Assassin's Honor (10 page)

           
"With your parents gone, and now Charles, I feel the need to mother you a bit." He pressed a light kiss to her brow. "I'll call you Monday after I've talked with Stuart. I'm actually looking forward to verbally castrating the man."

           
"Why do I have the feeling you're taking Stuart on just because you want to humiliate the man as opposed to keeping me out of the classroom?"

           
His shoulders rolled in a gesture of scholarly refinement as he settled his trim Fedora on his head. "I confess to a certain amount of perverse anticipation at the thought of eviscerating the man with words. Not even that pretentious Roberta Young would provide me with as much entertainment."

           
"What is it with you and that woman? Charlie didn't care for her either."

           
"She's an amateur." Ewan's exaggerated shudder made her bite back a smile as he puffed out a breath of disgust.
"Little more than a hobbyist playing at archeology."

           
"I think you underestimate her, Ewan. She's got a knack for digging. Charlie refused to admit it and Mike is the same way."

           
"It's the fact that she's not qualified that I object to. No matter how good she might be at digging, there are others far more qualified to be on that excavation site. She's there because she bought herself a position on that dig with her obscene wealth, not because she knows what she's doing."

           
"I still think you're wrong."

           
"Perhaps, but nothing changes the fact that my tryst with Stuart will be much more cathartic than dealing with Roberta Young. Dueling verbally with Stuart will be like picking the wings off a fly."

           
"God help Stuart." She chuckled at her friend's acerbic wit.

           
"Precisely, my dear," he said with a wily grin. "I'll talk to you on Monday."

           
With one last smile at her, Ewan strode out of the house and down the sidewalk to where he'd parked his car on the street. Her gaze swept over the front lawn then up and down the block as far as she could see. Everything looked normal, and yet she didn't feel normal at all. Every one of her senses seemed wound tight and poised to startle her.

           
With a nonchalance she didn't really possess, she waved good night to Ewan once more before retreating inside. The front door closed, and she threw the dead bolt into its chamber with a nagging sense of foreboding. Maybe she should consider buying a gun. She shivered as she remembered the sensation of death that had enveloped her when she'd touched the coin in the stranger's hand. No. She didn't want a gun. What she wanted was another good swig of whiskey.

           
She marched back into the living room and poured herself a strong shot of the liquor. It burned on the way down, but she didn't care. Ewan was right--she needed to get good and drunk. But she needed music to do it by. Drink in
hand,
she headed toward the CD tower beside the stereo system. In less than a minute, the sultry voice of LeAnn Rimes filled the room. Emma drank the remaining alcohol in her glass then closed her eyes and allowed the music to wash over her like a gentle wave.

           
As the words of the song floated around her, an image of her dark, mysterious visitor took hold in her head.
No, that
description didn't exactly match--not with that short, dark blond hair of his. The style gave him that bad boy look. On second thought, his eyes did that. The color of the lake during a bad storm, they'd glinted with a variety of emotions. But it had been the occasional wicked amusement dancing in his eyes that had made her heart flip-flop.

           
At five-foot-eight, Emma was used to being close to eye level with most of the men she came into contact with, but the stranger had easily topped six feet, forcing her to look up at him whenever he got too close. Too close? She could have absorbed him into her body if he'd been any closer. She could still feel his hard body against hers. And he had a great body. Solid and muscular, he obviously worked out regularly.

           
Her eyes flew open, and she shook her head in a ridiculous effort to clear her thoughts. Okay so the guy turned her on. There weren't many men she found herself attracted to. Of course, most men she worked with were older.
More along the lines of Ewan's age.
There weren't too many History Channel babes like Josh Bernstein running around Egypt or the hallways of the Oriental Institute.

           
For that matter, there weren't too many men her age period out in the desert. At least not any that interested her. But the stranger had piqued her interest.
Something that didn't make her happy at all.
She hated to admit it, but his kiss had been the hottest thing she'd tasted in a long time. The devil in her shrugged with defiance. Why shouldn't she enjoy the feel of his mouth against hers? There was nothing wrong with a harmless kiss.

           
Who was she kidding?
Harmless?
That had to be the understatement of the year. There hadn't been a damn thing harmless about that kiss. She'd been wet with heat the moment his tongue had teased hers. And she couldn't remember the last time she'd kissed a man and wanted more.
A whole lot more.
No, that kiss hadn't been even remotely safe or sedate. It had held a promise of dangerous passion and pleasure.

           
God, she needed another belt of whiskey. In less than three seconds, she was filling her glass with another generous portion of liquor. Not bothering to sip the drink, she simply tossed it back in one gulp. Fire streamed down her throat, and she coughed violently. Damn, she needed to remember this stuff was a hell of a lot stronger than the Stella beer she always drank at the dig.

           
When her coughing spasm ended, she realized nothing had changed. The whiskey was doing little to drown out the memory of being in the stranger's arms or how good she'd felt. No, better than good. She wouldn't have protested one bit if he'd pushed his advantage. Hell, she'd as much as said she wouldn't object. Caressing him with the intimacy of a lover had been an open invitation if ever she'd given one. Her stomach lurched at the memory.

           
His erection had been hard and full against her palm. The sudden image of
him sliding
into her tugged a small groan from her throat. She might be going crazy, but she couldn't think of a more pleasurable way to go insane. A rush of liquid heat dampened her panties. How could somebody she didn't know, someone who'd broken into her home and held her against her will, make her feel so hot and needy? And he'd been right. She had kissed him willingly. It didn't help matters that she wanted a repeat of that kiss.

           
She tried to block out everything she remembered, but failed. Even his scent still filled her senses. The strength of it almost made her think he'd returned. But with her eyes wide open, she knew better. He'd smelled clean and woodsy--as if he spent a lot of time outdoors. But it had been more than that. The raw earthiness of his scent had aroused a primal response in her.
A dangerous sensation that could easily burn her.
But then everything about him screamed danger.

           
Desperate to change the direction of her thoughts, she reached into her pocket and pulled out the crumpled piece of paper. Here was something to occupy her for quite some time. She eyed the hieroglyphs on the sheet with bittersweet emotion. She missed her parents, but finding the cipher helped ease her grief somewhat. This was something tangible that made her feel they weren't gone from her life completely. She grabbed a pad and pencil off a nearby table, then kicking off her
shoes,
she sat cross-legged on the floor in front of the coffee table.

           
The bold strokes of her father's handwriting made her pause as she stared down at the paper in front of her. She'd learned her first cipher at the age of eight. Her father had taught her using Julius Caesar's method for hiding messages. It was a special pastime she'd shared with her dad. He would write a hidden message for her, and she had to decipher it. As she grew older, the ciphers became harder.

           
She trailed her fingertip across the top row of glyphs and frowned. This cipher's complexity surpassed all the others her father had devised for her to solve. Even with her extensive knowledge of hieroglyphics, it wouldn't be easy to solve this particular puzzle. Hell, she wasn't even sure she could break it.

           
"Horus" had always been the key word her dad had used for the ciphers she solved. She studied the ancient script for a few minutes then started translating the text one word at a time. After only five minutes, she realized her father had used a different key word. Not knowing the key word didn't make it impossible to solve, but the difficulty level had gone up at least ten notches.

           
She rolled the pencil back and forth between her fingers as she stared down at the hieroglyphs. For some odd reason, instinct told her this cipher had been a last resort type of thing for her father. He'd designed it with her in mind, but somehow she didn't think he'd ever thought she'd be deciphering it.

           
Of course, he wouldn't think it likely. She blinked her eyes and swallowed hard. Dad had always been an optimist. Every time she'd balked at touching a newly found artifact, he would ask her to imagine the worst thing that could happen. When she couldn't think of something terrible, she always knew she'd have to touch the object just to tell him what it told her.

           
Although he'd never forced her to handle the artifacts he and her mother had found, she'd always feel bad when she refused. Although he always hid it, she could feel his disappointment whenever she objected. Like any other kid, she'd just wanted to please her parents.

           
Thunder boomed outside and Emma jumped at the sound. The thought of a power outage sent a shiver through her. She was terrified of the dark.
Had been ever since the age of seven when she'd been trapped in a tomb for several hours until her father had found her.
She scowled at the liquor bottle in front of her. There had been times when she'd prayed really hard that her parents would make some big discovery and they could come home to Chicago for good. But even when they'd found something of merit, they remained in the field. It had been in their blood.

           
Hers, too, if she really admitted it.
When she completed her undergrad degree, she'd suddenly realized her entire track had been geared toward an anthropology degree and then the archeology graduate program. It had not been a pleasant awakening, particularly because of her ability. But the one thing she tried to do was avoid using her special talent. Her parents had always encouraged her to use her gift, but she'd always seen it as a liability.

           
She hated touching old things--experiencing all the pain and suffering that came with each new artifact she touched. There were times during her childhood that she'd wondered if it wasn't her special talent her parents loved more than her. Deep down she knew it had been unfair to think that. Her parents had loved her very much and she'd had a reasonably happy childhood. But they hadn't hesitated to use her ability when it suited them.

           
And Charlie.
His death had simply brought all the emotions she'd managed to bury deep inside her right back up to the surface. Grief crushed against her chest like a heavy weight. In seconds, sobs wracked her as she leaned over the table and buried her head in her arms. Even five years hadn't blotted out the bitterness of her parents' loss.

           
The heat of her tears still warmed her skin as she finally lifted her head and reached for her whiskey glass. Obviously, the whiskey was beginning to work its charms. No one would ever accuse her of being a happy drunk. Blue and morose were more her trademarks when she drank too much. Choking back a sob, she took another drink of the amber-colored liquid.

           
The whiskey went down smooth this time as she dragged the back of her hand across her face to wipe tears off her cheeks. She hated it when she cried. She reached for a tissue and tugged one free of the box as she stared down at the cipher.

           
What word beside "Horus" would her dad have used for the puzzle?
Sicari?
Nope, too obvious.
Her name or her mom's name.
Again, too blatant.
They'd originally chosen Horus as a key word when she was a kid. It had been the first Egyptian god she remembered.
Horus and then his rival, Seth.
She grew still. Could it be that simple?

           
Comparing the word to her hastily drawn Vigenere table, she translated the first sentence in less than a minute. She grimaced at the results. This puzzle was growing more bizarre by the minute. Her dad always made the translations of his ciphers educational, and "trust no one with this secret" certainly didn't sound like the beginning of a history lesson. Maybe "Seth" wasn't the right key word after all or she'd screwed up the transliterations of the hieroglyphs. Carefully, she examined the first line again. When her translation didn't change, she shrugged. If the second line of the code didn't make sense, then she'd have to start over. The transliteration of the hieroglyphs moved quickly, and when she compared the results to the Vigenere table, she grew rigid with shock.