Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Dangerous Entanglement

Dangerous Entanglement
SUSANNE MCCARTHY
Melting point… .When Joanna refused to jump into bed with Alex Marshall, he assumed she was frigid! But the arrogant entrepeneur sensed that it wasn't just the intense Egyptian heat that was responsible for melting the cast-iron defenses that Joanna had erected since the end of her marriage!However, there wasn't any future in a no-strings affair - no matter how much she ached for Alex… .



Table of Contents
Cover Page (#ud695b415-8e6c-5d38-9cca-aa97bf1a8488)
Excerpt (#ue56def2f-d745-5093-b26c-59b0bf713e6d)
About The Author (#ua64e7969-febf-58fa-9459-49874456db2c)
Title Page (#ubdf14be8-197e-5560-b245-f81b4c335845)
Chapter One (#u3d989973-977a-54d7-b42a-55fde053283b)
Chapter Two (#u0ea5137b-215a-5f09-b5de-cbb7fd5558ce)
Chapter Three (#u32412cdb-a47d-58d8-a19b-0e3d8d28a6d4)
Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)
Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)
Copyright (#litres_trial_promo)

“I’m afraid I’m just not interested in that sort of relationship.”
“What sort of relationship are you interested in? Marriage? I prefer something more straightforward—no strings, no promises. That way no one gets hurt.”

“I…don’t want that, either. That’s why I’ve chosen to concentrate on my career—it provides all the entertainment and diversion I need.”

“You could have fooled me. When I touch you, you respond with the same kind of needs as any other woman.”
SUSANNE MCCARTHY grew up in South London, England, but she always wanted to live in the country, and shortly after her marriage she moved to Shropshire with her husband. They live in a house on a hill, with lots of dogs and cats. She loves to travel—but she loves to come home. As well as her writing, she still enjoys her career as a teacher in adult education, though she only works part-time now.

Dangerous Entanglement
Susanne McCarthy


www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

CHAPTER ONE (#ulink_998d5673-124a-509b-bcfe-6f6225fbda70)
‘ALL right, I give up—I’m lost.’
Alex Marshall grinned wryly—half an hour alone in the Egyptian desert, and already he was reduced to talking to himself! He wasn’t a man who was given to conceding defeat easily, but the road that was quite clearly marked on the map as a single, straightforward route now divided into two, and there was no clue to tell him which one he should take.
Standing up behind the wheel of the dusty Land Rover, he lifted his binoculars and scanned the surrounding landscape. The morning sun was rising rapidly into the hot blue sky, baking the yellow hills and tumbled scree to oven temperatures. Neither man nor beast could survive out here for long…
So it came as quite a shock to realise that he wasn’t alone; he was being watched, from close quarters. She had risen like a mirage out of the rocks at the side of the road, the very last thing he would have expected to see in this God-forsaken wilderness—a cool English blonde.
His first thought was that she had a great pair of legs— they started somewhere down in the desert, and ended in paradise, and were clad in a pair of faded, dusty denim jeans that fitted their slender length so well she looked as if she’d been born in them. He couldn’t wait to get a look from the back.
The T-shirt that topped them was just as nicely filled, but the eyes that glittered at him from beneath the brim of a floppy cotton sun-hat were the sort that could flash and turn you to ice, even if the thermometer—as now— was climbing way into the hundreds. Apparently she didn’t welcome his appreciative survey.
‘Hello.’ He tried a smile, but somewhat to his surprise it didn’t seem to have its usual effect. She had put her sunglasses on again, but he could still feel the frost from that steady gaze. ‘I…seem to be having some difficulty with my map. Could you tell me how far I am from Taqato al qabrin?’
‘You’re there.’
‘Here?’ He glanced around in surprise. There seemed to be nothing but a jumble of rocky outcrop. ‘Where? I don’t see any village?’
‘It isn’t a village. In Arabic, Taqato al qabrin means Crossroads of the Tombs.’
‘Oh…’ He looked up at her, a little puzzled by the frigid hostility in her tone. Granted, his initial appraisal had been rather too obvious, but with a shape like that she must surely be used to an occasional crass male reaction. But apparently she was the type who didn’t much care for the male reaction, he reflected, studying her more discreetly. Pity—she could have been quite a looker if she made the effort.
He’d put her in her late twenties, five-ten in her stockinged feet, and certainly not above a hundred and twenty pounds. She wasn’t wearing a scrap of make-up, and the strands of hair straggling from beneath her battered hat had been bleached to straw by the sun.
And the way she was standing there, feet aggressively apart, hands on hips, was positively masculine. But the impression created by the strong brow and determined chin was somewhat belied by a very pretty nose, and a hint of soft vulnerability about her mouth.
Alex frowned. Just what was a lone Englishwoman doing out here in the middle of nowhere anyway? In all his discussions with the Ministry of Industry and Resources in Cairo she hadn’t been mentioned—he had been given to understand that the area was completely unpopulated.
‘Are you living out here?’ he enquired quizzically.
She shook her head. ‘Working,’ was her terse response. He lifted one dark eyebrow. ‘I’m an archaeologist.’
Ah—that might explain a number of things! It appeared that she was better informed than he was. ‘I didn’t know there were any archaeological sites in the area,’ he remarked, trying hard to win even just the shadow of a smile.
‘Well, there is,’ she retorted, not unfreezing by one degree.
‘I see.’ He switched off the ignition of the Land Rover, and climbed out. ‘Mind if I take a look?’
As he moved towards her, she stepped quickly back, defences bristling. He slanted her a look of sardonic humour; if she was worried about him, what was she going to make of a mining-camp housing upwards of fifty men plonked right on her doorstep? Mind, she looked more than capable of taking care of herself, he reflected drily—he’d back her against a bunch of sexstarved quarry-men any day of the week!
But as she turned her back on him and began to climb up over the scree, that rear view, lovingly hugged by the fading denim, was everything he had anticipated. It was fortunate, perhaps, that he was going to be rather too busy to think about women while he was here—he found the challenge in those blue eyes really quite intriguing.
Which was really slightly crazy, he told himself with a hint of self-mocking amusement—he had never been attracted to that prickly, aggressive type; he liked his women sweet and soft and feminine. The heat must be getting to his brain!

He was a week early; April, the Department of Antiquities had told her, and it was still only March. Joanna felt a knot of angry frustration twist in her stomach. There was still months of work to do to excavate the tombs properly, and soon it would be too hot to work at all—and by the time the weather began to cool again, in September or October, the whole side of the valley would have been reduced to rubble, ripped apart for the extraction of the valuable mineral ore in the rocks.
They would never have done this to her father, she reflected bitterly. Maybe she should swallow her pride after all, and ask him to pull strings for her, while there was still time. He would do it, of course; naturally he had been ready to offer any help she needed with her ‘little project’.
Her mouth twisted into a wry smile. Maybe he couldn’t help it, but his attitudes were as ancient and dusty as the mummies he was such an expert on. The illustrious Professor Julian Holloway, reknowned Egyptologist and Fellow of the Royal Society, was a plain old-fashioned chauvinist, and just couldn’t imagine why his only daughter might want to establish a name for herself in her own right.
To be honest, it wasn’t the most important dig in the world. There were hundreds—thousands—of ancient tomb-sites scattered along the banks of the Nile, and there was no reason to suppose this one would have escaped the attentions of grave-robbers when even most of the those in the Valley of the Kings, a little way further downriver, had been comprehensively stripped of all their treasures. The only reason she’d been granted permission to excavate them was that they were about to be destroyed.
She hadn’t expected Alexander Marshall himself to show up, especially alone and in a battered old Land Rover. She had recognised him at once, of course—he was rarely out of the news, if not for his ruthless business dealings then for his outrageous private life. He had even been prepared to shove his own father and elder brother aside to gain control of his company—and the scandal of his divorce, and his numerous affairs, had been a staple of the tabloid front pages for years.
It was obvious how he had earned his reputation, she mused, slanting him a covert glance from behind the useful defence of her dark sunglasses. He had put his own sunglasses on now, but the way he had looked at her before had made her feel…as if she wasn’t wearing any clothes.
He was perhaps even better-looking in the flesh than in those fuzzy black and white newspaper pictures, she acknowledged with some reluctance—the camera couldn’t really do justice to those strong-boned, aquiline features, or catch the crisp curl of his dark hair.
But there was no mistaking his arrogance, nor his ruthlessness—it was written into every cynical line of that hard mouth. And though he was a good many years younger than her father—the newspapers had him down as thirty-five—she would guess that he was just as much of an obdurate chauvinist.
They reached the top of the low rise that hid the tombs from the road. The dark, gaping tomb-entrances were in two rows, six on the lower level, three above, carved deep into the weathered yellow limestone of the hill. She gazed at them with a sharp twinge of regret; three and a half thousand years they had been here, and now in a few more weeks they would be gone.
Alex glanced around the bleak site, one dark eyebrow lifted in faint surprise. ‘Who’s in charge of the dig?’ he enquired.
Joanna’s eyes glittered with icy anger; she might have known he would assume that it would be a man in charge. ‘I am,’ she ground out.
He smiled in wry apology. ‘I see. Have you found anything interesting?’
She shrugged her slim shoulders. ‘No spectacular caches of gold, if that’s what you mean,’ she conceded reluctantly. ‘This site is nothing like as grand as the ones up in the Valley of the Kings. But it’s telling us a great deal about the day-to-day lives of the ordinary people— what they ate, how they prepared their food, how they organised their households. We could probably find out a lot more…’ She slanted him a look of bitter resentment. ‘But of course, now that you’ve arrived, we won’t get the chance.’
He lifted one dark eyebrow in quizzical enquiry. ‘I gather from that remark that you know who I am?’
‘Of course.’ She injected her voice with several degrees of frost. ‘Mr Makram from the D of A warned me you’d be coming—though I wasn’t expecting you until next month.’
‘I’m sorry,’ he responded on an inflection of sardonic humour.
Joanna felt her palm itch to slap that arrogant face. He was just mocking her; he knew full well that there was nothing she could do to prevent him starting work on his contract whenever he liked.
‘Well, if you’ve seen enough, please excuse me,’ she rapped tautly, turning him an aloof shoulder. ‘I’m afraid I have a great deal of work to do.’
Unfortunately the dignity of the effect was somewhat marred when she missed her footing on the rough ground, and slipped. A strong hand caught her instantly, like a vice around her arm.
‘Careful,’ he advised smoothly. ‘If you broke your ankle out here you could be in big trouble.’
A sudden rush of heat flowed through her, and she felt her heartbeat skip oddly. ‘Th…thank you,’ she managed, her voice a little unsteady. ‘I’m perfectly well able to take care of myself.’
‘Really? I’m glad to hear it.’ He let go of her arm. ‘I’d like to take a look at these tombs of yours—if you’d be so kind as to show me?’
She slanted him a look of wary suspicion, sceptical of the interest he was showing. But if there was the slightest chance…She would very much have preferred not to have had to spend any more time in his company, but if she could persuade him to delay starting his quarrying, even for just a few weeks, it would be worth it.
‘All right,’ she conceded somewhat ungraciously. ‘This way. You’ll have to mind your head—the roof’s quite low.’
She led him down the slope, and into the second tomb on the lower level—the best one they had found so far. Picking up her torch, she shone the beam to light the way down the narrow passage carved into the living rock. Every time she came here, she felt again that sense of awe for all the timeless ages that had passed since men had first hewn out this place; just touching the rough walls, she felt as though she was making some kind of tenuous link with those long-past generations.
‘Careful,’ she warned. ‘It’s a steep slope, but it’s not far to the bottom. We’ve put in a rope hand-grip to help. Wait here till I get down, then I’ll shine the torch for you.’
She clambered carefully down, and then called up for him to follow, playing the torch-beam on the rough-hewn ground underfoot as he edged his way after her. He was so tall that he had to bend almost double to avoid hitting his head on the roof. As he reached the bottom and straightened beside her, Joanna found herself suddenly a little breathless—but then it was always rather hot and airless down here.
She flashed the torch around the walls, showing him the paintings, thousands of years old but so incredibly well-preserved that they could have been painted only yesterday. ‘This is the first chamber,’ she explained, a hint of proprietorial pride in her voice. ‘We think it was built for a local viceroy of the eighteenth dynasty—that would put it at about the fourteenth-century BC. The decoration is typical of the period.’
‘Very nice.’ He sounded genuinely impressed. He reached out his hand to touch the hieroglyphics carved into the rock. ‘I wonder what these mean?’
‘“Behold Osiris, the scribe of the holy offerings of all the gods. Worship to thee who has come as Khepera, as the creator of the gods,”’ she read fluently. ‘“Thou risest, thou shinest, making bright thy mother, crowned as king of the gods.”
He glanced down at her in astonishment. ‘You can read it?’
She felt a stab of annoyance; did he think she was some kind of amateur? ‘Of course,’ she responded coolly. ‘It’s an inscription from the opening chapter of the Book of the Dead. The painting is of the funerary procession; the mourners are bringing offerings of food and spices to sustain the spirit on its journey to heaven.’
‘I see.’ He studied the mural, a faint smile curving his mouth, and Joanna felt suddenly uncomfortable as she guessed what he was thinking; most of the figures were draped in a white cloth that had been painted to appear almost transparent. ‘Rum lot, those ancient Egyptians,’ he remarked; he had removed his sunglasses, and in the glimmer of the torchlight she could see the glint of mocking humour in his dark eyes. ‘Did they dress like that all the time?’
She forced herself to return him a long, cool look— it was rather disconcerting to have him standing so close, so tall and wide-shouldered and so…uncompromisingly male. ‘Most of the murals of that particular period appear to show a similar style of clothing,’ she responded with frosty dignity. ‘Would you like to see the burial-chamber?’ He nodded, and she shone the torch-beam across the floor. ‘Be careful here—there’s a robbertrap. I’ll cross first, and then hold the torch for you.’
The trap was a deep pit that opened right across the passage. Investigation had revealed it to be about twenty feet deep, but as a deterrent to grave-robbers it clearly hadn’t been too successful—the burial-chamber, when they had reached it, had long ago been looted of its treasures.
They had placed a plank across it, weighed down with sandbags, to make a bridge, and she skipped nimbly across, and then waited for him to follow her. The beam of the torchlight threw his shadow against the far wall, huge and menacing, and she felt her mouth go suddenly dry. They were all alone down here, and the nearest village was five miles away…
She stepped back quickly as he reached her side of the plank-bridge, hoping he wouldn’t hear her heartbeat pounding. ‘This is the burial-chamber,’ she announced, her voice sounding oddly unsteady to her own ears. ‘We found the remains of the sarcophagus, and a few bits of the canopic jars, but all the rest had been stolen.’
‘A pity.’
Was it just her imagination, the way he was looking at her? She retreated a little further into the chamber. ‘Unfortunately, all the other tombs we’ve found so far have been in the same state,’ she rushed on. ‘We were hoping to at least find something that would identify the occupants, but unless we can find a sarcophagus still intact it doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘How many more tombs are there?’ he enquired. His tone was quite neutral, but the way he was standing there, his wide shoulder propped against the wall, gave her the uncomfortable feeling that he was barring her way out.
‘I…I don’t know for sure. We’ve found nine so far, but there could be more.’
‘We…?’
She hesitated, wondering if it was quite wise to let him know how unprotected she was out here. But he would find out anyway soon enough. ‘Just…myself and my assistant, Annette.’
He arched one dark eyebrow in surprised question. ‘Just two women?’
‘Yes.’ She felt a flood of heat rush through her. ‘We’re perfectly capable of undertaking a project like this.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you are.’ There was no mistaking that faint hint of mockery. ‘But isn’t it rather heavy work?’
‘Not with modern equipment.’ She was beginning to find his proximity a little too much to cope with. Mustering as much dignity as she could, she moved past him, back towards the plank-bridge. ‘Well, that’s all there is to see, I’m afraid…’ And if he so much as tried to touch her, he would find out just how strong six months of humping great big stones around had made her.
But he made no untoward move, merely following behind her as she stepped across the plank-bridge and scrambled up the slope to emerge into the bright glare of the Egyptian sun. She drew in a long, deep breath, feeling a little foolish now for letting him unsettle her like that for what had really been no reason.
‘Well…As I said, all the others we’ve found so far are in much the same condition.’ She felt much calmer now—it must have just been an unexpected attack of claustrophobia. ‘But we’ve started to dig lower down— we think there may be another level below this one.’
‘And how long would it take you to find out?’
She glanced up hopefully, searching his face, but all she could see was her own reflection in his sunglasses. ‘Oh, about…three months,’ she suggested tentatively. ‘We’d have to finish by the end of June anyway—it would be much too hot to carry on by then.’
‘I see.’ He shook his head with what she could almost have taken for genuine regret. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to give you that long. We’ve a contract to meet. We start blasting in three weeks.’
She stared at him in startled horror. ‘Blasting? You mean you’re going to use dynamite!’
That oddly intriguing mouth quirked into a mocking smile. ‘Well, what did you think we were going to use?’ he taunted. Picks and shovels?’
She returned him an angry glare, not amused by his humour. ‘You’re just going to blow everything up?’ she demanded, blazing.
‘Well, not quite as drastic as that,’ he conceded. ‘But modern quarrying methods are pretty efficient.’
‘It’s nothing but licensed vandalism!’ she flared. ‘You’re just going to destroy all that history…’
‘The decision isn’t mine,’ he pointed out drily. ‘It’s the Egyptian government’s. The country needs the foreign exchange that exporting the ore will bring in. You can’t eat history, or put it on your kid’s feet instead of a pair of shoes.’
She felt her fist clench. He was perfectly right, of course—but she’d be damned if she was going to admit it. ‘Well, since I have so little time, I’d better not waste any more of it,’ she rapped, a bite in her voice. ‘Good morning, Mr Marshall.’
That cynical mouth curved into a mocking smile. ‘Thank you for showing me around,’ he drawled. ‘I shall probably be seeing you again, Miss…? Or is it Mrs?’ he added, deliberately provocative.
‘Ms.’ Why, three years after her divorce, was she still so defensive? ‘Holloway.’
He acknowledged the stilted introduction with a slight inclination of his head. ‘I see. Well, Ms Holloway, it’s been very pleasant meeting you. I’m sorry my arrival signals the end of your work here—I can imagine how frustrating that is for you.’
She found that he was holding out his hand, expecting her to shake it, but with a sudden rush of embarrassment she remembered how rough her own hands were from all the work and neglect she had been subjecting them to for the past six months, how damaged her nails.
‘Yes, well…’ Instinctively she tucked her hands out of sight behind her back. ‘There’s nothing much I can do about it, is there?’
‘No, I’m afraid there isn’t.’ Again that mocking smile. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
She watched him go, her mind a tangle of confusion. Why had she acted like that down in the tomb—like some prim little schoolroom miss? Had she been too long out here in the desert, that she had forgotten how to respond when a man showed her even a spark of admiration? He must have thought she was crazy.
Or more likely, she reflected ruefully, that she wasn’t accustomed to it. She twined one finger around the strand of hair that had slipped from beneath her hat, feeling the rough, dry ends; she had neglected it terribly these past couple of months—out here in this hot, dusty climate she really ought to take better care of it. And her hands were just awful—she couldn’t remember the last time she had given herself a manicure.
Not that she cared a damn what he thought of her, she reminded herself forcefully. She didn’t want him here. Unfortunately there was nothing much she could do about it—Mr Makram had made it clear, when he had arranged for her to be granted the licence to explore the tombs, that she couldn’t be allowed to hold up the mining of the mineral ores, so essential to the country’s economy.
Well, if she only had a short time, she had better get on, she scolded herself, dismissing all thoughts of Alex Marshall with a shrug of her slim shoulders. She had no intention of letting any man—least of all one with a reputation like the boss of Marshall Mining and Marine—distract her from her objective.

‘Oh, just my luck, that he should come while I wasn’t here!’ Annette protested, gurgling with laughter. ‘It isn’t fair.’
Joanna grunted, her attention all on rigging a tripod for her camera, to photograph the wall-decoration in the last burial-chamber they had found. ‘You didn’t miss much,’ she commented dismissively. ‘Did you manage to get everything we needed?’
‘Almost. The hypo-crystals haven’t arrived yet—he said to try tomorrow.’
Joanna frowned impatiently. ‘He said that yesterday,’ she complained. ‘We’re nearly out, and we can’t afford to wait—we’ve got to get everything finished before they start quarrying.’
Annette’s brown pansy eyes sparkled with mischievous speculation. ‘I wonder…Maybe we could persuade him to give us a few more weeks?’
‘I very much doubt it.’ Joanna responded a little too forcefully. ‘He can’t get in here quick enough with his bulldozers, and start smashing everything up. The only thing he cares about is his profits—he’s not going to let anyone stand in his way.’
Annette looked a little startled by the venom of her reaction. ‘What’s wrong?’ she asked innocently. ‘Didn’t you like him?’
Joanna slanted her young assistant a sardonic smile. Still of the age to believe in romantic dreams, Annette had been drooling for weeks over the prospect of meeting the celebrated Alex Marshall in the flesh. And if anyone could succeed in melting that rock-hard heart, she reflected with an odd twinge of an emotion she didn’t care to explore too deeply, it could well be Annette. Small and extremely pretty, with a cloud of dark curly hair and huge brown eyes, fringed by the longest, silkiest lashes, she could wind almost any man around her little finger.
But Joanna felt a certain responsibility for her; after all, she wasn’t even twenty-one yet, and she was here to complete the field-course portion of her degree, not to flirt with a man as dangerous as Alex Marshall. ‘I…hardly had time to form an opinion,’ she responded, taking a slightly flexible approach to the truth. ‘He was only here for a few minutes.’
‘Yes, but what was your first impression?’ Annette persisted eagerly.
Joanna shrugged her slender shoulders, hoping to convey the most supreme indifference. ‘He seemed rather too full of himself for my taste,’ she dismissed casualty.
Annette regarded her with naïve sympathy. ‘You’ve never really fancied anyone much, though, since your divorce, have you? Oh, I’m sorry…’ she rushed on anxiously as Joanna’s jaw tensed. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it…I…’
Joanna laughed drily. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ she assured her, all her attention on checking the focus of the camera. ‘I certainly don’t. I was very well rid of the rat, and I have no intention of falling into the same trap ever again.’
‘You mean…you don’t ever want to get married again?’ the younger girl protested, aghast at such a prospect.
‘No, thank you,’ Joanna asserted with calm certainty. ‘Marriage isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, I’m afraid. I much prefer being single.’

‘You can see the strata the ores are in.’ Alex pointed out, sweeping his powerful binoculars along the ridge of yellow hills on the far side of the valley. ‘It runs right along—that line of slightly darker rock.’
His young companion nodded. ‘I see it. What were the final results of the drilling tests?’
‘Most of the ore is very high grade.’ Alex confirmed, rolling out the large-scale map on the bonnet of the Land Rover. ‘We’ll start blasting here, beneath that outcrop to the left, and work our way along this way.’
Greg bent his fair head over the map, checking the contours of the hills against the area Alex had marked. ‘I see. Where do you intend setting up the work-camp?’
‘Where would you suggest?’ Alex returned to him.
Greg frowned, concentrating. Newly qualified with an engineering degree, he felt it was important to make a good impression; Alex wasn’t the sort to do him any favours just because he was his cousin. ‘I’d say…just there.’ He pointed to an area closest to the river, at the opposite end of the ridge from where blasting was to begin, and lifted his binoculars to check that it was as suitable as it appeared from the map.
It looked a pretty inhospitable place—a rough, rocky, sun-baked hillside, with just a few straggling thorn bushes and some parched grass for vegetation. The back door of hell. He swung the glasses along the ridge, and then back again abruptly. ‘What’s going on down there?’ he asked, focusing in to take a better look.
Alex felt himself tense with unreasoning annoyance. So the damned girl was proving a distraction already!
‘I forgot to mention it,’ he remarked dismissively. ‘I just found out about it last week. There’s some female doing an archaeological dig. Don’t worry—it won’t be a problem to us. I checked with Makram—she’s only got permission to stay until we’re ready to start blasting.’
‘You forgot to mention it?’ Greg slanted him a quizzical glance. ‘You run into an angel like that out here in this God-forsaken place, and then forget all about it? Pull the other one.’
Alex raised one dark eyebrow in surprise; ‘angel’ was hardly the word he would have chosen. He lifted his own binoculars, sweeping along the ridge to find the half-hidden hollow where the tombs were clustered. But there was no sign of the aggravating Ms Holloway—just one of Greg’s pint-sized brunettes, squatting on the ground, mending the handle of an old shovel. He vaguely recalled that there had been some mention of an assistant, but he couldn’t remember her name.
‘That’s not her…’
At that moment she emerged from the entrance of the tomb. As he watched, she reached up for a rope suspended from a block and tackle, and began to haul on it. God, she must have muscles on her like a navvy, he reflected in horror—a man could get quite a shock trying to cuddle up to that at night!
‘There she is,’ he told Greg. ‘The one in the yellow T-shirt.’
Greg looked, but didn’t seem impressed. ‘You can keep that one,’ he accorded generously. ‘I’ll take the brunette.’ He let his gaze linger for a long time. ‘Mmmvery nice indeed.’
Alex laughed with sardonic humour. ‘You’re supposed to be here to work, not admire the scenery,’ he reminded him drily.
Greg grinned sheepishly. ‘Sorry. But there’s no harm in getting to know our neighbours, is there? After all, I’m the one that’s going to be stuck out here doing all the hard work—you’ll just be buzzing in and out in your little toy helicopter, looking important.’
Alex snorted at that friendly dig at his pride and joy, his Bell Jetranger, which he piloted himself. ‘The privilege of rank,’ he returned loftily. ‘Besides, they won’t be here much longer—once we start blasting, they’ll have to clear out.’
He lifted his binoculars again, watching the girl as she finished hauling up a trolley-load of rubble, and tipped it into a wheelbarrow. All that heavy work certainly kept her in good trim, he reflected, somewhat revising his earlier opinion. Most of the women he knew dieted to the point of tedium, and spent hours working out in aerobics classes, but any one of them would have killed for a shape like that.
But he had an unpleasant suspicion that she was going to prove herself to be a damned nuisance—she seemed perfectly capable of launching a campaign to delay him until she had finished excavating her piecious tombs. He lowered the binoculars, and swung himself behind the wheel of the Land Rover.
‘Come on—if you’ve seen all you need to see out here we might as well be getting back to town,’ he grunted impatiently. ‘I’ve got some calls to make.’
Greg glanced at him faint surprise, but climbed into the passenger seat beside him. ‘Right-ho,’ he agreed easily. ‘Although…it wouldn’t hurt just to stop on the way and take a closer look at the bottom of that ridge,’ he added with a wolfish grin.
Alex slanted him a look of ironic amusement. ‘Strictly business, of course?’
‘Oh, of course.’

CHAPTER TWO (#ulink_2423bba6-8088-500e-ad45-89e413018829)
‘THERE’S a Land Rover coming this way—the same one that went past an hour ago.’ Annette stood up straight, shading her eyes with her hand as she peered along the dusty road. ‘I wonder who it is?’
Joanna barely glanced around as she checked the balance on the block and tackle they had rigged above the tomb entrance. ‘I’ve no idea,’ she responded with a careful lack of interest. It had been a week since her unfortunate encounter with Alex Marshall, but she had known it wouldn’t be long before he was back.
Of course, it might not be him in the Land Rover, but there wasn’t much reason for anyone else to be driving along that rough track through the desert—it didn’t lead anywhere but to an old oasis, long deserted since the water had dried up.
‘There’s two of them,’ Annette announced. ‘I think one of them’s Alex Marshall himself!’
There was a lilt of excited anticipation in her friend’s voice, and Joanna felt an odd little stab of something she didn’t care to put a name to. If Annette should succeed where she had failed in persuading him to delay the start of his operations, it would be all to the good.
‘He’s going to stop.’ Annette swiftly brushed the dust from her shorts, and pushed her hair back tidily from her face. ‘At least it’s nice of him to say hello.’
Joanna snorted derisively, refusing to leave her task. If Annette chose to make the effort to be pleasant to the arrogant Mr Marshall, that was up to her—all she hoped was that she would retain enough common sense not to let that smooth charm turn her head; she had no confidence at all that he would have any scruples about taking advantage of her youth and innocence to entertain himself.
She took the rope, and wrapped it around her hands, and began to pull. She had loaded the trolley a little more than some of the others, and it was maybe a little too heavy for her to lift on her own, without Annette to help, but there was a certain vicious satisfaction in meeting the physical challenge. Gritting her teeth, she felt it begin to budge.
It was just an odd prickle of awareness that warned her that he was watching her. She did her best to ignore it, but it would have taken a stronger will than she possessed to resist the temptation to slant just one covert glance in the direction of the Land Rover.
He sat resting his arms across the steering-wheel, a faint smile curving that cynical mouth as he responded to Annette’s flirtatious advances. He was wearing those dark sunglasses again, so it was impossible to be sure of exactly which way he was looking—and she certainly wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction of thinking it bothered her in the slightest. Turning him an aloof shoulder, she continued hauling up the sack of rubble.
She had managed to raise the heavy trolley to the top of the wooden ramp they had rigged at the entrance to the tomb, to make it easier to tip the rubble out into the wheelbarrow, when she sensed that he had come up behind her. He leaned casually against the rock wall at the entrance to the tomb, regarding her with a faintly mocking smile. ‘Isn’t that a bit too heavy for you?’ he enquired, deliberately provocative.
She returned his look with a frosty glare. ‘Not at all,’ she responded, tying up the rope and manoeuvering the wheelbarrow into place. The front-panel of the trolley was designed to lift out, allowing the contents to pour out easily.
He laughed softly. ‘You’re a very independent lady, aren’t you?’ he taunted.
‘Very.’ The wheelbarrow was awkward to manage, but she’d be damned if she’d concede, with him standing there watching her. Somehow she managed to trundle it over to the dump and tip out the rubble, struggling to ignore him; but it wasn’t easy—she could feel the heat of his gaze with every move she made.
There had been a time, a long time ago, when she might have been flattered by that sort of interest from such an attractive man. Brought up to believe that a woman’s role was to be pretty and pleasing, and not to threaten the fragile male ego in any way, she had seen marriage as the only goal a woman needed in life. She had taken her university degree simply as a way of passing the time, and her father had been delighted when she had married one of his brightest young protégés.
Real life had come as a rude awakening. Happy only to be helping her husband, she had been merely puzzled at first to find that she was the one doing most of the research, while he took all the credit. It had dawned on her only slowly that she was being used to advance his career, but with that realisation had come the stirring of her own ambition.
Paul hadn’t liked it, of course, when she had started to assert a little independence; he had done all he could to keep her in what he saw as her place—he had even sunk so low as to try to persuade her to have a child, and when she had refused he had called her an unfeminine bitch. And then he had compounded the humiliation by starting an affair with one of her oldest friends.
The divorce had been painful, but at least she was older now, and wiser—too wise to fall for a man like Alex Marshall. Her defences had been erected with care. The first of them was her deliberate neglect of her appearance—which made it all the more disconcerting that he seemed not to have noticed that her hair was such a mess, her clothes old and work-worn. If the newspapers were anything to go by, he usually went for the sleek, well-groomed sort—models and actresses, mostly. But she sensed that he was the kind of man who would always have an eye for a woman, even if she was dressed in a sack.
He watched her walk back from the tip, trundling the barrow. ‘How’s it going?’ he enquired. ‘Found anything interesting yet?’
Joanna slanted him a suspicious glance from behind her sunglasses. The remark seemed casual enough, as though he was merely making conversation—except that she doubted Alex Marshall ever made casual conversation without having some ulterior motive. He was probably concerned that if she came across something really valuable the Egyptian government might change its priorities and allow her to continue the dig.
‘We’re still clearing the passage into the burial-chamber,’ she returned warily. ‘It’ll be at least a week before we can get through.’
‘I checked with your friend Mr Makram from the Department of Antiquities,’ he informed her, a definite hint of steel underlying his bland tone. ‘He confirmed that your licence was only granted on the condition that you vacate the site as soon as I declare it unsafe.’
‘I’m perfectly well aware of that,’ she responded with icy dignity, all her attention on unravelling the rope, which had somehow got itself tangled around the pulley. Damn—the thing would be just a fraction too high for her to reach! She balanced herself somewhat precariously across the tomb entrance, stretching up on tiptoe, all too acutely aware that her T-shirt, which admittedly had seen better days, had parted company with the waistband of her jeans, permitting him a tantalising glimpse of her slim, suntanned midriff.
He came over, reaching up easily and freeing the rope. Again she felt that sudden sense of vulnerability as he brushed against her, and she breathed the musky male scent of his skin. She stepped back, struggling to control the ragged beating of her heart.
‘Th…thank you,’ she managed, her voice sounding oddly unsteady to her own ears.
‘Don’t mention it…’
There was a strange huskiness in his tone, as if he too had been affected by that fleeting touch. She lifted her eyes to look up at him and found him looking down at her. Something was weaving a spell around them, holding them both in a kind of thrall…
‘Where are you staying?’ he enquired softly.
All of a sudden red lights and alarm-bells started going off frantically inside her head; that question, in her experience, had all too frequently been the prelude to a request for a date. Instinctively she retreated on to the defensive. ‘Why do you want to know?’ she countered jaggedly.
At once that smile took on a sardonic twist—whatever she had seen, or thought she had seen, was gone. ‘Simply out of concern for your safety,’ he returned drily. ‘I wouldn’t like to think you’d be out here after dark. I’ll be moving my men out here over the next couple of weeks, and while I can guarantee that they’ll be kept too busy during the day to even think about a woman, once that whistle blows their time’s their own.’
She glared up at him in angry defiance, her hands on her hips. ‘Are you trying to intimidate me, Mr Marshall?’ she challenged.
‘I wouldn’t dream of it, Ms Holloway,’ he returned, placing a mocking emphasis on the title she had insisted on. ‘I was simply making you aware of the situation. There’s more than one reason why this site may be considered unsafe for you.’
‘Thank you,’ she responded tartly. ‘I’ll try and remember that.’
‘I would if I were you.’ Now his voice held an unmistakable warning. ‘I don’t like people trying to stand in my way.’
‘So I’ve heard.’ She allowed a sardonic edge to creep into her own voice. ‘Whoever they are.’
‘Oh?’ He arched one dark eyebrow in mocking enquiry, knowing exactly what she meant. ‘You’ve taken an interest in my past career?’
‘Who could miss it?’ she retorted with cool disdain. ‘You seem to have a flair for publicity.’
‘Not intentionally. And you shouldn’t believe everything you read in the papers.’
‘Oh? You mean it’s all a pack of lies?’
He laughed without humour. ‘Well, not quite,’ he conceded. ‘Let’s just say the tabloid version tends to be somewhat economical with the facts.’
She slanted him a sceptical glance. Maybe that was true, to some extent; but there was no mistaking his arrogance, or his ruthlessness—it was written into every line of that hard-boned, aquiline face. A small shiver ran through her. He was the kind of man who would get what he wanted—whatever he wanted. And he wouldn’t be too particular about his methods.
She shrugged her slender shoulders in a gesture of indifference, turning her attention to setting up the trolley ready to bring up another load of rubble. ‘Anyway, it’s really no concern of mine…’
‘Ah, there you are!’
Joanna turned, startled, as Annette appeared, a fairhaired young man in tow—the one who had been in the Land Rover with Alex. Until that moment, she had completely forgotten that they were there.
‘Sorry to have been so long,’ Annette added, blithely unaware of any tension between the other two. ‘I was just showing Greg the Nomarch’s tomb. Greg, this is Joanna. Joanna—Greg Taylor.’
Joanna found herself shaking hands politely, murmuring some sort of greeting.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Annette added, oddly breathless, ‘I’ve suggested that Greg and Alex might like to drop by and have dinner with us tonight. That’s all right with you, isn’t it?’
The words were casual enough, but there was a glow in Annette’s brown eyes as she glanced up at the young man by her side that hinted that it was very important indeed that she should agree. And he seemed equally smitten, smiling down at her as if she were the embodiment of all his dreams.
So that was the way the river was running! Neither of them had wasted much time, Joanna reflected, with a wry twist of amusement. It looked like a classic case of love at first sight. But it did place her in something of a quandary. The last thing she wanted was to have Alex Marshall come to dinner, but how could she possibly stand in the way of two such love-birds?
‘Of course it’s all right,’ she forced out, her smile rather brittle. ‘So long as they don’t mind what they get—it’s my turn to cook.’
‘Oh…No, it’s all right—I’ll cook,’ Annette offered quickly, her cheeks a pretty shade of pink. ‘I wouldn’t want to give you the extra work.’
Joanna interpreted this very astutely as Annette’s understandable desire to show off her excellent cooking skills. She laughed with dry humour. ‘All right—I’m more than happy to leave it to you.’
Annette’s eyes signalled her thanks, but her manner towards Greg was breezy. ‘Well, we’ll see you tonight, then. We usually work here till quite late, so we don’t eat till about nine. Will that be OK?’
‘Yes, of course. Er…it will, won’t it, Alex?’
The older man shrugged his wide shoulders in a gesture of acceptance. ‘Oh, I think we can manage it,’ he confirmed lightly, the incipient smile that lingered at the corners of his mouth indicating that he was mildly amused by what was going on. ‘Thank you for the invitation.’
Annette smiled up at him a little apprehensively; it was clear that, in spite of her earlier boldness, she found him rather intimidating. Which was probably just as well, Joanna reflected drily; he’d eat her for breakfast.
As the other couple moved away, Alex turned to her. ‘I hope it isn’t too much trouble for you?’ he enquired just a shade too solicitously—he knew how much of an effort it was going to cost her to sit through this meal.
‘Of course not,’ she returned, the hint of frost in her tone intended to warn him that even if the other two were hovering on the brink of romance, it changed nothing between them.
But he merely smiled with mocking humour. ‘Then I shall look forward to it,’ he murmured, impeccably polite. He held out his hand to her. ‘Until tonight.’
Joanna hesitated, her heart suddenly fluttering in alarm at the thought of allowing those strong, sensitive fingers to enfold her own. But if she avoided the challenge, he would have scored some kind of victory. So she kept the touch fleeting, drawing back before he had time to capture her.
‘Until tonight,’ she concurred.
With a farewell nod, he swung himself into the Land Rover. ‘Come on, Greg, we’d better get going—we’ve got a ferry to catch.’
The younger man had some difficulty tearing himself away, but with a last wave he too climbed into the Land Rover, and it disappeared down the road in a swirl of yellow dust. As soon as it was out of sight, Annette gave a little skip of joy, dancing in a circle.
‘Oh, Jo…I Isn’t he gorgeous’? You do like him, don’t you?’
Joanna smiled wryly. ‘He seems very nice,’ she agreed, trying not to sound too cynical. ‘And he’s certainly keen on you.’
‘Do you really think so?’ Annette’s brown eyes betrayed all the soaring leap of her emotions. ‘You’re not just saying that?’
Joanna gave her friend a playful hug. ‘You’d have to be blind not to see it.’ She felt a faint twinge of envy, recalling how she had once been so young and eager for life—before life had taught her some hard lessons.
‘I had to invite both of them.’ Annette added earnestly. ‘It would have looked much too obvious just to invite Greg by himself. I didn’t want him to think I was too forward. You didn’t mind, did you?’
Joanna laughed, struggling to keep her grip on her sense of humour. ‘Mind?’ she responded, feeling rather as if she was drowning. ‘Why on earth should I mind?’

‘Oh…Is that all you’ve got to wear?’
Annette had spoken impulsively, and now she was trying to smile to soften the impact of her words. But Joanna was defiant. ‘Of course—what’s wrong with it?’ she challenged, a hint of belligerence in her voice as she surveyed her own reflection in the chipped mirror screwed to the back of the door.
She had chosen, from the rather limited selection in her wardrobe, a plain white cotton shirt, cut like a man’s, and a pair of loose brown cord trousers. She had tied her hair back at the nape of her neck with a green Paisleyprint scarf, and her only concession to ornamentation was a loose, quilted waistcoat and a silver-buckled belt.
It was a deliberately unfeminine outfit—unlike Annette’s swirling Indian-print skirt and pretty embroidered top. But then Annette would look dainty and feminine whatever she wore. And anyway, Joanna didn’t have anyone to impress.
‘It’s just…I thought…’ Poor Annette was embarrassed, and Joanna hugged her, laughing teasingly.
‘You’re the one to shine tonight,’ she reminded her. ‘They’re not coming to see me.’
Annette glanced up at her, frowning slightly. ‘I don’t know,’ she mused. ‘It struck me that Alex was more than a little interested in you.’
‘I doubt it.’ Joanna responded drily. ‘I’m not exactly his type—he goes for raving beauties.’
‘Oh, but…If only you’d make a little bit of effort…’ Annette began to protest. But Joanna cut her off with a forceful shake of her head.
‘No, thank you,’ she insisted. ‘It just leads to complications.’
A shadow of sympathy darkened Annette’s sparkling eyes. ‘Oh, Joanna—I wish…If only you could meet someone you really liked. Not all men are like your exhusband, you know.’
‘Oh?’ Joanna chuckled teasingly. ‘You’re speaking from wide experience here, are you?’
Annette giggled. ‘No, of course not. But you know, I never thought I’d meet anyone like Greg.’
‘I’ve no doubt he’s quite unique.’ Joanna conceded, with a hint of sardonic humour. ‘Unfortunately I’m finding that with every passing year I’m getting even more picky.’
‘Oh, come on.’ Annette protested indignantly. ‘You talking as if you’re about a hundred! You’re not even thirty yet!
‘It’s only another three months.’ Joanna smiled, wryly conscious of how much older she felt. ‘But even so, I can’t see any man matching up to what I want.’
‘What do you want?’ asked Annette.
‘Oh…’ Joanna tipped her head on one side, musing. ‘He’d have to have the sense of humour of Victor Borge, and the brains of Steven Hawking, and be as kind and caring as Bob Geldof…and as good-looking as Kevin Costner!’
Annette chuckled, her eyes dancing. ‘You’re not asking for much!’
‘See what I mean?’ Joanna countered.
‘But there are some men like that,’ Annette insisted, earnestly romantic, and then blushed a becoming shade of pink.
Joanna slanted her a teasing glance. ‘Like Greg, for instance?’ she enquired.
Annette blushed even deeper. ‘Well…’
‘Annie, you’ve only known him for ten minutes, at the outside,’ Joanna reminded her with gentle concern.
‘I know, but…’ Annette’s fine eyes took on a dreamy look. ‘How long does it take?’
Joanna smiled wryly. ‘Oh, about ten minutes,’ she acknowledged, reflecting how easily she could have done the same, if bitter experience hadn’t taught her to be more cautious. ‘But just the same, take it slowly,’ she warned anxiously. ‘You don’t know anything about him—I’d hate to see you get hurt.’
Annette’s soft mouth trembled slightly, betraying how very vulnerable she was. ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘But…’ The sound of a Land Rover pulling up outside sent all other thoughts spinning from her brain, and she rushed over to the window. ‘It’s him!’ Love had thrown her into a panic. ‘Do I look all right?’ she pleaded, running back to the mirror to smooth her hair and her skirt, and fidget with the neckline of her pretty blouse. ‘Oh…I’d better go and check on the dinner—will you let them in?’
‘Of course I will.’ Joanna smiled her reassurance. ‘And don’t worry—you look gorgeous. If he hasn’t fallen in love with you already, it won’t take him long.’
She had barely finished speaking when there was a rap on the door. Annette squeaked in alarm, and dived into the kitchen; Joanna was outwardly rather more casual as she strolled across the room, though her own instincts were urging her to hide too. But she had to survive this evening—for Annette’s sake. She could still remember what it was like to be young and in love—though it seemed like a long time ago now.
Pausing to steady her nerves with a slow, deep breath, she pulled open the door. Greg was on the doorstep, his eyes alight with an eager expectancy that changed to an almost ludicrous disappointment when he saw Joanna standing there instead of Annette.
‘Oh…Hello…How are you?’ He was far too nice a young man to forget his manners completely, and his open smile won Joanna’s heart; it was so totally obvious that he was every bit as besotted as Annette.
‘I’m fine. Come on in,’ she invited, taking pity on him. ‘Annie’s in the kitchen, checking on the dinner.’
‘Oh…Well, perhaps I should…just go and see if she needs a hand, then, shall I?’ be suggested earnestly.
‘Good idea,’ she agreed, tongue in cheek, noting with satisfaction the signs of the effort he had made to spruce himself up for this evening—a slight redness beneath his chin where he had shaved for the second time, a betraying pleat in his shirt where he had ironed it rather inexpertly.
He shot her a grateful grin, and darted across the room—leaving her alone to face the tall man who had walked in behind him.
‘Good evening,’ she managed, just the slightest trace of stiffness in her voice.
‘Good evening.’ That hard mouth was curved into a wry smile, acknowledging the position they both found themselves in, as gooseberries to the other couple.
He cast a brief glance around, and she followed his eyes, trying to see the tiny flat as he would see it. Close to the centre of town, in the heart of the tourist bazaar, it was above a narrow Aladdin’s cave of a shop that sold everything from T-shirts printed with meaningless hieroglyphics to beautiful hand-engraved glass hubble-bubble pipes and copper tea-trays.
It was far from being a palace, though it was clean and comfortable enough for their needs. There were just two rooms, one of which they used as a bedroom, the other as a study, cluttered with books and papers and dusty finds from the tomb site waiting to be properly catalogued. The kitchen was little bigger than a cupboard, with an ancient gas stove and a huge old stone sink, and an occasional problem with scorpions for which they kept a jam-jar and a piece of cardboard ever ready.
The best feature was the wide balcony at the back, with a spectacular view over the floodlit ruins of Luxor Temple to the wide sweep of the Nile; Annette was trying to grow geraniums out there, not with any great deal of success. Tonight she had spread a red and white-checked tablecloth over the weathered wooden table, and they had pillaged one of the odd chairs from the study to make up enough to sit on.
‘Nice place you’ve got here.’
‘Thank you.’ She returned him a sardonic look, knowing that the remark was mere politeness.
‘Oh, by the way, we brought along a couple of bottles of wine.’ He held it out to her. ‘White—Greg brought red, to be on the safe side.’
‘Fine—thank you.’
She glanced fleetingly at the bottle, recognising the label. It was a very good burgundy—a little extravagant to eat with such a scratch meal, perhaps, but then Alex Marshall looked like the kind of man who would expect a good wine whatever he was eating. Maybe it was just as well he’d brought his own, she reflected with a crisp touch of irony—the anonymous bottle of plonk they had bought from the shopkeeper downstairs had probably been standing around in the simmering Egyptian heat for the past six months, and would taste more like vinegar than anything else.
Alex strolled across the room, and out on to the balcony, standing balanced with his feet a little apart, his hands deep in the pockets of his khaki trousers, his wide shoulders square against the sky. ‘Nice view,’ he accorded casually.
‘Yes.’
Joanna spared a glance for the brooding ruins of the temple, and the tranquil river beyond, glittering darkly beneath the desert moon. If she had been a romantic, she would have said there was something almost magical about the scene…But fortunately she had learned to control such flights of fancy a long time ago.
Well, if this was going to be the height of their conversation, it didn’t bode particularly well for the evening ahead, she mused to herself as she moved across to the table, sitting down and folding her hands together on the cloth to stop them fidgeting.
Alex slanted her a smile of wry amusement. ‘Have you managed to maintain any other topic of conversation this afternoon?’ he enquired, nodding his head in the general direction of the kitchen.
Joanna glanced at him warily, not sure if an admission would be betraying Annette’s confidence. But since he was being so frank, maybe she could afford to be too. ‘Not for very long,’ she admitted. ‘Love’s young dream, eh?’
He lifted one dark eyebrow in quizzical amusement. ‘You sound a little cynical,’ he remarked.
She shrugged evasively, glancing away. ‘Oh, maybe,’ she conceded. ‘I suppose I’ve been around once too often.’
‘Only once?’ he enquired with a trace of ironic laughter.
‘Once was enough.’ She hoped her effort to sound light-hearted about it had come off, though she suspected’he was far too perceptive to be deceived.
With a casual movement he hooked out a chair, and sat down at the far end of the table. ‘You’ve been married?’ he asked with a gentleness that surprised her a little.
‘Once,’ she managed.
‘And divorced?’
‘Three years ago.’
An awkward silence fell again. Joanna was already regretting that she had told him even that much about herself—she had intended to keep an impersonal distance between them. But there was something about this man that was very disruptive to her hard-won peace of mind; and there was no way she could pietend that the way her heartbeat was racing at this moment was due to claustrophobia.
But to her relief, he chose to change the subject. ‘Shall we make a start on the wine?’ he suggested, reaching for the bottle.
‘Oh…Don’t you think we ought to wait for the others?’ she suggested, her voice a little unsteady.
From the kitchen came the sound of merry laughter. ‘If we wait for them, we could be waiting all night,’ he remarked with perspicacity. He pulled a heavy-duty penknife from his pocket, and opened a corkscrew from among the various useful attachments folded into it. ‘Be prepared,’ he mocked himself mildly.
Joanna’s lips quirked into a smile. ‘You were a boy scout?’ she enquired, daring to tease him a little.
He grinned, that hard face suddenly almost boyish. ‘A long time ago.’
She propped her elbow on the table, resting her chin on her cupped hand, her blue eyes dancing. ‘I can’t imagine it,’ she mused. ‘Did you wear shorts and a woggle?’
Dark eyes twinkled with amusement at her across the table. ‘Of course.’ He took her glass and filled it. ‘What shall we drink to?’ he enquired, a lilt of light humour in his voice. ‘Young love? Or wisdom and maturity?’
‘Oh, the latter, I think,’ she asserted wryly. ‘It lasts much longer.’
He laughed in ironic agreement. ‘Unfortunately, you’re probably right.’
Joanna sat back in her seat, enjoying the rich, distinctive flavour of the wine. A few years in the wood had given it a mature subtlety that she found very pleasing, a smooth sweetness that lingered on the tongue, deeply satisfying.
It was a romantic evening, she acknowledged to herself. A slight breeze was rustling the leaves of the palm-trees along the riverbank, cooling the lingering warmth in the air. The sky was a velvet black, spangled with stars, and the water was smooth and dark, disturbed only by a few clumps of water-hyacinth that floated slowly downstream on the current. In the distance, music was playing—there must be a dance on board one of the cruise-boats moored at the ferry-stage.
‘So, what happened with your marriage?’ Alex enquired with the kind of sympathy that could only come from someone who had trodden the same rocky path.
‘Oh…’ She shrugged her slim shoulders in a gesture intended to convey a measure of indifference. ‘The usual, I suppose. We were probably too young. It was fun for a while, but we were heading in different directions. Unfortunately the person he chose to head off with was my best friend at the time.’
‘I see.’
There was a moment of silence, broken only by the sound of laughter from the kitchen. ‘What about you?’ she asked after a moment.
He swirled the wine around in his glass. ‘Remarkably similar, as a matter of fact. Only in my case, it was my brother.’
‘Oh…’ She shifted under the weight of a heavy discomfort. Was that the brother he had displaced from the family firm? Had that been his revenge? But those were hardly the sort of questions she could ask him.
But he went on without a prompt. ‘Like you, we were rather too young—I was twenty-three, she was twenty-one. And I had to be away a good deal of the time—I suppose in a way it was only natural for her to turn to my brother; he was a couple of years older than me, being groomed by my father to take his place as chair of the company. And they had similar tastes,’ he added drily. ‘Expensive cars, expensive clothes…’
She sipped her wine, her eyes studying that darkly handsome face. The only light on the balcony was the glow spilling out from the sitting-room—Annette had put a couple of candles ready in glasses, but they hadn’t been lit yet. But the shadows did nothing to soften the arrogant lines of his features—if anything they lent him an almost…sinister air.
‘But then…you became chairman instead, didn’t you?’ she enquired diffidently.
He nodded, a hint of hardness around his mouth. ‘That’s right,’ he confirmed. ‘Unfortunately, between them, my father and my brother were making quite a mess of things, so I had the board elect me instead. Then I bought them out.’
That brief, ruthless explanation sent a chill scudding down Joanna’s spine. From the newspaper accounts, it had been shortly after his wife had left him for his brother that he had ousted both him and their father from the company. Whatever his rationalisations, the implication was clear—it had been an act of pure revenge.
She had been a fool to let the wine and the moonlight lull her into a dangerously unguarded mood, she chided herself warningly—she ought to have known better. This was a man who got what he wanted, and damn the consequences for anyone else. It would be wise not to let herself forget that, not for a second.

CHAPTER THREE (#ulink_b7a620b7-c09a-5482-ae50-f3bc2cca335f)
JOANNA took another sip of her wine. It was difficult to maintain her cool façade, with Alex Marshall sitting there on the other side of the table, still watching her with those enigmatic dark eyes. Was it a spark of genuine interest in her that she could see there? Or was he playing some kind of game with her, to try to prevent her holding up the mining operation?
She shifted edgily in her seat, glancing back over her shoulder. ‘Those two are taking their time in the kitchen,’ she remarked with a nervous laugh. ‘We’ll probably be lucky if we get fed at all tonight.’
But at that moment the other couple appeared, Annette blushing delightfully, her hair dishevelled, while Greg was managing to look both pleased with himself and a little sheepish at the same time. They were each carrying a large serving-dish, which they set down on the table.
‘I’m sorry,’ Annette apologised breathlessly. ‘The rice got a little bit…overcooked.’
Alex’s hard mouth quirked into a smile of ironic humour. ‘So I see,’ he commented, surveying the doughy sludge in front of him. ‘Er…do I eat it with a fork or a spoon?’
Annette giggled. ‘You might have to use a spoon, I’m afraid.’ She sat down, her eyes sparkling up at Greg as he held her chair out for her. ‘Oh…We left the wine in the kitchen…’
‘Don’t worry about it.’ Alex put in. ‘We might as well finish this one off first.’
He filled their glasses with the burgundy, leaning across to top up Joanna’s glass before she realised he was going to. She accepted it without protest, but silently warned herself to be careful how much she drank; she needed to keep a cool head—just in case the love blossoming unmistakably between the couple on her left should prove to be contagious.
The rice really wasn’t quite as bad as it looked—just a little soft—and Annette’s lamb kofta was always delicious. She dimpled with pleasure at the fulsome compliments of the two men, but it was obvious whose praise meant more to her.
That was something of a relief to Joanna—she had wondered whether, once she had had a chance to see more of Alex, Annette’s preference might begin to waver. But her manner towards him was characterised by the kind of politeness and respect that suggested that his thirty-five years appeared, from her mere twenty, to be a generation gap as wide as the Nile Valley.
This fact seemed to afford him some amusement. Watching him covertly from beneath her lashes, Joanna was a little surprised to realise that he had a real sense of humour; with Annette, and with his young cousin, there seemed to be no trace of that mocking cynicism. He had a very attractive laugh, too—deep and husky, lighting his eyes.
The table was lit by two candles, stuck in drinking glasses so that they wouldn’t blow out, and their flickering light seemed to sculpt the strong bone-structure of his face, emphasising the intelligence written in his high forehead, the arrogant hook of his nose. He was wearing a casual linen shirt, and in the shadow of the open collar she could glimpse a few rough, dark hairs that curled at the base of his throat.
Her mouth seemed to have gone strangely dry. It was a long time since she had been so acutely aware of a man; after the break-up of her marriage, it was something she had taught herself to avoid. But there was something about Alex Marshall, an aura of power and raw masculinity, that couldn’t be ignored.
Suddenly he caught her eye across the table, and, though they were five feet apart, she could feel the hypnotic power of that gaze holding her prisoner. She didn’t seem able to look away, although she knew that he would see far too much—all the vulnerabilities that she would have preferred to keep hidden behind the brittle mask she customarily wore.
‘…one in the Guimet museum that was wrapped in an old sail. But Joanna’s the one you should really be asking—she’s the expert on mummies. She’s written papers about it.’
The sound of her own name brought Joanna back to earth, and she turned to her friend, as disorientated as if she had switched on the television in the middle of a programme. ‘I…I’m sorry?’ she stammered.
‘The Lyons Sailor,’ Annette prompted innocently— she had been so absorbed in her conversation with Greg that she wouldn’t have noticed if the sky had fallen in around her, let alone picked up the subtle undercurrents passing between the two other occupants of the table. ‘Didn’t they find out it was an old sail he was wrapped in?’
‘Oh…Yes. They pieced all the strips together,’ she explained to Greg, glad to feel herself on safe ground, dealing with the dusty facts of ancient history. ‘It turned out to have been ripped from one large square piece of material, still with part of the rigging in it.’
‘Didn’t a lot of them have bad teeth?’ Alex enquired, joining in the conversation.
Joanna nodded. ‘Yes. Partly because the cereals in their diet were very coarsely ground, which would have caused a lot of wear. But many of the Pharaohs, in particular, had a lot of decay, which suggests that they ate a lot of sugar. It does tend to make it rather difficult to work out how old they were.’
‘Don’t they use carbon dating?’ asked Greg.
‘That’s to find out when they lived, silly,’ Annette corrected him with a teasing laugh. ‘If they want to find out how long they lived, they have to examine the skeleton with X-rays—though even then it’s hard to be sure…’
Joanna slipped back out of the conversation, sipping her wine, watching the young couple with affectionate humour. Greg was prompting Annette with questions, listening raptly to her answers, as if he had waited all his life to hear about the history of ancient Egypt.
It made her feel a little old, and maybe a little sadshe had learned too soon that love wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. She just hoped that this promising romance wouldn’t end in the same sort of disappointment she had found—she wouldn’t wish that on anyone.
From beneath her lashes, she slid a covert glance towards Alex. He too was watching the younger couple, a glint of tolerant amusement in his eyes. Were his thoughts similar to her own? If they had met when they were younger, as naively open to taking a chance as Annette and Greg, could that spark of physical awareness between them have ignited into a stronger flame?

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.
Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».
Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/susanne-mccarthy/dangerous-entanglement/) на ЛитРес.
Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.