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saw that Harad was not going to mention the argument that had caused such a rift between them.
“What can I do?” Harad asked.
“There’s an expedition set up to search for the City of Con.” He saw his brother flinch. So Harad still, at least, had some affection for his desert roots, for the things his nomadic people held close. For the place where their mother had been buried.
“There have been other expeditions. None of them have succeeded,” Harad said carefully.
“This woman, Beth Bradshaw, she’s different.”
Instead of questioning Omar, Harad simply nodded. “What can I do to help my brother?”
“Find out who’s backing her. If we can get the money withdrawn, she’ll have no choice but to go home.” Omar held on to his composure, but it was hard. Like old times, Harad was there for him.
“I can try to find that information.” Harad got to his feet slowly. “Will you have dinner with me?”
Omar almost said no, then he hesitated. “We’re as different as the lion and the camel. Can we share a meal without one getting eaten by the other?”
Harad’s smile was amused but sad. “Perhaps for one meal the lion can put aside his claws and teeth. I’ve missed you, brother.” He stepped forward and took his brother’s elbow. “You’ve lost weight, gotten hard, like the desert people.”
“Like our people, Harad.” Omar looked around the elegantly appointed office. “This is not where you belong. We’re free people. Nomads of the desert.”
Harad only squeezed Omar’s arm more tightly. “You’ve made your choice, brother. I don’t intend to try and talk you into putting your university education to use. Please, don’t try to talk me out of my chosen life.”
Omar nodded. “For tonight,” he said.
Harad smiled. “Shall we go someplace quiet where we can talk, or noisy where we can laugh?”
Omar’s lean face broke into a grin. “Noisy. With good food and beautiful women.” There was one woman he definitely wanted out of his mind, and the distractions of some of his brother’s beautiful friends would be the perfect way to erase Beth Bradshaw.
“Done,” Harad said, and picked up his neatly folded suit jacket. “I’m glad to see you, Omar. Very glad.”
They walked out of the building together and headed toward the waterfront, where the restaurants were busy and the sound of laughter rang out over the water.
BETH SAT UP in bed, her heart pounding. It took several seconds for her to realize that her terror came from a nightmare, not from any real threat. In the time it took her to calm her fears, she recognized the hotel room, felt again the thrill of actually being in Egypt.
Taking deep breaths, she got out of bed and walked to the French doors that opened to the balcony. They were slightly open, allowing the breeze to flutter the sheer curtains. She was on the second floor of the old hotel, and her room looked out over a beautiful garden.
Slipping a robe over her short cotton nightshirt, she walked out onto the balcony and into a night that smelled of saltwater and unfamiliar spices. She’d asked the concierge in the hotel about the scent, and he’d told her it was tumeric and cumin, spices that had once been like gold in the East-West trade market.
She went to the railing and placed her hands on it, allowing her eyes to close and her body to fill with the scents and sounds around her. Alexandria. Jewel of the Mediterranean. The city had been a cultural and trading center of the Greek and Roman empires. Cleopatra had reigned from here, and had loved both Julius Caesar and Mark Antony.
She walked to the end of the balcony and almost screamed when a black shadow darted out of a chair. “Cat,” she said, a hand at her throat. “You frightened the life out of me.” A big black cat, he looked exactly like the one that had been on the bus with her. But there were a million cats in Egypt, and a lot of them were black. Surely it wasn’t the same one.
“Meow.”
The cat didn’t seem in an apologetic mood, but then, cats never apologized.
“You could at least pretend,” she said, taking the seat the cat had vacated.
To her surprise, the cat flopped over on his back at her feet, a low, pleading meow escaping his throat.
“Well, okay, you’re forgiven,” she said, feeling only a little foolish for talking to the cat.
As if he understood, the cat jumped onto her lap with a quickness and agility that was truly amazing. She stroked his head and was rewarded with a purr.
“I guess cats aren’t so bad,” she said, tickling him under the chin. “But don’t you belong to someone?”
He continued to purr, settling on her lap as she stroked him. Beyond the wall of the garden were the sounds of a large city.
Beth settled back into the chair. Having the cat on her lap gave her a sense of contentment. She was completely in darkness while around her the city pulsed with life. This was the role she knew so well, the one she’d played most of her life, that of observer. In her work she examined the artifacts of the past and from them wove the pattern of daily life. She knew the routine of the Indian women of the Southwest, the day-today struggle to feed a family and maintain life in an arid climate.
By examining those ancient remains, she could reconstruct a world that no longer existed. And it was a world often richer and more real than her own world. In the shards of pottery, she found evidence of wedding feasts and the celebration of everyday life. The long-dead people she studied were filled with emotion and the visible bonds of family. So far, other than the Corbets, she hadn’t found any of those emotional links.
She knew she should go back to bed, but the remnants of the bad dream kept her from attempting to go back to sleep.
She heard the outer gate of the garden creak open, and she leaned forward to catch a glimpse of the person coming in so late at night. A lone man walked into the garden with purpose and caught her attention even when she didn’t intend to stare. Halfway across the garden, he stopped.
He wore the flowing robes of the desert, and even in the semidarkness she could see that he stood tall and proud. Something about him was vaguely familiar, and she felt a strange increase in her pulse.
She couldn’t see his features, but she was certain she’d seen him before.
The guide! It was Omar Dukhan. He was standing in the garden looking up at her room.
Beth eased back into the chair so that she would be completely hidden from his view. The cat slipped from her lap and walked to the balcony railing. He stood with his tail twitching slightly, as if he, too, knew the identity of the man in the garden.
Beth watched in fascination as Omar continued toward the hotel, disappearing beneath her balcony as he approached the entrance. He was obviously staying in the hotel, too.
She started to call the cat to her when she heard a noise on the balcony next to her. The sound came from John Gilmore’s room, and she leaned out over the balcony to see what was going on.
John stood at the railing, watching as Omar entered the hotel. He remained a moment longer and then went back inside his room.
The cat ran into her room and began scratching at the door to the hall. She moved to the door and listened carefully before opening it a crack. John stepped from his room into the hallway, turned his head in both directions and then hurried toward the stairs that led to the first floor.
Even though she wore her nightgown and robe, Beth slipped into the hallway and began to follow John. The cat was at her side and gave her a sense of security that she knew was silly. He was only a cat, but his presence did help.
The hotel hallway was empty, filled with the silence of early morning. She started down the stairs and felt something tug