Stolen Heat Read online

  The buzz-cut man’s eyes darted across the room to zero in on Pete. Her gaze followed. Pete had rejoined his group, but he didn’t look happy anymore. He seemed troubled as he sipped his champagne and glanced around the lobby at the other partygoers.

  No, no, no.

  Kat looked back toward the main door and, in a fog, watched a sinister smile spread across the buzz-cut man’s face.

  Shit! She never should have come here.

  She pushed the kitchen door open as her adrenaline surged. Reached up and rubbed her fingers over the medallion hanging from her neck. And prayed this time no one died because of her.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  Peter Kauffman pulled his gaze from the crowd he’d been studying intensely half the night to glance toward his date for the evening, Dr. Maria Gotsi.

  No, “date” was too broad a term. “Friend with benefits” was more appropriate, although even that implied a relationship they just didn’t have.

  He tried to smile so Maria wouldn’t know what he was thinking but knew he did a half-assed job by the way she frowned back at him. “Just preoccupied.”

  “You seem off tonight, Peter,” she said in that cultured Greek voice of hers.

  Hell yeah, he was off. First because of this auction she’d finally talked him into, then because he was pretty sure he was losing his freakin’ mind. No way he could have seen what he thought he’d seen.

  “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day.”

  Maria smiled and moved closer, slipped her arm through his and rubbed her hip against him. Any other moment, that well-timed contact would have sent electricity straight to his groin, but tonight it didn’t even garner a response.

  “You should be celebrating, darling,” she whispered close to his ear. “The auction was a huge success.”

  An enormous success, actually. The Odyssey Gallery’s collection of Ancient Egyptian Art had netted more than six million dollars, far above what even he’d anticipated. The party in the Worthington’s ballroom swirled around him as he stood there, sipping champagne he didn’t really want, and though he should have been ecstatic, for some reason, he wasn’t.

  Maria, already deep in conversation with someone at Pete’s left, laughed and tossed her dark hair back, the sound and movement dragging his attention her way. He watched with detached interest as she expertly flirted with the manager of the auction house, then moved on to someone else Pete had no interest in meeting, meticulously working her way around the room and mingling like the pro she was.

  The woman had balls, he had to give her that. And she wasn’t just another pretty face attached to a sinful body. She was smart, too, the director of one of the top archaeometry laboratories in the world, the backbone of the Art Institute of Athens.

  Her eyes slid in his direction, and she smiled that come-get-me grin he knew meant she was ready to go back to his hotel and screw his brains out. A tiny part of him recoiled at the thought.

  Before he knew it, he was scanning the crowd again, looking for that waitress he’d seen earlier. The one who’d had those wide, almond-shaped eyes, that strong, straight nose, the high cheekbones and stubborn chin.

  Damn. He was doing it again. He’d stopped seeing her face in crowds years ago. So why the hell was it happening now?

  More than ready to leave this party behind, he set his empty flute on a nearby table, tucked one hand into the pocket of his slacks and headed in Maria’s direction.

  Voices tinged with Middle Eastern accents drifted his way as he drew close. Maria’s back was to him as he approached the trio, but over her shoulder he got a look at the two dark-skinned gentlemen she was speaking with, and he stiffened. Something in his gut said this was no coincidence.

  Definitely time to bail.

  He slipped his arm around Maria’s waist and leaned close to her ear, hoping to pull her away without a scene. “I’m ready to go.”

  She pressed a hand against his chest and smiled. “Peter. There you are. I’d like you to meet Aten Minyawi and Hanif Busir. They’re in the market for some prime Egyptian pieces.”

  Yeah, he just bet they were.

  He barely spared them a glance and knew without even looking that not an ounce of recognition would show on Busir’s face. “I don’t deal in Egyptian art anymore. Sorry.”

  Pete started to tug Maria away, but she halted his movement with a hand on his arm. “Mr. Busir’s from Cairo. He runs a museum in the city, and he’s always on the lookout for historic pieces that might have been removed from his country without government knowledge or approval. Several of your artifacts tonight intrigued him. In fact, he purchased quite a few and is in the market for more.”

  God, she was buying their bull hook, line and sinker. But then, Busir was a pro at weaving crap on a stick. As good as Pete had once been.

  “Good for him,” Pete said. “Everything I have has already been auctioned off. That was the point of tonight, remember? The car’s waiting, Maria.”

  “Peter.” She stopped him with a look that read, what the hell’s wrong with you? “Mr. Minyawi and Mr. Busir are also interested in contracting the Institute for authentication on some of their pieces. I’m sure you can wait a few moments, can’t you?”

  Nope. Not for anyone from Egypt. Not ever again.

  She tugged her elbow from his hand, turned away before he could answer and made some lame-ass excuse about his rude behavior.

  Yeah. Whatever.

  He squared his shoulders and glanced back at the two men while he waited. Minyawi was over six feet, had long dark hair and a full beard. A thin scar ran down one side of his face. He never made eye contact, but something about the way he held himself was familiar to Pete. And that familiarity only flared as Pete watched the man’s gaze sweep the crowd as if he were searching for someone. Or waiting for something to happen.

  Not good.

  Pete’s gaze drifted to Busir, a good two inches shorter than Minyawi, but wider and more muscular. His dark hair was cropped closer than Pete remembered, but those thick brows anchoring his forehead to his face were just the same. As were his piercing black eyes, which never wavered from Maria. The man was all about attention to detail and stone-cold deadly patience. Just like always.

  Pete knew Busir wouldn’t make a scene—he was too cunning for that—but it didn’t lessen Pete’s desire to get the hell out of the auction house and away from these two thugs as soon as possible. Whatever they were doing here couldn’t be good, and his days of wheeling and dealing with the likes of them were long gone.

  With growing impatience, he waited until Maria pulled a business card from her small white handbag and handed it to Busir. Before she could delve into a description of the Institute’s latest technological advancements, he grasped her arm and this time didn’t let go. “The car’s waiting.”

  Outside, he took a deep breath of crisp November air and waited while the valet signaled his driver. Trees void of leaves and wrapped in white lights for the holiday season twinkled in the night, giving the street a Norman Rockwell-ish flair he could have given a rip about. Cars whipped by on the wet pavement. A thin layer of slushy snow covered the sidewalk.

  Maria frowned as she buttoned her coat. “I don’t understand what the rush was about.”

  No, of course, she wouldn’t. “I’m tired, Maria. It’s been a long day, and I was ready to go. You want to go back in, be my guest.”

  She stopped fidgeting and stared at him. “Peter.”

  The sleek black Mercedes pulled to the curb. When the driver got out, Pete waved him to stay in the car. He opened the door himself and waited while Maria slid into the backseat.

  After the door closed, he gave the driver directions to the apartment Maria kept on the Upper West Side, leaned back against the plush leather and closed his eyes.

  Silence filled the car. He knew she was wondering why they weren’t going back to his hotel, but he didn’t feel like explaining. He wasn’t u
pset with her, but for some reason the thought of being cooped up with her all night was just a little too close for his taste right now.

  Cloth rustled next to him as she wiggled out of her coat. The seat dipped to his left, and his skin warmed when she curved toward his body. Some designer floral fragrance drifted his way. “You look tired, Peter. Why don’t you let me relax you?”

  His stomach tightened at the offer. He was damn tired and in serious need of relaxation. But he knew where this was headed, and for reasons he didn’t want to investigate, he just wasn’t interested.

  He sat up and reached for the bar. Just his luck, the only alcohol was an open bottle of champagne, not the beer he really craved. With nothing else to drink, he poured two glasses and handed her one, hoping it’d keep her roving hands busy and off him until they got to her place.

  “Have a drink, Maria.” He took a long, deep swallow and blinked twice when the fizz went right to his brain.

  Maybe he just needed to drink himself into a stupor. It’d been a long time since he’d been on a bender. Get toasted, pass out, wake up in the morning with this whole night just one bad memory.

  “Peter, what’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing.” He drained the rest of his champagne, leaned forward and refilled his glass.

  “I can tell when you’re upset. Let me help.” Her hand ran up his leg, hovered on his inner thigh and drew long, lazy circles against his slacks. He managed one last swallow before she took the flute from his hand and set it in the drink holder to her left. Rolling to her side, she draped her leg over his, slid her hand inside his jacket and drew his earlobe into her mouth.

  He was trapped. That was how he felt, at least. Trapped with no way out and no good reason to go.

  Warm wetness met his ear. A deep, lust-filled purr radiated from her throat. Just as she was moving to slide onto his lap, the car braked hard, hurtling them both forward. They crashed into the seat in front of them, then hit the floor. Dazed, Pete glared up at the driver’s rearview mirror.

  “Sorry,” came a quiet voice from the front seat. “Red light.”

  He was just about to lay into the guy for not paying attention when he caught sight of familiar brown eyes peering back at him in the mirror, highlighted by streetlights shining in from the outside. Dark brown eyes. Like molten chocolate.

  He squinted to see clearer, sure his mind was playing tricks on him, but no, they were still there. Shimmering starbursts he’d looked into hundreds of thousands of times before.

  A long time ago.

  A lifetime ago.

  Tonight.

  He opened his mouth to speak, but the privacy glass went up before he could get the words out. The car lurched forward again, throwing him back once more.

  No way that just happened.

  “I can’t breathe…Peter.”

  It took a moment for Maria’s words to register, but when they did, he realized he had her pinned. He quickly eased up and pulled her to the seat. “Sorry. Are you hurt?”

  “No. I think I’m okay.” She glared at the dark window separating them from the driver. Color tinged her cheeks. Always the professional, though, she smoothed her hair and lifted her chin as if she hadn’t just been flat on her back, spread wide with her legs straight up in the air.

  Pete fixed his shirt in silence, more shaken than he liked. By the time he was done, the car was pulling to a stop in front of Maria’s building.

  “Well,” she said, reaching for her small handbag. “That was an interesting ride.”

  Interesting was an understatement. He waited while the chauffeur opened the door, then slid out of the vehicle and took Maria’s hand to help her out. “Wait here,” he said. “I won’t be long.”

  He caught up with Maria just as she was going inside. The bellman held the door, tipped his hat and smiled a friendly greeting as they headed for the bank of elevators. The double doors opened with a ping, but Maria didn’t make a move to step inside, and neither did he.

  “You’re not coming up, are you?” she finally asked.

  A pang of guilt shot through him at the hurt he thought he heard in her voice. “No.”

  She turned his direction and looked up with dark, un-surprised eyes. Eyes that were very calm and, luckily, not the slightest bit upset. “Who was she?”

  It was his turn to be shocked. “Who?”

  “The woman at the auction. The one you went running after. Who was she?”

  Nobody he’d ever talk about. Not with her. Not with anyone. “Just someone I thought I recognized.”

  “Hm.” She pursed her lips as if she didn’t believe him. Then her expression hardened. “I realize our relationship is not exclusive, Peter. But in the future, if you call me for an evening, I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t go off chasing other women.”

  Okay, he’d been wrong. She was pissed.

  “Maria—”

  “And another thing,” she said, stepping into the elevator and placing a hand on the door so it wouldn’t close. “Do not get between me and a client. Ever. Are we clear? Date or not, that’s not your call.”

  There was the hard-as-nails businesswoman he remembered. Take a punch, come back up swinging. She was good at that. It was one of the reasons she was so successful, a big reason he liked to hook up with her now and then. She was the exact opposite of what he used to be attracted to. It was also the reason she wouldn’t ever be anything more than an occasional lay.

  He stiffened, thankful he was on his way out and not up, not tempted in the slightest to argue with her on this point. “I’ll remember that. Good night, Maria.”

  To her credit, she didn’t try to stop him with any whimpering female apologies. No, not Maria. In that respect they were way too much alike.

  That thought churned in his head as he headed for the front door. Brisk air whooshed around him when he stepped out onto the street. Snow had begun to fall again in big white, chunky flakes that were quickly sticking to the sidewalk and vehicles parked along the road. At this time of night, and with the crappy weather, there were few pedestrians out and about. A single car passed by, tires squishing through the slush.

  He looked up to discover the limo was gone. Then had a moment of, what the hell?, only to realize the driver had pulled up about three car-lengths, probably to make room for another drop-off. Shivering in the cold air and growing increasingly frustrated by the minute, he crossed his arms over his chest and tucked his chin to block out the cold as he headed for the car.

  And as he moved, he thought of those eyes he’d seen tonight. So dark. So mesmerizing. So much like Kat’s.

  Even though he fought it, her perfect face flashed in his mind, tightening his chest like a vise. Memories of the first day he’d met her and all the mistakes he’d made before and since then ran through his head. And distracted by her now like he’d been from the beginning, he didn’t notice the shadowy figure step out from the alley until it was too late.

  CHAPTER THREE

  Six-and-a-half years earlier

  Valley of the Kings

  Pete hung at the back of the group and waited, trying to look entranced by a Middle Kingdom pottery shard resting on a workbench at his side. Worth maybe twenty bucks, he figured, if he could hock it. There was no market for crap like this, though, and so far he hadn’t seen anything even remotely exciting in the last four tours he’d signed up for.

  Christ, it was hot. He lifted the wide-brimmed hat he’d purchased from a street vendor in Cairo, wiped his brow and replaced the damn thing. It was late March—high tourist season in Egypt, when the temperatures were supposed to be bearable—but out here in the desert it was still hotter than sin. Pretending to be the tourist he wasn’t, he pulled his camera from his backpack and snapped a picture of the workbench and its smattering of useless artifacts. Then he lifted the lens and photographed the worksite. The tomb’s entrance. And lastly, the crew meandering around.

  This tomb would probably end up being a bust like all the others he�
��d visited so far this trip, but he’d learned long ago that sometimes a photo picked up things you missed on first examination.

  And if there was one thing he was meticulous about, it was his research.

  Unfortunately, that research had all been for crap so far. And his contacts were giving him shit as well. If he didn’t score big soon, he was gonna be flying coach back to Miami.

  “All right, ladies and gentlemen, if I can have your attention. The tour is about to begin.”

  Pete turned like the rest of the herd and looked toward the sun shelter where a woman dressed in khaki pants, a work shirt and boots was giving directions to the group in both Egyptian Arabic and English. He couldn’t see her face, shielded by a worn Mariners cap pulled low over her brow, but her voice had an unusual lilt that piqued his interest.

  One, it was American, and anytime there was an American woman working the site he was scanning, he had an immediate in. He hadn’t met one who’d been able to see through his bull.

  But two, and most importantly, she had the kind of voice that did it for him. Smooth and direct, but hinting of sinful sex all at the same time.

  He lifted the camera and snapped her picture. Maybe this tour would be different from the others after all.

  He shifted his pack to his back, looped his camera strap around his neck and moved the equipment so it hung down his chest. Then he slipped his hands into the pocket of his cargo pants and waited to be bored out of his mind.

  Except he wasn’t. As the tour progressed and their guide—a Katherine Meyer—showed the group of mostly American tourists the worksite and outlined the project’s goals, he found himself intently listening. The woman knew her stuff. She managed to make the dull artifacts they were unearthing sound mysterious and exciting. And when she hinted that the tomb could possibly be the last resting place of Nefertiti, she had the entire group ooh-ing and ah-ing like she was Jacques Cousteau about to un-cover buried treasure from the bottom of the ocean.

  Half an hour into the tour and he still hadn’t gotten a good look at her face, but he had the impression of dark eyes and hair, a slim body and graceful hands.