No Rules (19 page)

She tried to get away gracefully, but had to admire a set of matching vases and stemware before excusing herself with a promise to reconsider the mask. Stepping onto the street again, she blew out a relieved breath, then gave Donovan an apologetic wince. “I’m sorry. I’ll get better at this.”

A smile spread across his deep tan and the dark stubble of beard he’d allowed to grow out. The scruffy growth was a rough, intimidating look, but his obvious joy softened it. “You were awesome.”

The unexpected praise brought a rush of warmth and a sudden desire to kiss him. She had to settle for a grateful, “Thank you.”

“Nothing struck you, huh? Nothing that made you think of Wally’s story or the hostages?”

I’m sorry, I’m not sure what to look for, or if I’ll know it if I see it, but my Spidey senses weren’t tingling.”

“You’ll figure it out. Stop worrying. And don’t be so hard on yourself—these guys are motivated to make a sale. If they have anything remotely close to what you want, they’ll make the offer.”

“But if it’s an illegal artifact, there’s probably a worldwide market for it. I’m not their only buyer.”

“But you and your money are here, right now. Letting you smuggle an artifact out of the country is far less risky than smuggling it out themselves. Believe me, you’re a desirable customer.”

A small pang of regret hit her out of nowhere; she’d rather be a desirable
woman
in his eyes, but his thoughts didn’t seem to follow hers in that direction. Or if they did, he had them under tight control. That was possible, knowing his discipline, and she supposed it was admirable—she’d been trying to learn to control her thoughts and fears for years. But she kind of liked the glimpse she’d seen of Donovan out of control and ablaze with desire. She wouldn’t mind seeing more of it. For a moment that thought was a pleasant diversion.

“Jess?”

“Hmm? Oh. I guess we try the next shop, huh?”

“If you’re ready.”

More than ready
. Secretly amused by her boldness, she bit back a smile and did her best stately, gliding walk to the next shop.

Then the next, and the next. She must have tried the same approach with a dozen merchants. They were moving down the line of stores when someone in the street called out, “Suzanne! Suzanne Hassan. Fancy running into you here.”

The vaguely familiar name made her look up, locating the source of the voice—Avery, dressed in slacks and a silk blouse like the average American tourist. She strode up to them, gold bracelets catching the light and jangling together as she pulled Jess into a hug. “I didn’t know you were coming to Egypt.” Close to Jess’s ear, Avery murmured, “I’m a crass acquaintance you’d probably rather not know. Act distant.”

Over Avery’s shoulder she saw Mitch and Kyle approaching, dressed as if they expected to play nine holes of golf. Obvious tourists to anyone watching. She pulled away and smiled tightly at Avery as chattering shoppers detoured around them. “Yes, this is quite a surprise.”

“Donald, honey,” Avery said, pulling Kyle closer. “Suzanne, I’m sure you met my husband and his brother, Paul. Honey, this is Suzanne Hassan, remember? Her husband is one of Bob’s partners on the Dubai project. We met at the Vanderhoffs’ party last spring.”

“Sure, great to see you,” Kyle enthused, sticking out his hand to shake hers. Donovan fended him off by stepping between them with a stern look, staying in character.

Jess wasn’t sure why they’d approached, but did her best to play along, giving them both a polite but cool nod. “Lovely to see you, too. My husband will be sorry to have missed you.”

“Oh, he’s not here?” Avery said. They both looked crushed at the news. “Well, you give him our regards, won’t you, sweetie? Maybe we’ll see you two in New York.” Avery hugged her again, air-kissing both cheeks, as Jess stiffened appropriately.

“Might have a lead,” Avery whispered. “Check out the shop around the corner from the entrance to the souk. Yellow awnings.” She backed away, repeating her good-byes loudly as they blended into the crowd.

Donovan lowered his head close to hers and spoke quietly. “What did she say?”

“They have a lead. A shop outside the souk,” she began, then stopped as a prickly sensation raced across the back of her neck and she realized two large men had stepped close to them. Too close. She blinked in surprise at their uniforms—Egyptian policemen.

“Excuse me, ma’am. Sir.” The words were polite, but the assumption of absolute authority behind them was not.

“Yes?” Donovan moved as he spoke, stepping between her and the closest man.

“The lady was asking several local vendors about Egyptian antiquities.”

“Yes. She is shopping for a special gift, as are many people here.”

The officer nodded as if they’d just confirmed his suspicions. “I’ll have to ask you both to come with us.”

Surely they’d done nothing wrong. But she detected a menace in the man’s words, and knew she wasn’t imagining it when she saw Donovan’s back stiffen with sudden tension.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said far more calmly than she expected from his tense stance. “The lady’s husband is a powerful man, and he would be very displeased to know his wife had been picked up while shopping and questioned by the police.”

Donovan’s implied threat had no effect on the stern expression of either man. They stood with arms loose at their sides, as if ready for action.

“You will come with us,” the first one repeated. This time it was not a request. It was an order.

Chapter Twelve

Jess scanned the crowd anxiously, but Avery, Kyle, and Mitch were gone.

The second policeman, who had not spoken to this point, stepped closer to Donovan, all but touching his shoulder. He was tall and bulky and used his size in a threatening manner so they could not step aside. “This way,” he said, indicating the way back to the main street outside the souk.

They had no choice. Donovan walked close beside her as the two officers flanked them. People stepped aside, casting curious glances but saying nothing. Donovan’s alert gaze darted over the crowd, and she wondered what he was looking for. The rest of their team? An opportunity to escape?

They stepped from beneath the latticed roof of the souk, into the sunlight. Across a wide stretch of pavement, a police car stood at the curb, waiting.

Donovan’s step faltered and she saw his reluctance to get in the car, sending fear zipping through her chest. At the same moment, two more policemen materialized from beside the entranceway, flanking them and urging them forward with sharp words in Arabic and quick gestures. Donovan’s mouth tightened as he continued toward the car.

Donovan was obviously worried, which was enough to make her terrified. She knew little of Egypt’s current politics and whether the police could be trusted, but it hardly mattered. Corruption was possible anywhere. This didn’t feel right.

They were ushered into the small backseat, doors slamming shut behind them. The two new officers disappeared, while their original escort climbed into the front seat. Fisting her hands to stop them from trembling, she leaned close to Donovan and whispered, “What happened? Did we break a law?”

He shook his head, looking annoyed, which she took to mean he didn’t know what was going on. It wasn’t comforting. She had depended on his unshakable confidence and extensive experience to get her through this. Not having it felt like being on a roller coaster that took a sudden dive; her stomach flipped and dropped to her toes.

Squeezing her hand on the seat next to him, he whispered, “They didn’t frisk me for weapons or take my phone, which means they don’t intend to hurt us. Just make sure you stay in character.”

It was a small degree of reassurance, but not enough. When he let go of her hand she had to fight the impulse to grab it again.
Stay in character.
That would be easier if she knew what a woman like the fictional Suzanne Hassan would do if forcibly plucked off the street by police officers.

Silently, she reviewed what she knew of the person she was supposed to be—smart, accomplished, and rich. As independent as any American, but deferring to her husband’s will and cherished by him in return. She imagined the independent, privileged Suzanne would not consider herself inferior to these men, nor allow them the right to touch her should they try. So far they hadn’t.

Holding her head high, she turned toward the window and affected a disinterested stare. The car turned down a side street, then another, office buildings and large stores giving way to older apartments and small shops. A couple minutes later, on a street barely wide enough for two cars, they stopped. The driver turned off the ignition but didn’t get out. The officer in the passenger seat did, opening the back door in an invitation for them to get out.

Jess stepped onto the crumbled edge of a brick-paved street and was hit with the usual overwhelming combination of smells and noise. Across the narrow street, men and women bargained loudly at an open-air meat market hung with the slabs of fresh carcasses of cows, sheep, and goats. Raised voices yelling orders mixed with the Arab music that poured from the open doors of a restaurant down the block. In between, a group of young men loitered around three motorcycles, talking, while children ran around a stack of old tires in some sort of game. Up the street, a driver beeped his horn at a donkey rider, yelling something as he brushed past that could have been either friendly or angry. Two women walked by with baskets on their heads, close enough that she got a whiff of strange spices and perfumes. Overhead, laundry stretched between balconies in a riot of colors.

The sensory input was overwhelming, and yet she was beginning to see it as ordinary, a typical street scene in Egypt. But why was she here?

She studied the building in front of her. It appeared to be in good repair with fresh paint on balconies, shutters, and window frames. A door covered with iron grillwork stood open to a jewelry shop with the mystical name, Eye of the Gods
.
Beside it, an old Coke vending machine stood against the wall. As she watched, two girls fed in coins, retrieved the bottle that thunked into the slot, then strolled off, giggling and talking. A slice of everyday life in Luxor.

Stay in character
. Doing her best to look composed, Jess turned and arched an eyebrow at their escort. “This is not a police station. Where are we?”

He bowed his head, a small show of respect, at the same time nodding toward the jeweler’s open door. “I believe you will wish to talk to the man inside. We will be here when you are ready to leave.” He turned away, cutting across the street toward the restaurant while the driver said something into the police radio. Calling in a lunch break? She wondered if the city of Luxor knew what they did on their lunch hour. Deep inside, her paranoia added,
If they really were cops
.

Donovan smiled at her. “That was perfect, Jess. Keep it up when we go inside.”

“Easy for you to say,” she muttered, nervously wiping her damp palms on her
abaya
.

“Remember who you’re supposed to be, and don’t act scared or threatened. This could be the contact we were hoping to make.”

The black-market dealer. A man who took great risks for what he hoped would be great profits; a dangerous man to do business with. His customers could end up dead or in prison. She was not entirely pleased to meet him.

Inside the long sleeves of her
abaya
, Jess curled her hands into fists, squeezing her fingernails into her palms to stop the trembling.

They walked into the shop. The room was cool and slightly dim in contrast to the brilliant sunlight outside, but as her eyes adjusted to it she realized it was actually well lit. High-intensity spotlights highlighted glass cases exactly like every jewelry store she’d been to in Houston. The contents were similar, too—rings, bracelets, and necklaces in gold. A few watches. Tie tacks and money clips. The only difference was the profusion of ankhs, scarab beetles, and the
udjat
eye, the heavily outlined and elongated human eye that had been a popular amulet in ancient Egypt.

A young clerk in polo shirt and khakis spoke quietly to a woman in jeans and a blue
hijab
, showing her a selection of bracelets. The only other person was a middle-aged man dressed in a white
thobe
, who came from behind the counter. “
Masa’a alkhair
,” he said in Arabic. “Greetings, madam.” His English was British-accented and flawless. “Welcome to my store. My name is Fareeq Atallah. My sincere apologies for the unorthodox invitation.”

Donovan hung back slightly, giving her no choice but to take the lead. This was her show. The litany of Suzanne Hassan’s personality traits echoed through her mind, reminding her of what she needed to be: Confident. Assertive. Worldly. All the things Jess Maulier was not.

She raised her chin and spoke slowly because it felt slightly arrogant, which helped. “I did not appreciate it.”

He bowed his head humbly. “I believe I can change your mind, Mrs.…?”

“Hassan. How can you do that, Mr. Atallah?”

He smiled. “Allow me to explain over tea. Come this way, please.” Stepping behind the counter, he held a section up while they passed through, then led the way through a work area to a small but elegantly appointed sitting room. Gesturing to facing love seats, he said, “Please, sit.”

They sat in silence as he went through the ritual of pouring tea from a silver tea service into china cups, adding milk and sugar to his own. After placing a tin of cookies—which he referred to as biscuits—on the table between them, he settled back onto the opposite love seat and crossed his legs. Jess sipped her Earl Grey and said nothing, nervously waiting to take her cues from him. This might be their only chance at finding Wally’s vase, and she had to get it right.

“Mrs. Hassan, I understand you are in the market for a special item. A gift for your husband, was it?”

At least one of the merchants they’d talked to must have earned a fee for that information. “Yes, a one-of-a-kind item that makes a statement about his success and stature.” She tilted her head toward the door leading back to his shop. “Not the sort of thing I saw in your store, Mr. Atallah.”

“No, certainly not. That is for the general population. For the more discriminating buyer, I have special merchandise.”

“What sort of merchandise?”

“High quality. Original.”

Her senses tingled at the last word, and she concentrated on staying calm. His style of conversation seemed to be to say something without actually saying it, but she needed to be certain what they were talking about. “The description I had in mind was ‘authentic.’ I am not interested in a high-quality imitation. My husband is a student of Egyptian history and an avid collector of ancient artifacts. He would appreciate nothing less than an authentic piece.”

“I understand. I deal with many, collectors although I am not familiar with your husband’s name.”

“I would hope not. His collection is for his own enjoyment, shared with very few people.”

Mr. Atallah seemed reassured. “An admirable policy. I assure you, I can meet your needs.”

“Hmm.” She tilted her head, beginning to enjoy the game. “If I asked for something specific, say a vase, could you still help me?”

“I expect you to be specific, Mrs. Hassan. The only question is the rather indelicate one of price.”

If it was so indelicate, his eyes shouldn’t be so alight with interest, she thought. She also thought that perhaps Donovan should have discussed this part with her. But if they were talking about authentic tomb artifacts, it wouldn’t matter what Donovan said; she knew the price would be steep. Something that made it worth robbing a museum or private collection, which was the only way to get authentic artifacts.

She reached for a cookie, making sure her large diamond ring was on display. “The price depends on the quality and rarity, of course. I expect to pay at least one million dollars.”

Donovan’s cup rattled on its saucer, and she resisted the temptation to look at him.

Mr. Atallah beamed. “A serious collector.” He nodded approvingly. “And a fortunate man to have such a thoughtful wife.”

“Thank you.” The Egyptian merchants she’d talked to hadn’t hesitated to brag about their items or themselves, so she didn’t either. “I am also well-informed on the subject and an astute businesswoman. I expect to get what I pay for.”

“Then you will be quite pleased with the merchandise I provide.”

His expression was as confident as hers. If he was the real deal, there was only one thing left to accomplish. “I expect you have some merchandise I can see? A sample of what I can expect?”

“You understand, of course, that I don’t keep an inventory of that caliber in stock.”

“Of course.” Because he risked prison for every second it was in his possession. But if Suzanne was as astute as she claimed, she wouldn’t hand over her husband’s cash so easily. “But you understand my concern for authenticity. To bring you the amount of money required, well, one does not go around Luxor with that sort of cash unless one is sure they are not being set up. No offense intended,” she rushed to add.

“No offense taken.” He sipped his tea thoughtfully. “Do you read hieroglyphics, Mrs. Hassan?”

“No, I’m afraid not.” Something she suddenly regretted, because she had a feeling it would be extremely useful right now.

“Neither do I,” he admitted. “It would have helped reassure you, but no matter.” He leaned forward and set his cup down. “Perhaps I have something I could show you. Not a vase, I’m afraid, but something to demonstrate the quality of the merchandise I offer.” He stood. “If you will excuse me a moment, I will get it.”

She waited until he was gone to turn a worried look on Donovan. “He doesn’t have a vase,” she whispered.

He leaned close before answering, as if afraid they might be overheard. She hadn’t even thought about cameras and listening devices—a naive oversight on her part. “Maybe he did last week.”

“But how do we know we have the right guy? And how can I find the hostages if I don’t see the vase Wally saw?”

“I wish I could tell you,” he said, his lips barely moving. “But you’re the expert. I suggest you go along with him and get as much information as you can.”

His words barely registered. He was close, and the smell of spicy soap on his skin distracted her, fogging her mind with the memory of the last time they were this close. His mouth on hers. His hand finding her bare breast. She tried to blink it away and found herself staring at the rough texture of three-days’ growth of beard. It suited him. She was tempted to run her hand over it. Then rub her cheek against it. Maybe other parts of her, too.

Some sane part of her told her this was not the time or place.

He didn’t seem to notice her obsession with his whiskers. “Keep it up, you’re doing fantastic.”

His compliment sank through her sexual fog. It seemed sincere. “Really?” She probably shouldn’t care so much that he was impressed, but liked that he admired her. Plus, she was pretty impressed, herself. She hadn’t panicked and she’d asked the right questions. “It’s kind of fun, actually.”