Heather Graham Read Online Free PDF Page A

dripping over the white and black tiles, raced through the parlor like a streaker, and dug through the small mahogany bar for a bottle of Scotch. He reached for a glass, then shrugged and decided he was all alone, then returned to the tub, taking a swig of the Scotch and setting it on the ledge beside him.
    Ahhh … comfort!
    He took another long swig and settled back against the tub, closing his eyes as the steamy mist rose around him.
    As the heat relaxed him, the Scotch somewhat revived him, or at least revived his mind. He had been thinking about Dr. Jim Crosby, probably the most respected Egyptologist in the contemporary world, for the last two weeks, worrying about the man so much that it had actually hurt, his mind protesting with throbbing headaches.
    He had tried to sound low key when he spoke about Crosby to Raj, but in reality he was as anxious as could be. He had met Crosby several times during his journalistic-broadcast career—in Cairo at a big demonstration to preserve antiquities, twice in London when Crosby spoke at exhibitions at the Victoria and Albert Museum and just last year in New York. He was an affable man, just forty-four, very good-looking in a beach-boy sort of way, which hardly seemed to fit a specialized archaeologist who spent his days studying the lives of pharaohs and digging up sand in the desert. Yet despite his easygoing ways and pleasant appeal, Crosby had a mind that went beyond the genius level, if eccentric, and a sense of honor and responsibility.
    Dan couldn’t believe Jim Crosby would simply walk out on his commitment to him—or that he would give up an expedition in the planning stages simply to disappear on some lark.
    Granted, he and Crosby had agreed to do the special on Crosby’s new dig when they had both been half lit in Crosby’s New York hotel room, but they had spoken since then. And besides, that had been a good night. They had left the stuffy conference room of the Belmont behind them, agreed to talk and discovered they had a lot in common—mainly dislike for armchair world-authorities and critics, champagne and caviar and being choked to death by black ties while attempting to converse cordially with the fluff of “concerned” society. In Crosby’s room they had discarded jackets and ties, and Crosby, with a grin on his face like that of a wayward kid, had pulled out of ice a few six-packs of beer. By the time Dan left, he had agreed to arrange a meeting for Crosby with Ali to obtain financing for the proposed expedition, and Crosby had agreed to allow Dan to film the entire proceedings.
    Dan had begun to worry when Crosby hadn’t contacted him in Cairo when he first arrived, but he hadn’t felt panicky. They had already set up their filming dates; Crosby would show in the Valley of the Kings. But on July 10, the day they had agreed to meet, Dan had found no Jim Crosby in the Valley of Kings; merely a number of lost and confused workers.
    Something was wrong. He didn’t know Crosby’s life history, but he knew the man. And he knew—
    His thoughts suddenly froze as his body tensed. He couldn’t put his finger on exactly what had alerted him to another presence, but he knew he wasn’t alone. Years spent filming in the world’s hot spots had left him with a keen awareness not unlike that of a guerrilla fighter.
    Who would be sneaking in on him? It wasn’t the hotel boy. He had vaguely registered minutes before that someone had quietly entered, lightly clicked a tray upon the parlor table and just as quietly left.
    Without moving, he lifted his eyelids just a shade, in a manner that left his thick, dark lashes still shielding his eyes. He was ready to whip into split-second action if he discovered danger, his muscles tensed to catapult him into a fighting stance, his fingers ready to grab the liquor bottle, the only available weapon.
    His tensed muscles seemed to freeze and heat at the same time as his covert glance fell upon the intruder. He was swamped by