Something Wicked This Way Comes, Volume 2

The way he said it rankled. Carla doubted very much that Dr. Anderson got his way as often as he thought he did. More likely Angie got her way and simply made it seem as if it were his idea.

The archeologist stepped aside and gestured for her to leave, inviting her to end the meeting. But Carla’s stubborn streak rose. Who was he to dismiss her? How dare he assume she wasn’t interested in following up on this story!

Okay, so she wasn’t. But she wasn’t going to let him know that.

“I’d love to hear the story you have to tell, Dr. Anderson.” With a deliberate smirk, she marched back to the table, pulled out a chair and sat down.

He followed her with barely concealed reluctance. His slow steps gave Carla an opportunity to take a longer look at the archeologist. Angie hadn’t been kidding. He was gorgeous. With shoulders a linebacker would envy, the sculpted, straight lines of Nordic heritage and tarnished blond hair that hung in a ponytail to the middle of his back, he personified the image of some ancient Viking raider come to shore to wreak havoc.

Right now, however, his gray eyes glittered with irritation. Good. Why should she be the only one put out?

“Ms. Braun, you need to know I’m against Dr. DiPaolo’s desire to romanticize this story. Quite honestly, I don’t believe in letting people like you exploit the past to create fictional stories about real people. Sorry, but this is science and history, not some throbbing romance novel with heaving bosoms and men with rippling muscles.”

“Ha! A lot you know about romance novels. When’s the last time you read one?” She wasn’t about to admit she was a sucker for those rippling muscles, especially if accompanied by a good, hard, six-pack abdomen.

Her glance fell to Dr. Anderson’s chest, hidden under a plain white shirt, dark tie and rumpled gray suit. She had felt the strength in that chest when she fell into him in the doorway. Now that she had recovered from her shock, the memory of the firm muscles under that shirt momentarily distracted her.

“It doesn’t matter, they’re all the same. She doesn’t need to be dragged through some torrid descriptions of her love affairs. The princess deserves better than that.”

“Hmmm…a princess? Angie didn’t mention that.” Carla gestured to the only other chair in the small room. “Might as well make yourself comfortable, Dr. Anderson. You’re going to have to tell me the story now.”

Josef gritted his teeth. The meeting with the museum director had already taken up more time than he’d expected and now this slip of a woman wanted more. He checked his watch. Damn and damn again—he still hadn’t set it to New York time. When did that next flight for Egypt leave? Spending the night in this damnable city didn’t thrill him one bit.

Unless he had someone to spend it with…

He let his gaze travel over Carla again, wondering what she’d look like tied for his pleasure. Something Angie had told him about her friend niggled at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t quite recall it.

Dismissing the thought as unimportant, he gave an exaggerated bow as he pulled out a chair and turned it backward, straddling the seat and resting his hands along the back just to watch the annoyance cross her face at his cavalier attitude. He wasn’t disappointed. Needling her and watching her blush gave him a rush. Affecting insolence, he started the story.

“Once upon a time, there was a rich princess who… Don’t you want to take notes or something?”

“Be as obnoxious as you like, Dr. Anderson. I’m just here to listen. If the story has as much merit as Angie seems to think, then I’ll read the nonfiction report the two of you have written and go from there. Pray continue with your fascinating account.”

She certainly could hold her own. And surprisingly, he enjoyed their verbal sparring, finding the woman before him…engaging. Without changing his demeanor, he kept his tone nonchalant and related the tale of the Bedouin princess.

“She lived several centuries ago, part of a nomadic tribe of Bedouins. We only know her as Princess M, daughter of a sheikh. The find is remarkable in that the tribe wasn’t very large, nor was it important. Yet the embroidery on the scraps of clothing that survived show an intricacy we’ve seen today only in the larger families. The rich blue and purple dyes used, the silk material of her robes, tell us a great deal about her family’s position, however. As do the pottery pieces.”

Carla leaned forward and Josef resisted the urge to grin. In spite of her reluctance, the story intrigued her. A strand of hair slipped off her shoulder and she unconsciously tucked it behind her ear, cocking her head to the side and narrowing those hazel eyes. He continued.

“The find was also remarkable in that it even came to light. We estimate the tent and its occupant have been buried under the sand for over a thousand years.”

“I know the desert is dry, but I would have thought everything would’ve rotted or worn away after all that time.”

Josef nodded. “There is extensive decay of the clothing and tenting material. But once this tent was buried, it stayed buried…deep. Preserving the rest. It’s hard to measure the sands of the Sahara; the wind is constantly changing its shape. But the sandstorm that buried the princess must’ve put her over five hundred feet below the surface for most of the intervening millennium. We only found her now thanks to another storm and a lost sheep. The shepherd boy who found the remains of the tent thought at first that it was poachers. He ran back to get his father and uncles and they came with guns drawn.”

“And what did they find?”

“A black tent called a bayt, partitioned into two spaces, not so different from their own except the inside was filled with sand. At first they dug it out, thinking there was someone who needed rescuing. The front half of the tent, however, was empty. When one of them unearthed an ancient pot just behind the center curtain, they finally realized this wasn’t a case of poachers caught out in a storm.”

Josef snorted. “Thankfully one of the men understood the significance of the find. They stopped digging before they did any real damage, knowing that museums around the world would pay good money to excavate it. Dr. DiPaolo and I were lucky enough to get the dig. We found the skeleton only after several weeks of sand removal.”

When he didn’t continue, Carla prodded him. “So is that it? Some kid finds a black tent rising out of the desert like a mirage, only this one is real and comes complete with skeleton? There must be something more.”

Josef nodded. “Very perceptive. While that alone is certainly a good find, it’s not what has your friend all excited.”

“What else did you find there?”

“Beside the woman was a trunk. Inside were several lengths of cloth in excellent condition, some with the same embroidered pattern that we found on the remnants of the princess’s robes. There was also a man’s shirt, same pattern. You should know, these patterns were often handed down from one generation to the next. Woven into them were family identification and status. The better a woman was with her needle, the better the pattern. The better the pattern, the better the status. This woman was magnificent.”

“How do you know she embroidered them?”

“Because below the layers of clothing, we found her letters.”

“Letters? How long ago was this?”

“Writing’s been around for more than a thousand years, you know.”

Carla hastened to explain. “I know. I’m just surprised at a Bedouin woman writing letters. Seems out of character.”

“It is. That’s what makes this not just a good find, but a great one. She’s unique. The letters were written in a form of Arabic with smatterings of Old French.”

“Old French? What on earth was a Frenchman doing in the Sahara Desert a thousand years ago?”

Josef watched the wheels turn and gave her time. She twirled a strand of her hair and an errant thought popped into his head—what would that silkiness feel like draped over his cock?

An image of her bending over him, teasing him with her hair, came to mind.

She slapped the table and he jerked, giving a small cough to cover the fact that his mind had gone off on a sensual tangent. A shift of his chair also allowed him to stealthily readjust his cock, which had decided to weigh in on the alluring nature of the woman across from him.

“Got it. A Frenchman in the Sahara a thousand years ago? Had to have been the Crusades.”

“Yes. The Crusades.”

“So you’re saying a Muslim Bedouin princess fell in love with a Christian French knight?”