Touch of Darkness Read Online Free PDF Page B

alien to her nature.
    Because how could a woman like her carry a suitcase full of tenderness on her travels? That way opened the door to heartache, and heartache interfered with work.
    She wasn't a fool—she knew her work was important. Her photos shone an unflinching light on war and poverty, and her stories chronicled injustice so unmistakably that she was persona non grata with some of the world's governments . . . and a heroine to others.
    More important, when she succeeded in getting her book published with an accompanying blare of publicity, she would have improved the world, and gained the smallest, most juicy bit of personal revenge. All it took to place the book on the best-seller lists was the evidence that existed in this tomb.
    She followed Rurik up the ramp, watching, listening, feeling, for more traps.
    The crowd had fallen silent. Rurik placed the body on one of the carts the team used to cart debris away, and turned to the people who stood around.
    Visibly, he gathered the reins in his hands. "Martha and Charlie, pick two of my crew to help you h aul the body to the village and lay out Mr. Hardwick."
    Martha was the owner of the pub/general store,
    about as in charge as anyone could be of Roi's two hundred fishermen, farmers, and elders. Charlie was the guy who dispensed religious advice, not a minister, but a learned man with a good head on his shoulders. They nodded, took Jessica Miller and Johnny Boden from his team, and headed for the village.
    As soon as they topped the hill and disappeared from sight, the reporters started shouting questions. He waved them to silence. "We want to offer Mr. Hardwick the proper respect, and at the same time save the site he worked so hard to excavate. Hardwick believed deeply in protecting our heritage and understanding the past, so I want everyone to stay back while I remove the treasure chest and any other valuables. Then we'll set a guard on them and the site."
    Tasya watched as the reporters responded to his easy air of command, writing and recording every word he spoke.
    From the first time she'd met him, she'd known he was a man born to authority. He led without ever looking back to see if anyone was following him— and they always were. His people worshipped him. She told herself it was because he'd been an Air Force pilot; she knew that because she hadn't been able to resist investigating his past. She resented that he could so effortlessly fascinate her while treating her like an insignificant pest, a squealer sent by the National Antiquities Society to police his efforts.
    Then . . . they made love, and he proved he'd been paying closer attention than she had imagined.
    My God. When Rurik Wilder showed his interest in a woman, in her, she fell like a ton of bricks. When she discovered that all the businesslike indifference he had displayed was nothing but a facade he used to challenge her, to lure her into his arms . . . okay, she'd run. Run like a scared rabbit.
    She still thought her flight had been the best, most intelligent decision she could have made ... if she'd never had to see him again.
    But here they were, standing before the tomb that would bring her success and revenge, and as she watched him take a towel and blot up the spots of Hardwick's blood on the stone and arrange for different shifts to guard the tomb, all she could think of was how much she wanted to keep him safe.
    She was an idiot. Such an idiot.
    His gaze shifted to hers. For one moment, her heart trilled as he focused on her.
    Then he said, "Miss Hunnicutt, I'll need you to supervise the team up here while I open the tomb—"
    In a flash, all her determination came rushing back.
    If he discovered what she hoped he would discover—proof of the Varinskis' perfidy stretching back a thousand years—she would be by his side. She smiled, a full-frontal assault of charm mixed with resolve, and she said, "You'll need me to take photos as you excavate the site. So I'll stay with you."

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