Relentless - By Cherry Adair Page 0,2

chocolaty eyes—goddamn it. The woman was as tempting to his palate as she was to his senses. Enough of this crap. Redirecting his attention, he picked up the small box. It was light in weight and heavy in ominous undertones.

For fuck’s sake. Sand. Desert. Egypt. The goddamned trifecta. And then—

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A superfecta!

The numbers scrolling through his head made him set the box on the desk. Not quite as fast as if it had burned his fingers with a flaming blowtorch set on high, but close enough.

Not Egypt. But only slightly less repugnant. “This comes from London.”

“No,” she assured him firmly as she resumed her seat. “It’s from the tomb of Queen Cleopatra, which is somewhere in Egypt, I believe.”

He flicked open the lid. “It’s empty.”

“I know. Whatever was in it was lost. Can you use your superpower to find where it came from?”

Thorne picked up his GPS, although he didn’t need confirmation. He punched in the coordinates he was seeing in his head, then turned the device to his new client. “The Natural History Museum, London.”

She bit her lip, her expression pained. “Can’t you go further back than that?”

There was an imperceptible shadow dancing right behind the London GPS location. Try as he might, Thorne couldn’t read it. “Apparently not.”

Her shoulders slumped. “Damn. Damn. Damn.”

“No charge.”

Her gaze shot to his face. She was not amused. “Well, of course not. I hired Lodestone to find a tomb, not a museum.”

“Then bring me something from the tomb and I’ll tell you where it is.” He drummed his fingers across the tabletop. If he couldn’t shoot something, was it too early for a drink?

“If I could do that then I wouldn’t need you to find it, now would I? This is all I have.” Her expressive eyes welled.

He checked the clock. Noon? Good enough. There was a bar a block over. “Are you going to cry?”

“Maybe. Yes.” She sniffed. A tiny tear, magnified by the lenses of her glasses, shimmered on the edge of her long, dark lashes. “Probably.” It fell, glistening as it slid over her rounded cheek, beneath the frame. “This was pretty much my last option. I’m so disappointed and frustrated.”

Who wasn’t? They only came to Lodestone when they were desperate enough to try anything—even something as out of the park as sixth sense locating. “Why’s this tomb so important? Are you an amateur archaeologist?”

The answer he wanted to hear was no, she had nothing to do with archaeology and was just curious. Or it was a bet—or any bloody thing that wasn’t related to who and what he knew she was about to tell him. The tears were about to fall in earnest, if that trembling lower lip was any indication, and she looked so forlorn, Thorne figured he’d give her a minute before shuffling her out of his office and sending her on her way. He should call his shrink and report progress. Six months ago he would’ve kicked her out in the first thirty seconds. Yes, progress indeed. The desk job was making him soft. Christ.

“My father’s an archaeologist.” The tear dripped off her stubborn chin, leaving a shiny trail on her cheek. “August Magee.”

And there it was. Dots all joined and tied in a big fucking red bow. Which was why, he was damned sure, his new boss and soon to be ex–good friend, Zak Stark, had given him this assignment just before conveniently hieing his arse to some jungle in South America for months on end to build an adventure camp for pre-parolees.

The tie-in between Miss Magee, London, and Egypt was so blatantly obvious as to be laughable. Too bad he was rarely amused.

Thorne’s father was one of the professor’s largest benefactors. What he knew of the professor was precious little. But he did know the man liked his booze, and had a propensity to lie. Did she know who his father was? “Go on.”

“The tomb of Cleopatra has been my father’s life’s work for over twenty years.” Tears apparently forgotten, she was now all earnest sincerity. “He finally discovered its location three months ago.”

“He’s ‘discovered’ that tomb—what? Five or six times?” Thorne pointed out dryly.

“Oh, damn,” she sighed, drawing his disinterested gaze to her small, plump breasts. “You really do know of him. Seven times. But the seventh was—”

He redirected his attention. She had a soft, delectable mouth slicked with glossy pink lipstick, and just looking at those shiny lips made him hard. And annoyed. Thorne wasn’t in the market for a lover at the