Czytaj książkę: «Her Kind Of Trouble»
The stranger’s hulking body loomed, and the sharp tip of his scimitar hovered a mere breath from my throat….
“You will leave Egypt, witch,” he dictated. “Today.”
With a rush, air filled my lungs.
“You will not interfere in matters that do not concern you.”
Even as he said it, my fingers clenched around my sword. “Well, they sure as hell concern me now.” And I swung.
Praise for Evelyn Vaughn
“Evelyn Vaughn delivers thrills and chills in a true battle of good versus evil.”
—Romantic Times
“Evelyn Vaughn takes us on an exciting journey of bone-chilling suspense and enjoyable romance.”
—Tracey West, The Road to Romance
Dear Reader,
We invite you to sit back and enjoy the ride as you experience the powerful suspense, intense action and tingling emotion in Silhouette Bombshell’s November lineup. Strong, sexy, savvy heroines have never been so popular, and we’re putting the best right into your hands. Get ready to meet four extraordinary women who will speak to the Bombshell in you!
Maggie Sanger will need quick wit and fast moves to get out of Egypt alive when her pursuit of a legendary grail puts her on a collision course with a secret society, hostages and her furious ex! Get into Her Kind of Trouble, the latest in author Evelyn Vaughn’s captivating GRAIL KEEPERS miniseries.
Sabotage, scandal and one sexy inspector breathe down the neck of a determined air force captain as she strives to right an old wrong in the latest adventure in the innovative twelve-book ATHENA FORCE continuity series, Pursued by Catherine Mann.
Enter the outrageous underworld of Las Vegas prizefighting as a female boxing trainer goes up against the mob to save her father, her reputation and a child witness in Erica Orloff’s pull-no-punches novel, Knockout.
And though creating identities for undercover agents is her specialty, Kristie Hennessy finds out that work can be deadly when you’ve got everyone fooled and no one to trust but a man you know only by his intriguing voice…. Don’t miss Kate Donovan’s Identity Crisis.
It’s a month of no-holds-barred excitement! Please send your comments to me, c/o Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway Ste. 1001, New York, NY 10279.
Best wishes,
Natashya Wilson
Associate Senior Editor, Silhouette Bombshell
Her Kind of Trouble
Evelyn Vaughn
EVELYN VAUGHN
has written stories since she learned to make letters. But during the two years that she lived on a Navajo reservation in Arizona—while in second and third grade—she dreamed of becoming not a writer, but a barrel racer in the rodeo. Before she actually got her own horse, however, her family moved to Louisiana. There, to avoid the humidity, she channeled more of her adventures into stories instead.
Since then, Evelyn has canoed in the east Texas swamps, rafted a white-water river in the Austrian Alps, rappelled barefoot down a three-story building, talked her way onto a ship to Greece without her passport, sailed in the Mediterranean and spent several weeks in Europe with little more than a backpack and a train pass. All at least once. While she enjoys channeling the more powerful “travel Vaughn” on a regular basis, she also loves the fact that she can write about adventures with far less physical discomfort. Since she now lives in Texas, where she teaches English at a local community college, air-conditioning still remains an important factor.
Her Kind of Trouble is Evelyn’s eighth full-length book for Silhouette. Feel free to contact her through her Web site, www.evelynvaughn.com, or by writing to: P.O. Box 6, Euless TX, 76039.
To Toni
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Author’s Note
Chapter 1
One moment I was studying the five-thousand-year-old statue of a husband and wife, one of several in the Metropolitan Museum of Art’s sprawling Egyptian wing. What kind of romantic problems had they faced, I mused. Deception? Cross-purposes? Old wounds? Had love won out?
The next moment, I sensed someone behind me, all size and impatience and body heat.
And not in a nice way.
“So you decided to be good, huh, Maggi?” The voice was too thick to be pleasant even if its owner tried.
He didn’t.
I recognized billionaire slimeball, Phil Stuart, even before I turned. And here I’d thought that this one-thousand-dollar-per-plate event was exclusive.
“I’m always good,” I told him, masking my unease as I turned anyway. Phil was nobody I wanted at my back. “But if you mean well-behaved…maybe not.”
“You gave up on those stupid goddess cups, right?”
Gave up? It hadn’t been two months since I’d rescued the antique chalice of my ancestors, a holy relic called the Melusine Grail, from thugs sent by this guy. Since then, I’d been preoccupied helping nurse my sometimes-lover Lex back to health after a vicious knife attack.
By more thugs.
Probably sent by this guy.
Supposedly the two incidents were unrelated. I didn’t need psychic abilities to doubt that. Either way, I’d had an excellent reason for not seeking out a second chalice.
Really.
I didn’t need Phil tossing out double-dog dares.
Phil Stuart always looked a little off to me. Like a poor imitation of something better. Other than to check for the bulge of a gun—or a ceremonial knife—under his tux, I barely glanced at him before noting the two suited gentlemen lurking by the ancient stone archway. Was he kidding?
“Bodyguards, Phil?”
“Right?” He leaned closer, into my personal space. “You’ve given up on those stupid goddess cups?”
“Not your business.” I knew how to stand my ground, even in two-inch, ankle-flattering heels. “Back off.”
“Or what?”
He wasn’t an immediate danger to me. This may sound weird, but…ever since I’d drunk from the Chalice of Melusine—my family goddess, a goddess renowned for her prophetic scream—my intuition had sharpened to the point that my throat tightened whenever something threatened me. And my throat felt fine just now.
Then again, Phil rarely did his own dirty work.
He raised his voice. “Or what?”
A smooth voice beyond him said, “Or you’ll make your date jealous.”
Speaking of deception, cross-purposes, and old wounds…
Lex, my sometimes lover and current escort, had returned from fetching champagne. Beside him stood a small, blond woman in an expensive gown. A black gown, naturally—this was a New York arts event. But Lex, healthy again and wearing a tuxedo with an ease GQ models would envy, was the one on whom my gaze lingered.
Alexander Rothschild Stuart III wasn’t so tall he towered, nor so athletic that he bulged. His ginger-brown hair sported an expensive but conservative cut. His face revealed generations of upper-class ancestors, all pulling together in the sweep of his jaw, his cheeks, his nose, understated and yet, well…perfect.
Maybe too perfect. But, good or bad, it was him. Lex was what Phil, his cousin, could never copy. When I wanted him, that was great. When I felt unsure of our relationship, it really complicated matters.
Lately, things had been very complicated.
“Maggi,” Lex said coolly, passing me a champagne flute, “have you met Phil’s new girlfriend, Tammy?”
“Let’s go,” said Phil—but I was already taking Tammy’s manicured hand in my own.
“Pleased to meet you,” I said. “I’m Magdalene Sanger. Are you sure you know what you’re doing with this guy?”
“Hey!” Phil protested.
Tammy’s eyes widened. Her lips parted. “Why do you…?” Then, quickly, she looked down at our hands.
I’m not psychic, sore throats aside. I just knew Phil.
“Now,” Phil insisted. But this reception was for patron-circle members, on a Monday night when the museum was normally closed to the public. If he made a scene, he would do so in front of the crème de la crème of city society. I hadn’t pushed him that far. Yet.
Then again, this was my first drink of the evening.
Tammy slid an annoyed glance toward Phil, then said, “Pleased to meet you, Magdalene. That’s a fascinating necklace you’re wearing.”
“Thank you. It’s called a chalice-well pendant. It—”
“Enough!” At Phil’s exclamation, several patrons turned to see who had been so gauche. Even Lex’s lips twitched, which is about as close to a guffaw as my ex-lover is capable. “Stop talking to her, damn it!”
Tammy blinked, as if seeing him for the first time, then laughed. “Why in the world should I not talk to her?”
“Probably because his wife left him after talking to me,” I guessed. That had been shortly after Lex landed in the hospital. The woman had good reason to be concerned.
Now my throat tightened in warning.
I spun in my heels and nailed Phil with a glare that stopped him cold, before he’d surged forward an inch. Everything about his posture said he’d meant to strike out at me, public place or not. And so it began.
Or continued.
“Here, Phil?” I warned softly. “Now?”
And since most bullies are cowards, he said nothing.
This time when someone stepped up behind me, the sense of solidity and body heat belonged to Lex. So was he backing me up, or readying to help his cousin?
Either way, my bare back welcomed his nearness.
“You know,” murmured Tammy into the uncomfortable silence that followed, “perhaps I’ll catch a cab home. Thank you for the invitation, Phillip, but—”
“You can’t leave,” protested Phil, and Tammy arched an eyebrow at him in challenge.
“Thank you, Magdalene,” she said as she turned away. “It was a real pleasure to meet you.”
“For three minutes?” Phil’s heavy head swung back to me for one last glare before he trailed his girlfriend from the gallery. “You met her for three freakin’ minutes. Tammy!”
His bodyguards trailed after them.
“I hope she’ll be all right,” I murmured in their absence. I’d felt jittery all evening. Not sore-throat jittery, but still…
“Phil’s made mistakes.” Lex took a sip of his champagne. “But he’s a Stuart. There are lines even he won’t cross.”
I did a double take. Did he honestly believe that? Did he mean it as assurance?
Then he distracted me by sliding a hand across the small of my back and murmuring, “Why do you keep doing that?”
So he’d noticed, too. Phil’s wife. A nurse who stood up to a condescending doctor. A waitress who suddenly found the strength to take down a rowdy customer.
A little girl, whom I’d helped to her feet when Lex and I were jogging in the park, who finally hit her brother back. She never does that, exclaimed her surprised mother….
“And don’t say, doing what,” Lex continued, his voice mild but his hazel, almost golden eyes demanding.
“I’m not doing anything. Not deliberately.” That would mean I had some kind of…well…magic. I didn’t, sore throats aside. I wasn’t sure I wanted the responsibility.
He looked particularly inscrutable.
“But maybe,” I admitted, mulling it over. “Maybe the Melusine Grail is.”
In a nearby display case sat a small, ornate goblet of blue faience. It wasn’t a goddess cup, but I turned under Lex’s hand and escaped for a closer look anyway.
My name’s Magdalene Sanger. I’m a professor of Comparative Mythology at Clemens College outside Stamford, Connecticut. And as it turns out, I’m descended from goddess worshippers. Long ago, when such beliefs became a burn-at-the-stake offense, women across the world hid their most sacred relics and taught their daughters and their daughters’ daughters where to find them.
Grailkeepers. Like me.
Until recently, guarding the knowledge of these lost chalices had been enough. But Phil Stuart and a secret society of powerful men had gone after my family’s cup. I’d rescued it—and learned the truth, which was this:
After hundreds, maybe thousands of years, mere knowledge was no longer enough.
Lex’s reflection appeared in the glass case, over my shoulder. “How’s an old cup that’s not even here making women more—” he frowned, at a loss “—more.”
“Legend says the goddess grails will increase the power of women a hundredfold,” I reminded him. “And I do still have the Melusine Grail. Sure, it’s hidden away for now…”
He didn’t ask where. I definitely didn’t tell him.
“But still, I drank from it. I took the essence of goddessness into me. Maybe that connection is what’s empowering other women…at least when I touch them.”
“So you don’t need to go looking for more cups?”
“Of course I do.”
His ghostly image scowled. In some ways, I thought, he’s more dangerous than Phil.
At least I felt certain about where Phil stood.
Even when I turned and looked at Lex straight on, I knew damned well I wasn’t seeing all of him.
He breathed out his next question. “Why?”
“You know as well as I do. Because a secret society called the Comitatus are after them. They destroyed the Kali Grail in New Delhi—”
“You can’t know that was…them.”
“You’re right, because they work in secret.” I frowned into my champagne. “But I know some of them went after the Melusine Chalice. I know they came after me. Is there any reason I should give them the benefit of a doubt?”
Lex’s mouth flattened as I kept talking.
“That’s the problem with secrets,” I continued. “I could have been dating a member of the Comitatus for years—hell, I could’ve dated one of its most powerful members—and never known it. I could have considered marrying him, and because of some stupid vow of secrecy, he would never have told me who he really was.”
“I can’t talk to you when you’re like this.” Lex’s reflection turned away from mine and faded, like a ghost’s.
Whether I wanted it to or not, my heart lurched. I turned after him. “That’s our problem. You can’t talk to me.”
Because that whole previous speech had been a big, fat load of sarcasm.
Turns out, Lex was one of the most powerful members of the Comitatus. From what I’d pieced together, the only reason he wasn’t in charge was that a childhood illness had taken him out of the running as a leader of supposed warriors. More’s the pity.
Despite our own problems—previous deceptions, and cross-purposes, and scars that might or might not yet heal—I had to believe things would have been different with him as the leader.
I had to.
I caught up to him and put a hand on his arm, hard and fit beneath his tuxedo jacket. “I have no reason to trust them. And since you can’t talk to me—”
“I can,” Lex insisted. “About anything but that.”
“It’s a hard thing not to talk about. You must know something good about those men, something worth saving, but I haven’t seen any proof of it. And now—”
Now Phil Stuart scowled at us from across the room, bodyguards instead of a date at his side. His fear of me, of what he couldn’t understand, made him dangerous. I looked from him to Lex again, noting how tight Lex’s jawline had gotten with the strain of his own secrets, and I consciously chose against fear.
“I trust you,” I vowed softly, hopefully. “I trust that you know what you’re doing, that it’s something honorable and right. I’ve got to believe that, for both our sakes….”
My voice faded, the closer his face leaned toward mine, the more intently his golden eyes focused on my lips. The nearer he came, the shorter my breath fell.
But again, not in a good way. I wasn’t ready.
The last time we’d been lovers, before his attack, I’d known nothing of his involvement with the Comitatus. Learning the truth had just about broken my heart. I did want to trust him…but maybe hearts are slower to heal than knife wounds.
He must have seen something in my eyes, in my posture. We’ve known each other since childhood, after all. He reads me pretty well.
Abruptly, he turned away. “I’ll get us another drink.”
And then I was alone in the crowd, feeling cold and foolish and more than a little frustrated…which is when I saw it.
It was another glass case, another small sculpture in blue faience, apparently the Egyptians’ earthenware of choice. This one wasn’t a cup but a tiny figurine, a woman on a throne with a child in her lap.
I could have looked away, if I’d wanted to. But, pulse accelerating, I did not want to.
The size of the figurine, perhaps six inches, in no way matched the scope of its subject. But from the headdress, I recognized her—or should I say, Her—all the same. Isis. Goddess of Ten Thousand Names. Oldest of the Old. Sitting there amid relics from her ancient, half-forgotten world, nursing the tiny god Horus on her lap.
This Grailkeeper business would be so much easier if she spoke to me, even in my head—if she flat out said Maggi, this is your next assignment. It didn’t work that way, of course. So far, a sore throat in the presence of danger was as tangible as the magic of the goddess got. Except…
Something vibrated against my fingertips. I nearly dropped my purse before remembering my cell phone, tucked inside it. I drew it out, saw an international exchange on its display.
I thumbed the On button. “Hello, Rhys,” I said softly, and not just out of politeness for the other museum patrons. The moment felt almost…holy. “Tell me you know where the Isis Grail is and I’ll believe in magic.”
“I do not know for certain,” came the lilting Welsh voice of my friend, an archeology student at the Sorbonne who was interning with an expedition to Egypt. “But someone seems to think I do.”
My sense of unease returned—and only partly because I’d just seen Lex, across the room, conversing with his cousin Phil.
“Why do you say that?” I deliberately turned my attention back to the statuette. I trust him, I trust him, I trust him.
The tiny blue Isis wore a crooked smile, as if to say, “Gotcha.”
“I say it,” said Rhys, “because somebody tried to kill me today.”
Chapter 2
When we reached JFK, Lex turned the car into an open space at the far reaches of the Central Terminal Area lot and shifted into Park. August sunlight bounced off a stretch of windshields and rearview mirrors between us and the terminals. His engine idled almost imperceptibly, to keep the cool air blowing.
He unfastened his seat belt and turned to me.
Here it comes, I thought. Until this moment, Lex’s only reaction to my announcement that I was flying to Egypt had been three words: “I’ll drive you.”
I expected a protest.
I didn’t expect him to take my left hand in his.
“Mag,” he said. And he slid a gold band onto my ring finger! “Wear this?”
Gold band. On the finger reserved for engagement and wedding rings.
And I’d thought concern for Rhys and last-minute flight plans had been stressful? This sent the day’s pressure into heart-pumping overdrive.
Damn, I thought, staring at the ring. And we were just starting to get along again. Except for the panic attack at the thought of kissing him, that is. Still, I’d already refused to marry Lex Stuart, several times, even before this business about chalices and secret societies had come up.
The timing hadn’t exactly improved.
“It’s company policy,” Lex explained with his usual composure, drawing his thumb across the band. “Women wearing wedding rings invite less harassment in Arab countries than women who are recognizably single.”
“Policy,” I repeated numbly—and the world shifted back into place again. Policy. The ring meant nothing. Then the rest of his statement caught up with me, and I regained my full voice to challenge it. “Invite harassment?”
“Attract less harassment, then. Point being—”
“Point being you think I need the illusion of a man to protect me.” I started to tug the ring off.
He closed his hand around mine, stopping me. “I didn’t say that. God help any Egyptians who try to harass you.”
Appeased, I waited for him to explain himself.
“I just wish you weren’t going,” he said softly.
Which, as far as ways for him to explain himself went, sucked. “Well that’s not your call to make.”
“Did you hear me asking?”
Actually, no, I hadn’t.
Lex opened his hand enough to look at mine, at the ring that now loosely circled the top knuckle of my finger. “You’re the one who complains that we don’t talk enough.”
I couldn’t help it—I laughed. I had to get rid of nervous energy somehow. “I complain that you’ve taken a vow of secrecy to an organization that’s tried to kill me. And you. More than once. That’s not the same as whining that you don’t tell me often enough that you love me.”
He said, “I love you.”
I sank back into the leather seat and closed my eyes, still anchored by his hand holding mine. My reaction to that really shouldn’t have been to think, Crap, should it?
I mean, this was Lex—my first date, first love, first time. My first, second, and third heartbreak.
But damn it, my plane was leaving soon, and I still had an international security check to get through. “Lex…”
“I love you, and I hate that you’re leaving. This is the Middle East you’re talking about, Mag.”
When I opened my eyes, there that ring sat, peeking loosely through our fingers, undecided. “Egypt isn’t the same as the Gaza Strip.”
“It’s not the same as Cleveland, either,” insisted Lex. “Less than a decade ago more than fifty tourists were massacred in the Valley of the Kings.”
“I’m not going to the Valley of the Kings, I’m going to Alexandria. It’s the other direction.”
Lex stared at me, unswayed.
I fisted my hand in his, ring and all. “I’ll be fine.”
“Like you were the last time you went after a chalice that certain people didn’t want found?”
“Certain people don’t know I’m going this time.” Or… Old suspicions settled in my chest. “Do they?”
Lex took his hand back and released the parking brake in an angry movement. “You’ve really got this not trusting me business down, haven’t you?”
Again—crap. I reached awkwardly across my lap to reengage the brake, since my left hand was still fisted to keep from losing the ring. “Hey. I wasn’t saying you told them. Did you hear me saying that?”
Then again, if they learned about my quest some other way, I wasn’t sure he could have told me, either.
When Lex turned back to me, his expression was impassive—and his eyes desperate. “We really don’t communicate well, do we?”
I might not be able to tell him that it would all work out, not with any certainty, but I could at least reach for him, cradle my palm across his clean-shaven cheek. If words couldn’t ease his uncertainty, maybe simple touch would.
As if I’d drawn him, Lex leaned nearer, braced his forehead lightly against mine. “I can’t lose you again.”
Which on some levels was so tender, so vulnerable, that I felt half-ready to ditch everything, just to taste his lips, just to ease some of the uncertainty from this man’s deep, golden eyes. When I looked at him I saw too much—a boy dying of leukemia, a teenager grieving his dead mother, a man determined to keep promises he should never have had to make….
But on some levels, intentional or not, his words were manipulative as hell.
“You first,” I whispered, turning my head to rest it on his shoulder. Lex really had great shoulders, solid and strong, even without the crisply tailored suits. He would make a really great leader of warriors.
“Me first, what?”
“You promise to stop doing dangerous things, taking transatlantic flights to unsafe places—”
“Mag.” The sardonic note he put into my name told me we were done with the puppy-dog eyes for now.
“…move to the suburbs, ditch the sports car….”
He sighed and leaned his weight into me, hard enough to nudge me fully back into my own seat.
“Then maybe,” I finished, silently laughing at his scowl as I straightened, “maybe we’ll talk a deal.”
The scowl didn’t falter. “I know you can handle yourself, but I’m just not hardwired to leave it at that. Maybe it goes back to cavemen killing saber-toothed tigers that threatened the camp, but there’s something in men that makes us want—need—to protect our women.”
Our women? Instead of jumping into that frying pan, I chose the proverbial fire. “A lot has changed since then. For one thing, those cavemen probably worshipped a goddess.”
“In the good old days before testosterone screwed up the world, right?” Sarcasm clearly intended.
“I never said testosterone didn’t have its uses.” And whoa—I sure didn’t mean that to sound quite as seductive as it did. I saw it immediately in the way his expression stilled, his eyes darkened to a whiskey color, his breath caught. He glanced quickly toward the tiny clock display over the rearview mirror.
Worse—I did, too.
The heat that washed through me had nothing to do with summer in the city, and everything to do with my body’s dissatisfaction at having gone so long without his kisses. Maybe my heart was wary. But the rest of me…
“I’ve gotta go,” I murmured, turning the air conditioner dial to full blue.
To his credit, Lex managed in three long, deep breaths to regain his mask of disinterest. He released the parking brake and shifted into Drive. “Yes. Security gets more complicated every day.”
“I’ll call you when I have a hotel room.”
“Please do.” But before he pulled out of the space, he turned his head to look at me full-on again. “And wear the ring, Maggi. Let me do that much for you.”
And really, what could it hurt? “‘Wear the ring,’ please,” I prompted softly.
“Please,” he repeated, and the edge of his mouth quirked before he eased onto the gas. “With sugar on top.”
So what the hell? I slid the band fully onto my finger, as if it belonged there. “Fine. But it’s all about not rocking the Egyptians’ boat, right?” I clarified. “It has nothing to do with making Rhys Pritchard uncomfortable?”
“I like Rhys.” Lex sounded waaay too innocent for my tastes. “I’m sure neither of us would want to make the other one uncomfortable.”
Yeah. Like guys thought that way. The same gender that came up with the concept of a pissing contest. “Uh-huh.”
But I was stuck. I’d already agreed to wear the ring.
The other player in this triangle, Rhys Pritchard, was my prize at the end of the long process of my arrival in Cairo—a metal staircase onto the hot tarmac, a bus to the terminal, customs, a temporary visa, and an increasing awareness of all the head scarves and galabiya and Arabic being spoken around me.
It was great to see a familiar face.
I surged toward him as best I could amid the crowd and saw that he was making the effort to shoulder his way to me, too. The closer he got, the better he looked. Rhys has a coloring I would normally call “black Irish,” except that he’s Welsh. Dark, unkempt hair. Bright-blue eyes. Lanky—what he has on Lex in height he loses in breadth. But here in Egypt, Rhys had gained a secret weapon—sunshine. His U.K. complexion, though still pale by swarthy Egyptian standards, had been gilded by the Mediterranean sun. A touch of pink on his nose and cheeks made his eyes seem to glow.
Or maybe that was just pleasure at seeing me.
“Maggi!” he exclaimed, his smile wide and welcoming. I reached for him—
But he stopped short. “Let me look at you.”
“Only if you return the favor,” I warned, eyeing him up and down. He wore his usual faded jeans and a slightly wrinkled, long-sleeved jersey that had been washed too often. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“I told you—I dodged the car that tried to run me down.” From the scrapes on his hands, where he’d landed, I judged he’d had only modest success in that. “I wouldn’t have mentioned it except for what it might signify.”
“That you’ve found a lead about the…you-know-what.”
The Isis Grail.
He nodded, a moment of complete accord—and I hugged him. After the briefest hesitation, his long arms wrapped around me, no matter where we were. Mmm. He felt stronger than he had back in France, where we’d enjoyed a mild flirtation and the start of a powerful friendship. He smelled faintly of the sea.
That was Rhys for you. No nefarious associations. Totally supportive of my grail quest, since his mother had also descended from a line of Grailkeepers. Classic nice guy. Wholly, wonderfully uncomplicated…
Except for his having been a priest, once. Actually, still—as he’d be the first to point out, ordination is even more permanent in the Catholic Church than marriage. But he no longer worked for them. The Catholic Church that is.
Okay, so that part was complicated.
He pulled back first, ducking his head only in part to take my suitcase. “Ah. That is…do be careful, Maggi. The Egyptians don’t approve of PDAs.”
I blinked at him. “Personal digital assistants?”
“They don’t approve of public displays.” Of affection.
Oh.
I looked around us and did, in fact, intercept a few glares aimed our way. I also saw a pair of men beside us, hugging and then kissing each other on each cheek. “Really?”
“Not between the sexes,” he chided, grinning. “Not even if it’s obvious that the couple’s…” His grin faded. “Oh.”
He’d just noticed the wedding ring.
“It’s fake,” I assured him, fast. “I’m supposed to attract less harassment this way.”
“Most of the women on the project do the same thing.” Rhys sounded relieved as he supported Lex’s story.
Having him there eased the foreignness of this place. Between a few necessary stops—the public bathrooms, and an in-airport bank to change money—we caught up on the basic niceties. How my great-aunt and his recent boss had been when he left Paris—she was well. How my parents had been when I left New York—also good. Everything but the goddess grails, which needed privacy, and the topic of me and Lex, which was just plain awkward.
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