Mission: Irresistible (20 page)

To hell with self-pity. Get off your ass and get moving.

He didn’t know where the tough inner voice came from, but it galvanized him. He slid off the sarcophagus, steeled his mind, and set off again.

Hours later, he was back atop the sarcophagus with a stack of sheet metal draped over the top and dipping over onto the floor. It was enough to boost him an extra foot if he didn’t slip off his precarious perch.

This time when he reached for it, his fingers found the ledge. Now all he had to do was drag his body weight up to the window.

Fourteen attempts later, he lay on the floor, bloody, sweating, nauseated, and ready to die.

Just let ’em kill you. Death couldn’t be any worse than this.

But Kiya needed him. She was waiting. She’d always been waiting.

The thought bolstered his flagging spirits and he tried once more, crawling up on the metal-draped sarcophagus. He took a deep breath, gathered the very last ounce of his physical reserves, and lunged for the ledge with every bit of love for Kiya he possessed inside him.

He made it.

His chest hit the window ledge and his fingers found a secure hold on the window frame. He curled his feet against the wall, using them to propel him higher.

The metal sheets slithered off the sarcophagus and fell to the floor, but that was okay. He didn’t need them anymore.

He was almost there.

And then he heard the ominous clicking and whirring rasp as the metal warehouse doors began to roll upward.

Cassie stood outside Harrison’s apartment, staring at the key in her hand.

This was a defining moment.

Did she really trust him? Could she take him at face value? Should she just walk away, pick up her cell phone, call him, and tell him what had happened?

Or should she believe Ahmose Akvar?

At this point it wasn’t a matter of faith. If she did not do this thing that Ahmose and Phyllis were asking her to do, if she did not spy on the man who had trusted her enough to give her a key to his apartment, then she was going to end up taking the fall for the stolen amulet.

Besides
, whispered that part of her that distrusted all men,
what if Ahmose is right? What if Harrison is playing you for a fool?

There was only one way to resolve the issue. Go look for proof. If she found nothing incriminating, she could report back to Ahmose with a clear conscience.

But if you snoop, aren’t you betraying Harry?

And yet, she had to know.

She pushed the key into the lock but didn’t twist it, still hung on the twin horns of her dilemma. She thought of all the men in her life—her father, Duane, every guy on her collage wall. They’d all let her down in one way or another. How could Harrison be any different? She didn’t owe him anything.

Resolutely, she unlocked the door and stepped inside.

“Harry?”

The silence in the apartment was as deep as a moat.

“Yoo-hoo, Harry, you home?”

No answer.

Cassie’s heart chugged and her throat went so dry she could hardly swallow. Like a sneak thief, she furtively edged down the carpet, headed for Harrison’s office.

A floorboard creaked and she jumped half a foot.

Stop freaking out. He’s not here.

His door was shut tight.

Another barrier to cross. Another wrangle with her scruples, but she’d come this far, she might as well see what was on the other side of that door.

The room, although crowded with books and papers and Egyptian artifacts, was tidy. Bookcases lined three walls. The fourth was taken up by a desk and computer equipment. A digital camera was perched on a shelf above his monitor, and stacked on the closest bookshelf were several photo albums. There was a mini-fridge positioned next to the computer desk. Cassie cracked it open to find nibbles and bottled water and soft drinks.

His space was his haven. He hid out here.

She studied the collection of artifacts but quickly understood she could be looking at evidence and not even recognize what she was seeing. She leafed through a few scholarly journals and her eyes glazed over. The material was way over her head. The room smelled of him, studious and worldly. It smacked her then, the extent of his intelligence, how much smarter he was than she.

Sitting here looking at his things, she felt so inadequate. A guy like Harry could never be interested in her for long. Once the sexual chemistry abated, there would be no common interest to hold them together. No glue to make them stick.

Who cares? It’s not like you’re into commitment.

Where the hell were these thoughts coming from anyway? It was probably nothing more than a case of wanting what she couldn’t have.

Cassie thought about flicking on his computer and searching his files for evidence that he and Adam had orchestrated the theft of the amulet to set her up, but she wasn’t quite ready for that.

Instead, she turned to the photo albums. She liked pictures. Photographs generally captured the good times in people’s lives. She wanted to see Harry when he’d been happy.

The first photo album contained nothing but pictures of dig sites and artifacts. Here or there you’d see someone’s shoe or an elbow, but this collection wasn’t about Christmases or birthdays or summer vacations.

It wasn’t even about people.

Disappointed, she stuffed it back on the shelf and opened the next album. Now this one was more interesting. These were pictures of Cairo. The shots were packed with people, but it was all crowds, no individuals, as if he’d been walking the streets of the ancient city snapping photos of buildings and vehicles and bustling streets. The pictures were artistic, displaying above-

average skill with lighting and form and framing.

As she flipped through the books, it became clear that Harrison had a proclivity for observing life through a filter. Whether it was from behind a camera lens or through abstract theory or via ancient history, Cassie instinctively understood that he used these things to distance himself. His need for privacy isolated him. She felt at once sorry for him and ashamed of herself for intruding upon his sanctuary.

She almost did not pick up the third album, but in the end she was eager to find at least one picture of Harry with someone he loved. This album was older than the other two.

Inside, she found what she was looking for—baby pictures of Harry.

Her heart melted. He was such an adorable toddler in his diaper and a cowboy hat. Then a few pages later as a first grader with a missing front tooth. The glasses appeared on his face in the next year’s school picture and her heart ached. It must have been tough having to wear glasses so young. He’d probably gotten called “Four-Eyes” more times than he could count.

There were a few pictures of him with a younger boy she assumed was Adam. Frequently they were glaring at each other. The pictures tapered off around his teenage years. There was one shot of a sixteenish Harry beside a battered Mustang, smiling his head off. Ah, so he hadn’t always been a Volvo aficionado. She noticed a clear absence of girlfriends. He’d probably been a late bloomer when it came to dating.

Toward the back of the album she came across a photo of what appeared to be Adam’s graduation from college. In the foreground stood Adam, wearing a cap and gown, and Harry on the rolling green lawn of the University of Athens in Greece. There was an older, burly man positioned between them. She wondered if this was Adam’s father, Ambassador Grayfield. She’d seen him in a few of the other photos too.

Adam, with his arm slung over the older man’s shoulder, was grinning and making the V-for-victory sign. Harry, as usual, looked rather taciturn. Cassie had an illogical urge to crack a joke and make him smile.

If she hadn’t reached out a finger to trace the outline of Harry’s face, she wouldn’t have seen the man lurking there in the background. In fact, she almost didn’t recognize him with a full head of hair.

She brought the album closer to her face and squinted. He wasn’t looking at the camera, but instead was studying Adam intently.

Alarm shot through her.

He was ten years younger and thirty pounds lighter, but she recognized him.

There, at Adam’s college graduation, was none other than Phyllis’s executive assistant, Clyde Petalonus.

CHAPTER 15

R
ight smack-dab in Harrison’s parking lot, Cassie ran out of gas just as she was preparing to zoom over to Clyde’s for a showdown. She sat in her Mustang, staring woefully at the gauge. She’d driven around with the empty light on plenty of times, and this had never happened.

Fine. Great. She could handle it. She would just call the auto club. She reached for her cell phone.

A car pulled to a stop beside her. She glanced casually over her shoulder and then did a double take when she spotted the white Volvo.

Uh-oh, busted.

Her pulse jumped. She had to stay calm and act as if she was completely innocent. As if she’d never been upstairs rummaging through his office. As if there wasn’t an incriminating photograph in her pocket of him with Clyde Petalonus.

Harry sauntered over. Cassie rolled down the window.

“Hi,” she said, trying her best not to look like a spy for the Egyptian government.

“Hey, you just drive up?”

“Uh-huh,” she squeaked, hating that she had to lie, but taking the easy way out. She wasn’t prepared to confront him head-on with the damning evidence.

“How come you didn’t call and let me know you were leaving the museum?” Harry leaned against the doorframe and smiled down at her.

Her heart hammered. “I thought you were supposed to call me.”

She hated this whole subterfuge. Especially since Harry was being so sweet. Damn, why was he being so sweet? He could not be a Wannamakemecomealot guy. He turned her on too much. She wouldn’t get turned on by a bad guy.

Ahem? What about Peyton Shriver? And Duane? Let’s not forget Duane.

“Guess we got our wires crossed,” he said mildly.

“Did you find out anything about Adam?” She rushed to change the subject.

Harrison shook his head. “Tom Grayfield’s in town, but he hasn’t heard from Adam either. What about you? How’d it go with Phyllis?”

“Um, okay.”

“Okay?”

Did he sound suspicious or was it just her guilt-ridden imagination?

She shrugged. “To be a pain in my butt. You know Phyllis.”

“What’d she want?”

“What is this?” she wanted to snap, but instead she said, “She wanted to know more particulars about the plans for the second party on Saturday night. She told me to spend the day ironing out the details.”

“So you’re free to come with me to see Clyde Petalonus?”

“Clyde?”

“Yeah, in the nuttiness of last night I forgot that he lied for us about the memo. As I was driving back over here, I kept asking myself why,” Harry said.

“I wondered the same thing.”

The midmorning sun was beating down through Cassie’s window, but that wasn’t why she was starting to perspire. Rather, it was Harry’s proximity and the topic of conversation that had moisture beading her neck.

“And he disappeared really quickly last night. I never saw him leave.”

“You . . . um . . . didn’t know Clyde before meeting him at the Kimbell, did you?”

Come clean. Tell me that, sure, you’ve been acquainted with Clyde for years and years, and then I’ll know the photograph doesn’t mean a thing.

He looked at her strangely. “No. What? Were you thinking he lied to protect me?”

“It crossed my mind.”

“I was thinking he lied for you.”

“Nope,” Cassie said. “He wasn’t lying for me.” She met his gaze and telegraphed him a message with her eyes.
Please tell me the truth.

Harry said nothing.

Apparently he wasn’t going to confess. How could he stand there and fib to her? Crushed, Cassie fisted her hands. She felt as if she’d just learned her favorite chocolates contained strychnine.

What if he’s not lying
, her hope whispered. Maybe Adam was the one who stole the amulet. Maybe Clyde was protecting him, not Harry.

But Adam wasn’t the only one in that graduation picture. Harry had been there too, and he had just denied knowing Clyde back then. The question was, Why would Harry want to confront Clyde about the fabricated memo if they were conspirators?

None of it made sense.

“Should we take my car or yours?” he asked.

Cassie swallowed. How was she going to play this?

He looked so endearing in his mismatched clothes and unruly hair that she just had to trust him. She would operate on the motto that had served her well throughout her life—when in doubt, smile and deny reality.

“Okay, Clyde, let us in.”

Ten minutes later, Cassie was pounding on the door of Clyde’s cracker-box palace in Arlington Heights, two doors down from a Taco Bell. The smell of breakfast burritos and lard wafted on the morning breeze. She knew where Clyde lived because she occasionally gave him a lift to work when his aged Buick Regal acted surly.

“We know you filched Kiya’s half of the amulet,” she said. “So cough it up.”

Clyde did not respond.

She slid a sideways glance over at Harrison to see how he was reacting to the accusations she was hollering at the door, but as was often the case with Harry, she couldn’t read his expression.

Holding the screen door open with one hand, she stood on tiptoe and tried to peer through the small diamond-shaped window at the top of the wooden outer door.

“You can run, but you can’t hide, Clyde. Don’t make us go to the police. Or worse yet, we’ll sic Phyllis on you.” Cassie figured, if nothing else,
that
threat ought to have the curator’s assistant swinging the door open pronto.

But no dice.

She couldn’t see much through the window in the door. For one thing, even at five foot eight she was too short to get an unobstructed view. Obviously the cutout was for lighting, not for spying. Plus, the window was dusty and coated with grime. Clyde wasn’t married, and apparently he kept house with a typical “Windex? I don’t need no stinking Windex” bachelor mind-set.