Touch of Darkness (5 page)

No one knew better than she did that his straight, brown hair felt smooth when she tangled her fingers in it, that the taut body beneath his work clothes could transport a woman to ecstasy, that the tattoo that etched his chest, belly, and arm must have been a young man's foolishness, and that tracing it was a woman's. The memory of the pleasure they'd shared made her melt. The heat of possession, when he sought to brand her as his, had sent her running.

More than that—sometimes when she was close to him, she experienced the sting of something . . . frightening. Something that reminded her of that night of fire and destruction, fear, and unending darkness.

She eased herself off and away from him.

His eyes returned to normal, and they snapped with irritation. "Do you always have to be the one to fling yourself into danger? Can't you just once let someone else do the report on the massacre in Somalia or the plague in Indonesia?" He acted as if they'd had this fight a hundred times, when actually he'd never mentioned her work before.

They'd hardly talked before. Their mutual antipathy hadn't required words.

Neither had their mutual passion.

No.
No memories. Not now!

She glanced up at the faces peering at them. The villagers were there. The reporters. The archaeological team. "This is no time for that conversation."

"When would you suggest we talk? After we've made love all night? No, wait. You don't stick around for a leisurely breakfast. You leave without saying good-bye." Rurik remained on the ground, mocking and, to all intents and purposes, relaxed.

He didn't fool her. Every muscle in his body was taut.

Because he wanted to grab her? To remind her that the last time she'd laid eyes on him, she'd been naked in his arms?

"Not now," she said between her teeth.

"Believe me, I realize that, or I'd be shining a light in your eyes while I interrogated you." Deliberately,
h
e sat up, and rested his arms on his bent knees. "Tell me what happened here."

She was more than glad to change the subject. "Hardwick never saw it coming. He took one stone away and the blade popped out—it had been waiting for a thousand years for just that moment."

Rurik looked at Hardwick, and his face showed no sign of compassion. "The dumb son of a bitch."

"He didn't deserve to die for his stupidity. No one deserves that."

Rurik's gaze shifted to her. "No. No one deserves that. Unfortunately, it happens more than any of us like."

"Look, is every word you say going to be rife with significance?" She heard a murmur, glanced up at the lines of avidly staring faces, and realized her voice had risen.

"Shall we get him out of here?" Rurik asked.

He acted as if her unrestrained outburst had satisfied some perverse need in him, or proved something to him, and that made her madder. "Try not to get your head cut off. You might need it someday." She led the way back to Hardwick's body.

Rurik followed, keeping his profile low and his body tight, a man presenting a smaller target to his unseen—and long-dead—assailant. Grasping Hardwick under the arms, he lifted him easily, gently.

The tears prickled Tasya's eyes again and made
her nose itch. It wasn't only sorrow and shock; seeing Rurik treat Hardwick as if he were a baby who needed his rest caused her a pang of tenderness 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."

Chapter 4

Rurik knelt before the window into the tomb, removing the stones one by one, brushing away the dust of a thousand years. Concentrating on his work . . . and all the while, along the edges of his mind, he was aware of Tasya. He heard the clicking of her camera as she recorded his movements. Listened to her voice as she noted his progress. Felt the heat of her body as she knelt beside him.

He didn't want her here.

Every bit of research he'd done on Clovus the Be-header told him the warrior had been nothing better than a medieval serial killer—a cannibal, a savage, a bully who scorched a path of destruction across Europe, and took such pleasure in others' suffering, modern society would label him a psychopath.

Traps? Yes, for all that Clovus was most certainly
burning in hell, and had no use for his plunder there, he would have made sure no one else would ever have a moment of pleasure from his loot.

Working here was nothing more or less than waiting for the next blow to fall . . . and if Rurik wasn't careful, Tasya would be the next one lying dead on a slab in the church.

At the same time, he rejoiced to know they worked together again. He would keep her alive, and somehow make her pay for making a fool of him. Make her pay with her lips and her body and her mind, over and over, until she hadn't the strength to walk away again.

As he eased each stone away, opening a larger and larger door into the home of the dead, he kept his attention on his work and away from the stone shelf that held the treasure chest.

He wanted to reach out and take it, but the lesson taught by Hardwick's greed couldn't be discounted. And, too, the placement of the chest was suspect— why put a treasure where it would be so easily seen by any casual grave robber? Why was there a stone wall behind it that concealed the interior of the tomb? A thin sheet of hammered gold covered the box, and the brass lock held a key, waiting to turn. The treasure chest was a lure, and Rurik did not doubt that more traps awaited him.

"Wait a minute, Rurik." Tasya turned and handed
Ashley the camera. "Step back—carefully!—and take pictures of the project as a whole. I want a wide frame of the walls,, the path, and the hole we're opening here."

"Right." Ashley sounded glad to move back—she must be truly frightened.

As he placed his fingers on the next stone, Tasya laid her hand over his, and spoke softly in his ear. "Don't pull that one loose."

He turned to look in her eyes.

The bright blue had turned gray and grave; she knew something he didn't. "It doesn't feel right. Step away, and pull it with a stick or a grappling hook."

It doesn't feel right? What the hell does that mean?

"Why should I listen to you?" Why should he listen to a warning issued by a woman concerned with nothing but herself and her career?

Tasya's hand clenched on his. "It's not like I give a damn whether you live or die. But I'm not anxious to see another man dripping blood while he hangs on the tip of a sword."

"Charming."

"Right. So what have you got to lose?" Her sarcastic tone belied the intensity in her face. She was sure. So sure.

And while he wanted to dismiss her, he'd seen his mother,
the most prosaic woman in the world, clutched in the jaws of a powerful prophecy. On that
day less than two weeks ago, his life had broken in half . . . again.

A man learned from his experiences. Rurik would not dismiss Tasya's warning, but he would use the opportunity to discover more—about her, and about her past, the past about which she never spoke.

Moving with care, he withdrew his hand from the stone. He turned his palm within hers, and grasped her fingers. "Is there something you want to tell me?"

Tasya shrugged and looked away. "I have a feeling," she said in a low tone.

"Did you have a feeling about Hardwick?"

Tasya's pale complexion turned gray.

Apparently, even a tough reporter knew fear when brushed by the supernatural. "Yes. But I couldn't get to him in time."

She pulled her hand free, and he let her. She avoided his gaze, not wanting to give him an opening to question her about her intuition ... as if he would, while reporters and tourists avidly watched, and Ashley stood behind them, camera in hand, recording every movement and word.

"Ashley, get the grappling hook," he called. As Ashley scurried up the path toward their storage shed, he smiled at Tasya. "Alone at last."

Her gaze flashed to his, then away. "Don't."

He relished the upper hand—she'd abandoned him,
run without a word, without a note, without a call. He had awakened from a long night of making love to discover a cold bed and not a sign of the woman he'd so carefully, craftily courted and claimed.