I won’t let it happen anymore. Especially not with this. You know what heading up this expedition means to me—my father gave his life looking for Shera-Sa…”

  Malcolm’s brow pinched. He’d been a professor at the university for twenty-five years, the last ten as chair of the department. “Of course, I know what it means, Minarra. I was one of your father’s oldest friends and supporters. And I am also your godfather, may I point out. One of the last things he ever said to me was to watch out for your safety. You are just like your mother, he said. Brave, beautiful and impulsive… This trip is fraught with danger. There is no telling what will be encountered out there in the desert, not to mention the towns. Alcazara is a dangerous place, Minarra. People die out there. I’m not saying you can’t go, I just want to be sure we have someone…skilled to handle difficulties.”

  “And by skilled,” she scorned, “you mean a man.”

  “It’s not about gender.” The five-foot-one-inch Malcolm pushed his spectacles defensively up the bridge of his button nose. He’d had this same pair for as long as she could remember. He’d also been wearing various versions of that same rumpled tweed jacket. “It is purely a matter of qualifications.”

  “In that case,” she sought to trump his logic. “You’ll have to give the job to me. I know more about Shera-Sa than anyone on the planet. Plus I am fluent in all relevant ancient and modern languages. Who can possibly match that?”

  “No one,” concurred a male voice from the doorway. “Then again, how are you at handling bandit caravans, rebel tribes and back alley cutthroats?”

  Minarra’s heart stopped in her chest. She was hearing things… She had to be. There was no way it could be…him.

  “Hello, Minarra,” rasped Seth “Mac” Macallister as she steeled her courage to turn and face him. “You’re looking good.”

  And you’re looking like a snake in the grass. You no-good, heartbreaking, sorry excuse for a human being…

  Minarra cursed the unfairness of it all. The least this man could have done over the last half-decade was to turn into a hideous toad. Instead, he had only grown more sculpted, handsome, more classically gorgeous, his brush cut, sandy hair a perfect compliment to his light, desert kissed skin. His eyes were blue like hers, but paler. She had often seen the stars reflected in those eyes. He’d been alive as no other man she’d seen, before or since.

  His body hadn’t suffered any, either. He was lean, his sleek muscles kept in excellent shape beneath his old familiar khakis. How well she knew the feel of those smooth pectorals, so warm to the touch, as she would search out his heartbeat with the palms of her hands. And his biceps that curled into steel and the hands, weathered, with the fingers of a man, capable of hard work and hard love. He’d taken her soul with those hands just as he’d taken her virginity with that sly cock, nine inches plus of hard, throbbing bliss between her undergraduate thighs. She’d bled for him. She’d come for him. She’d wept for him.

  “Malcolm, I won’t work with this man,” she declared, summoning every ounce of her resistive strength. “Furthermore, if he is allowed anywhere near this project, I will resign and seek funding elsewhere for the expedition.”

  The dean’s expression showed pain and bafflement. How could Minarra even begin to explain her personal sentiments to him when Malcolm knew nothing of their secret affair much less its horrid end? Being an academic by nature, Malcolm was ill-equipped and loath to deal with the vagaries of human emotion as it was. Minarra understood the feeling well. Like the rest of their kind, he preferred long-dead civilizations, where intrigues and agonies and treasons could be studied ex post facto in the quiet of one’s laboratory, or better still one’s study over gentle lamplight.

  “But why on earth would you do that, Minarra?” he asked, obviously hoping to avoid any real conflict. “Dr. Macallister is just the sort of person we need. He’s spent time in Alcazara. He’s lived with the people there and he knows the political situation. He’s been in the middle of shooting wars and sandstorms and more things than I can name. And I certainly don’t need to remind you that he spent time under your father’s tutelage—the same as you?”

  Malcolm might as well have taken a knife and plunged it into her breast. As if she needed to be reminded that this damnably handsome,
strong and ferociously clever man had worked with her father, accompanying them on his last expedition to North Africa six years ago, and that she—a starry eyed undergraduate—had fallen head over heels?

  Minarra folded her arms over her breasts. The way he used to touch them, as if they had been made for him. The way they had responded, the tiny rosebud nipples peaking almost instantly, her back arching, her mouth, forming a small, involuntary O. The way he made her ache. The smile of supreme satisfaction on his face as he won from her that small moan he would always wait for, before proceeding lower on her body. It was all so fresh, even now…

  “I am quite familiar with Doctor Macallister’s work. He’s the “real-life Indiana Jones,” complete with his own TV cult following,” she fought the flush on her cheeks as the memories flooded. “Just what we need to legitimize our already shaky reputation in the scientific community. I’m sure he’ll be able to make Shera-Sa as much of a popular laughingstock as Bigfoot or the Loch Ness Monster.”

  “Minarra,” said Malcolm, “that’s not a fair thing to say. Simply because Dr. Macallister has made archeology accessible to the public is no reason to denigrate his scientific commitment or abilities.”

  Minarra winced. He was right, of course. She was bordering on spitefulness—acting like one of those petty, tenure-glomming academics she despised so much. It was true she had objections to his selection for the job over her, but obviously there were personal issues involved.

  Which surprised her, because she had thought herself to be over this man a long time ago.

  “It’s all right,” said Mac. “I’m pretty thick-skinned by now.”

  “No, it’s not all right,” she snapped, irritated beyond measure at his attempt to look like the bigger person. “I was out of line. I owe you an apology.”

  He inclined his head. “Accepted.”

  “So do we have something here to build on?” Malcolm asked, the pleading in his voice only marginally disguised. “We’ve reached some…resolution?”

  “I have no problems,” said Mac, hands on his lean waist. “I am here to do a job.”

  Minarra narrowed her gaze. How admirable of him, she thought bitterly, considering he was getting it all his way. As usual.

  “I’m here for the same job,” she informed him. “And I can assure you, I will do it to the best of my ability.”

  “Well, there we have it,” Malcolm ignored the emotional subtext entirely. “I trust you two can draw up the details of the expedition?”

  “Absolutely,” Mac nodded his absolutely photogenic head. “We can be ready in ten days.”

  “That’s too long.” Minarra shook out her mane of black hair as both men turned their eyes to her. “We need to leave in a week or less. You said yourself, Malcolm, that the situation is volatile. Suppose the terrain is wiped fresh by a sandstorm, or our contacts there meet some untimely end at the hands of bandits?”

  Malcolm cleared his throat. “Mac, can you hire the men you need by then? Get the supplies?”

  Mac pursed his lips very slightly. To an untrained observer it meant nothing, but for Minarra it was a clear sign the man was struggling with whether or not to voice his real opinion.

  Go on, she dared him silently. Try and defy me.

  The man’s answer was as disarming as it was simple. “Yes,” he said, his voice steady and true. “I can.”

  Her breathing quickened just a little. Never had she encountered a man whose sexuality emanated so completely from his whole being. Just watching that determination on his face, the way his brow knitted, she could imagine him running it all through his mind right now, determining the feasibility. Back in her father’s camp in North Africa, Mac Macallister had been, among other things, in charge of the native laborers. They would have died for him, to a man, because he never once asked them to do something unless he’d already proved to them, and himself, that he could do twice as much.

  Could he do the impossible and prepare an expedition of this size in that short a time? If he said so…then he could.

  If only his word had any value when it came to the opposite sex.

  “I want in on every step,” she told him. “I want full veto power over everything. And when it comes to the archeological work itself, I call the shots. No ifs, ands or buts.”

  “Minarra…” Malcolm sought to rein her in. “I’ve already told you. Mac has to take command. The university board is firm on this. And the grant foundation, too.”

  “It’s not a problem,” Mac forestalled her intended vitriolic. “We’ll be able to work together. You have my guarantee.”

  Malcolm took his extended hand, shaking on it. “I’m relieved, Mac. You have no idea.”

  “Glad to hear it, Malcolm. I know how important this is to you and to the university. Not to mention to Roger’s memory. I’m honored, truly.”

  “No, Mac, we’re the ones who are honored,” said Malcolm. “I know that Roger saw you as a son in many ways.”

  Minarra clenched her fists. Granted, Malcolm didn’t know about her and Mac’s affair, but still, this sudden exercise of male bonding was seriously messing with her composure. Not to mention the fifty percent Greek temper she’d inherited from her mother.

  How was it that men always managed to unite forces leaving any woman in the cold, while women had the devil of a time ever joining forces against men?

  “Well, I guess that seals the deal. I’ll leave you boys to smoke some cigars or putt some golf balls. If you need me, I’ll be in my office finishing the translation of the map we’re going to need to actually find Shera-Sa.”

  She was already at the door when she turned back for a parting shot. “By the way, in case you’ve both forgotten, the Roger Hunt whose name you are throwing around as if I wasn’t even here, also happened to be my father.”

  “But, Minarra, wait…” Malcolm’s appeal was in vain. Minarra was already too deep into that pit of emotions from which no amount of reason could extricate her. Sofia, her mother, had lived in that place, and ultimately died there.

  And there’d been nothing her father could do to stop it. If only he could have forgiven himself, not driven himself so hard the last decade of his life. To his dying breath, he’d blamed his own career, his lifelong obsession with the lost city of Shera-Sa, the desert kingdom older than the Egyptians and thought to be the seeding agent of Mesopotamian civilization.

  But Minarra had learned that there were things in the human psyche too deep to understand, let alone control. Her mother’s suicide was no one’s fault. It was a choice, made for unknown reasons. Maybe it could have been prevented if they’d had some of the medicines and treatments currently available.

  Her own answer to the mystery had been to pick up her father’s work, taking it not to the brink of madness, but to its rigorous, scientific conclusion. If the so-called “missing link” did not exist to explain the near simultaneous arising of civilization in five areas of the world, then she would find out conclusively. Either way, she would lay the ghost to rest.

  She, not Malcolm, and especially not Mac.

  She might have to accept his place on the team, but she did not have to roll over and play dead. She would be hard-nosed with him, every bit as intimidating as her father.

  To do this she would have to stay objective, firm and on her guard. And above all, without exception, she must not allow herself to be at all attracted to Mac again.

  No matter how good looking he was now, no matter how well he’d aged, and no matter how damned lonely she was and physically needy. Just the thought of him laying a hand on her the way he used to, those fingers of his igniting her, creating soul-deep itches that only he could scratch…

  The way he had stood with her outside her tent under the silver-flecked black onyx sky, surrounded by deathly silent sand, holding her body against the surprising desert chill that first night. Drawing her in, absorbing the light from her wide, curious eyes.

  And those words he’d whispered into her ear, his lips bar
ely grazing her hot blood-flushed earlobe. “Let me be the one.”

  The first.

  As it had turned out, he’d been the only one, too, though she would never, ever give him the satisfaction of knowing how thoroughly he had spoiled her for other men. After all this time, the idea of ever drawing another man inside her, of opening herself for a new shaft, filled her with such a sense of indescribable sadness.

  The therapist she’d seen had lots of fancy names for it. Displacement syndrome, unresolved emotional issues. But that woman had never been made love to by the likes of Mac Macallister. She’d like to see her use her fancy phrases after a night in his bed, after being taught, part-by-part, what her body was all about and how it could be made to respond.

  Mac used to joke with her about making his mark. Putting a brand on her that would seal her as his woman. Forever. He’d gone so far as to tell her the practice among some of the Bedouin tribesmen of burning identifying marks into the flesh of their females.

  It was nothing that would ever happen in real life, but he’d only ever had to touch her lightly on her thigh, or her ass, to remind her of the symbolism, the power of the fantasy. One of his favorite things to do had been to come up behind her while she was trying to work.

  “Morning, baby,” he would kiss her earlobe, pressing his thumb against her bare thigh, just below the hem of her shorts.

  She’d melt on the spot, a wreck for hours afterward. He got a kick out of it, making her follow him around, begging for stolen midday sex away from the eyes and ears of the others, particularly her father.

  Minarra had managed some teasing of her own, though, and she wasn’t always the timid lamb. Sometimes she was the lioness, daring him to take her…

  * * * * *

  Sonya, her favorite graduate student and virtual shadow around campus was waiting in Minarra’s office when she got back, cross-legged on the couch, poring over a volume of Plato’s Republic in the original Greek.