Touch of Darkness (6 page)

Now here they were, face-to-face, alone, and she desperately wanted to avoid an intimate discussion ... what sweet revenge. This was a resumption of the chase—but this time, he didn't bother with subterfuge or subtlety. This time, she knew he was in hot pursuit—and she knew he was pissed.

Naturally, being Tasya, she tried to take command of the situation. '"This isn't the time or the place to discuss personal matters. We have a job to do."

"I agree. We'll discuss our personal matters . . . later." He allowed his gaze to wander from the crown of her head to the toes of her scruffy running shoes, touching all the important points in between. He smiled, the smile of a sultan approving of a new purchase. "This time, it will be difficult for you to run away."

She flushed a painful red. "I did
not
run."

"Like a scared rabbit." He spaced the words, taking care to emphasize each syllable. "Look at you. You can't even lie about it successfully." He laughed softly, with an edge of menace. "I intend to take possession of what is mine."

She leaned toward him, her chin jutting. "I am
not
yours."

Into their battle stepped an unwitting civilian. Ashley chirped, "Here's the grappling hook, sir."

"Thank you." Without taking his gaze off Tasya, he accepted the long pole.

"I should have let the trap take you out," Tasya said fiercely.

"Would you save the world and let me go to hell?" he mocked.

"From where you're sitting, I promise, it's short trip."

"But, Tasya, I'm taking you with me . . . everywhere I go."

They stared at each other, challenging each other with their bodies and their minds.

"Wow, these are going to be great pictures!" Ashley said.

He heard the clicking of the shutter. Saw Tasya turn and snatch her camera out of Ashley's hands. And he relaxed and grinned. "You're right, Ashley. Those are going to be great pictures."

By the time they finished two hours later, Rurik had sprung three more booby traps. With Ashley's help, Tasya had taken two hundred photos. They'd completely cleared the opening—and Rurik held the treasure chest in his hands.

If anything, the crowd around the tomb had got bigger. He didn't know where they were coming from; everyone on the island was already here. Then
a helicopter went over, and he realized the news-people were arriving any way they could. He'd been concentrating too hard to notice. Concentrating on his job. Concentrating on keeping Tasya safe. Concentrating on observing the sixth sense she'd been at such pains to hide.

She was sensitive to ... what? Cruel intentions? The residue of evil that surrounded the long-dead Clovus and all his deeds?

Rurik didn't know, but he did know her knowledge hadn't taken her by surprise. She had been well aware of her ability, and that made him even more curious about her. When had she learned she had such a gift? What event had triggered her instinct?

"Is there a booby trap in the chest?" he asked softly.

"No." She met his questioning gaze. "I'm sure." She glanced back at the tomb. "We're safe for now. There are more in there, but not . . . somehow, they're muted. Behind something, I think."

"Right." The sun was getting low on the western horizon. Reverently he carried the treasure chest up out of the shadows and into the rays that still beamed on the end of the stone path. He placed it on the ground, knelt before it.

As if on cue, Tasya knelt on one side and Ashley on the other.

He was well aware that they looked like ancient
priests worshipping a golden god. He glanced at Tasya.

She snapped her photos reverently, yet with an animation that made it clear this find was important and thrilling. She played her part to perfection, for she served National Antiquities and their desperate need for funding.

He twisted the key in the bronze lock, never expecting it would open. Yet while the workings made a horrible grinding sound, the shaft of the key held steady. He opened the lid without visible hesitation.

Ashley gasped.

The crowd murmured.

Tasya's camera clicked as she took shot after shot.

The contents were everything an archaeologist could desire. They
glittered.

With great ceremony, he removed each piece and placed it on the ground. A steel dagger with sapphires set in a silver hilt. A gold armband in the shape of a snake with ruby eyes. Rings of beaten gold and amber bracelets.

Each time he brought forth an artifact, the reporters spoke into microphones, took stills, and recorded video.

But when he reached the fine cedar base of the chest, he tapped it to make sure no false bottom existed and nothing hid in the depths, and he whispered, ''Damn."

Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.

Rurik had always known the legend of the Var-inskis. His father had told the story to him, to his brothers, Jasha and Adrik, and to his sister, Firebird.

A thousand years ago, a brutal warrior roamed the Russian steppes. Driven by his craving for power, the first Konstantine Varinski struck a terrible bargain. In return for the ability to change at will into a coldhearted predator, he promised his soul, and the souls of his descendants, to the devil He paid with the blessed Varinski icons
—
and his mother's lifeblood.

Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski icons.

Zorana had only three sons. One had vanished into the wilds of Asia. Her prophecy was impossible.

Yet less than a week after her vision, Jasha had arrived at their Washington home with his woman— and one of the Varinski icons: a traditional Russian rendering of the Madonna. She held the infant Jesus, Joseph stood at her right hand, and their halos glittered with gold leaf. Her robes were cherry red, the background was gold, and her eyes ... her eyes were large and dark, filled with compassion.

So Rurik, who had already been searching for a way to break the pact, now
had
to find the next icon.

He had been an Air Force pilot; it went against

every fiber of his being to believe in a vision and a prophecy.

But like the other men in his family, he lived every day bound to a pact with the devil. He'd be a fool to dismiss the supernatural, but truthfully, he put more faith in his research. He had believed he'd located the right warlord and the right tomb.

But the icon was not in the chest.

And in a tone of despair, Tasya whispered, "Damn."

He shot her a hard look.

This find brought National Antiquities publicity, a rich haul of artifacts, and reporters to cover it all.

What else could Tasya desire?

What was she looking for?

And why?

Chapter 5

In July in the north of Scotland, the sun rose at four in the morning.

Rurik rose earlier. He dressed in camouflage and combat boots, and set off for his usual morning run— except that this wasn't his usual morning run.

Now while he knew the reporters had pulled their pillows over their eyes and the locals were sleeping off hangovers, he ran up the road to the tomb.

He'd spent the previous evening in the village pub, eulogizing Hardwick, showing off the tomb discoveries, pretending modesty, and sharing credit with every one of his team. He'd had one too many ales, and watched Tasya as she made her way through the crowd, exchanging information with the reporters, answering questions for the tourists, and talking with the archaeologists and locals. Oh, and ignoring
him. She did that with obvious and consummate ease.

At least he could take comfort in the fact that she bothered. Worse, much worse, would be if she treated him as casually as she treated the others.

It was midnight by the time he got to bed, and three a.m. when he got up, sleepless and itching to go back to the tomb.

He hadn't located the Varinski icon. The treasure chest might have contained it once—according to Rurik's research,
had
contained it once—but it was gone now.

Yet the tomb was large and Clovus had proved wilier and more ruthless than Rurik imagined; perhaps the icon was secreted somewhere inside. Or perhaps the tomb contained a clue as to its whereabouts. Today the archaeologists and reporters would rush to the tomb in hopes of more electrifying discoveries ... so he ran.

The sun was at his back. The fresh air filled his lungs. He moved swiftly along the road, his long stride challenging the upward slope of the island.

Yet as he approached the mound, he met his men walking away.

What the hell . . . ? He stopped and waited until Connell and Tony reached him. "This isn't time for the guard to change."

Connell pointed. "MacNachtan's still up there with his rifle."

The grim villager stood on a cluster of rocks, silhouetted against the sky, and he sent Rurik a sharp salute.

"We couldn't see any sense in all of us being here." Tony's hair stood on end—he'd probably slept through his whole shift.

"All of us?" Rurik asked.

"Hunni said you'd be along soon," Connell said.

"Hunni?" Rurik stared at the grass, blowing in the ocean breeze, at the tomb, patient and menacing. "Tasya Hunnicutt is here?"

"Yeah, she said you wanted her to start photographing the entrance." Tony grinned at him, that infatuated grin of a man who a moment ago had his dreams fulfilled by a woman's smile and a few flirtatious words. "You know, boss, it's great to have her here from National Antiquities. She's got a real case of the hots for the stuff in there. She could be an archaeologist—she totally
gets
it,"

"She is amazing."
In more ways than one.
Rurik watched the guys as they walked away.

The dumbshits.
It never occurred to them Tasya might be lying, that she might have an ulterior motive. Using archaeologists to guard the tomb was like using puppies to protect a fire hydrant.

Of course, it had never occurred to
him
Tasya would get up earlier than he did to check out the tomb. So who was the dumbshit now?

He walked down the stone ramp to the tomb's entrance, taking care that Tasya not hear him.

He'd always thought she knew too much, was too interested, had reasons of her own for following the excavation so closely. Now he intended to interrogate her—and he would enjoy every minute.

Light leaked from inside the tomb. She had some source of illumination set up, and he could hear her camera as she took picture after picture. Taking care not to alert her to his presence, he eased around to peer inside.

There she was, dressed in a camouflage T-shirt tucked into her glorious tight jeans.

No wonder his guys believed every word she said. The woman had a shape that made a man want to throw that football through that tire. Repeatedly.

She wore black work boots, and her khaki backpack rested on the floor beside her. One might suppose she'd come dressed for the dust in the tomb . . . or if one was suspicious, one might believe she'd worn camouflage for the same reason he had. So she wouldn't be easily seen.

She knelt at the wall behind the shelf where the treasure chest had been placed. Carvings covered the stone, and she leaned close, macro lens on her camera, to capture each panel.

How fascinating. She worked exactly the wall he intended to examine.

Why would she be interested in the carvings when the interior of the tomb might contain more gold? More jewels?

What was she looking for?

Right now, he didn't care.

Because they were alone. Just as he'd promised her, he had her cornered, and she had nowhere to run.

Deliberately, he loomed in the entrance, blocking the sunlight that reached inside, touching the wall... touching her.

As she swung around, she crouched into a fighting position.

"You're nervous." He ducked down and entered the tomb. "Why? Are you guilty?"

"Rurik. What are you doing here?" She looked him right in the eyes.

"According to what you told my guys, I'm supposed to meet you here."