The Sheikh's Scheming Sweetheart Page 5

  “That is thin evidence indeed,” Ramin said, shaking his head.

  “But enough to bring Terrance Peterson to Ksatta-Galan looking for his burial site,” Vanessa said, shaking her head. “Honestly, the sooner biblical archeology is dismissed as a serious subject of study, the better.”

  “I take it you’re not religious, then?” Ramin guessed.

  “No,” Vanessa said, then suddenly worried she’d offended him. “Are you?”

  “I do not actively practice, though my family has been Muslim for centuries.”

  “I’m sorry for…” Vanessa trailed off, cringing in embarrassment.

  “There’s no need to apologize,” Ramin said at once. “I understand your frustration, even if I don’t quite agree with you.”

  “So, you agree with biblical archeology?” Vanessa asked, frowning.

  “Well, first of all,” Ramin began. “I think the kind of people who could, in this day and age, be pursuing the Curse of Ham as serious scholarly evidence should spend more time reading their scriptures and less time trying to force them to conform to their own warped beliefs. I have read the Christian Bible, and I think there are some critical passages about how we are all God’s children and meant to love one another that Mr. Peterson must have missed.”

  Vanessa laughed, licking some hummus off her thumb. “You’re telling me.”

  “But I do not think that religious scriptures should be discounted as a source of valuable historical information,” Ramin went on. “Certainly, it must be more difficult to approach things objectively when dealing with history that has personal, spiritual significance. But the Abrahamic scriptures are ancient documents that, even in their newest and most heavily altered forms, reveal critical information about the cultures, beliefs, and practices of ancient civilizations. When they are treated as the palimpsest of historical and cultural information they are, rather than flawless statements of literal fact, they are an invaluable resource.”

  “I suppose I can’t argue with that,” Vanessa admitted a bit reluctantly. “It’s hard to remember that when I’m constantly faced with people like Peterson.”

  “I also don’t think there’s anything necessarily wrong with searching for the miraculous,” Ramin went on. “For people as passionate about their spirituality as we are about history, why wouldn’t they want to seek more, learn more, hope to find the indisputable truth of what they already believe so sincerely?

  “You know, with faith and certainty, that Amanirenas is out there. You believe in her story, even when others tell you that it’s a fool’s errand. What wouldn’t you give to bring back just a shred of proof to show those who had doubted you? That passion, that belief against all sense and all known fact, is what drives you. It’s what drives all scientists. Nothing can remain unknown forever because, somewhere, there is the person who believes an answer exists and will do whatever it takes to find it.”

  Vanessa listened, a little awed by his fervor, and realized with sudden embarrassing certainty just how badly she wanted to kiss him. She shook it off, looking away.

  “It’s starting to cool off again,” she said. “We should probably get moving.”

  “You’re right,” Ramin said, picking up the wine bottle from between them. “There’s a little of this left. Do you want it?”

  “Oh, please,” Vanessa said at once, reaching for it. He held it out of the way again, laughing as she pouted. He got to his feet and suddenly pulled off his shirt, dropping it into the sand as he ran out into the shallows of the spring.

  “Come and wrestle me for it!” he demanded, the sun gleaming on his bronze skin, water running over the sculpted muscles of his stomach. Vanessa felt her face flush red and she looked away quickly, trying to master herself.

  “No, thank you,” she said. “I’m suddenly not thirsty, actually.”

  She began busily packing up their lunch as Ramin, laughing, came back out of the water.

  “Fine, you don’t want to fight for it,” he said, darting in front of her, still wet and stripped to the waist. “I’ll trade it to you.”

  “What for?” Vanessa asked suspiciously.

  “A kiss,” he suggested, confirming her suspicions.

  Vanessa scoffed incredulously and turned away, hurrying to her own horse.

  “I’m sorry,” he said at once, following her. “I’ve offended you. I saw the way you were looking at me and I thought—”

  “I’m not going to be one of your tabloid articles, Your Highness,” Vanessa said stiffly, trying to convince herself as much as him. “I’m here to work, nothing more.”

  “Of course,” Ramin said, looking a little hurt. “I just thought—”

  “I’ve seen what happens to women who get involved with you,” Vanessa said, untying her horse. “And I am not interested. I should have guessed that’s what you were after from the beginning.”

  “Vanessa!” Ramin said sharply, offended now. He grabbed her by the arm, turning her to face him. “You would really believe those magazine articles about me before you even get to know me?”

  She jerked her arm out of his hand, angry at him for grabbing her and angry at herself for her inability to be honest with herself.

  “If all you wanted from this expedition was a quickie,” she said, swinging onto her horse, “then I would rather search alone!”

  She spurred her horse on before she could think better of it, galloping away. She heard him shouting after her, telling her that it was too dangerous to be out in the desert alone, but she didn’t dare look back lest she lose her nerve. This was for the best. She couldn’t trust herself around him. And if they found the tomb, she wasn’t certain she’d be able to lie to him about her intentions.

  Chapter Eight

  She’d left the compass with him, but she had her map and a reasonably good idea of where she was going. She urged her horse in that direction, eyes open for the sign of buried structures.

  For a moment, she thought she saw something, an unnatural edge in the dunes. She pulled her horse up short. Too short, after a long gallop. It reared, whinnying loudly, and threw its inexperienced rider. Vanessa hit the sand with a shout, and by the time she’d scrambled back to her feet, the horse was running away from her at full speed, leaving nothing but dust in its wake.

  Vanessa sat down in the sand with a defeated plop, suddenly realizing just how badly she had messed up. Getting out of this desert was going to be an ordeal. At least the horse would be all right, she reasoned. It was a desert breed more than capable of finding its way home. Unlike her.

  First, she made a point to check the ridge she’d seen, but as it turned out, she’d lost her horse for nothing but a natural stone formation under the sand. Brilliant. She was going to die in the desert for a rock.

  She threw a bit of a tantrum then, kicking at the sand and yelling at the sky. But she quickly decided that was pointless, and pulling out the map she’d thankfully kept in her pocket and not in the saddlebags, she picked a direction and started walking.

  The sun sank lower and the sky caught fire, boiling red and orange flames as heat rose over the sand. She trudged on, exhausted and hot, having left most of her water with the horse. Still, it wouldn’t be more than a day’s walk back to the road if she didn’t get lost. And even if she did, when the horse turned up without her, they’d send a search team looking for her. She’d be fine. Probably.

  The sun was hanging off the edge of the horizon by bloody fingertips when she heard laughter and voices in the distance. Exhausted and sunburned, Vanessa followed the sound mindlessly, not caring who it was so long as they could give her a drink and a ride home. She climbed a dune and, from its peak, recognized where she was in an instant.

  One piece of desert tended to look more or less like another, but this piece of desert had been the culmination of her life’s work and her most disappointing failure. And with the tents and tools of an expedition set up across it, it was unmistakable. Her disbelief only grew as she realized who was sitt
ing at the fire, right in the same place she’d set hers three years ago.

  “Peterson,” she said as she stumbled up to the circle. “What in God’s name are you doing here?”

  “Vanessa?” Peterson said in surprise. Renée Dubois sat next to him along with a handful of other men Vanessa knew to be colleagues and mercenary muscle hired to guard the expedition and barrel their way into stubbornly sealed tombs. These kinds of men had no respect for what they unearthed, and were the type to cheerfully destroy most of a site to tear out the parts they thought were more shiny or exciting.

  “Goodness, you look like a boiled lobster,” Peterson said, laughing. “You really did just walk into the desert, didn’t you? And it looks like you forgot even the trowel. Honestly, what were you thinking? Come and sit down; I’m dying to hear an explanation.”

  “What are you doing at this site?” Vanessa asked, ignoring his barbs. “I thought you were looking for Cush.”

  “I recently acquired some new information to suggest a relevant burial site might be in this area,” Peterson said coolly. “I thought it would be poetic justice to begin our search where you were forced to end yours. Don’t you think it’s just a perfect symmetry?”

  “What new information?” Vanessa demanded. She’d entirely forgotten her exhaustion in the face of the furious suspicion that was growing in her chest.

  “Have a seat, dear, and I’ll tell you all about it,” Peterson said mildly, waving a porter over to bring Vanessa water as she reluctantly took a seat across the fire from them. “Taggert, go get one of the jeeps ready. Miss Hawkins will need a ride back into town. Oh, and do put your head in the old man’s tent. He’ll want to see this.”

  One of the mercenaries—a large, intimidating man with sandy blond hair—stood and shuffled off towards the vehicles parked at the edge of the camp. A porter handed Vanessa a canteen of water which she drank half of immediately in one long gulp.

  “Well,” Peterson began. “You know how I prefer to continue the work of others rather than breaking new ground myself.”

  “You mean you like to steal other people’s research and take credit for it,” Vanessa said, scrubbing water from her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “Allegedly,” Peterson said, raising an eyebrow. “None of those accusations have ever been proven.”

  Because Peterson Senior paid the victims off, Vanessa thought sullenly. But she just glared at Peterson Junior, waiting for an explanation.

  “But I recently became engaged in a rather rare corner of the field,” Peterson went on. “Which, as you know, precious few people are working on. I had no choice but to start from scratch, which I’m sure you can agree is tedious beyond all bearing. I must admit, I wasn’t making much progress.”

  “It might have helped if you weren’t looking for a myth,” Vanessa pointed out.

  “But searching for myths is so much more rewarding, wouldn’t you say?” Peterson leaned forward with a cold smile, the fire making his features look manic. “Say you’re looking for the grave of Cush, stepping stone to Noah himself, and people will throw money at you. They’ll clamor for the opportunity to follow your expedition with documentary cameras and write a dozen articles about the mere possibility. If you tell people you’re looking for some dusty old queen who no-one cares about, you’ll end up, well, like you, Miss Hawkins. With no funding, no respect, and your life’s work unfinished. Isn’t that right, Abraham?”

  Vanessa looked up in shock at the name. Taggert was returning from the vehicles and Professor Van Rees was beside him, looking at Vanessa with an expression of shock and shame.

  “Abe,” Vanessa murmured, heart aching with the betrayal. “You’re working with them?”

  “Old Abraham was out of work and out of capital,” Peterson gloated. “This close to a job washing floors, until I made him an offer.”

  “I had no choice, Vanessa,” Abraham said, shoulders heavy with regret. “I had nothing left. I just wanted to find what I’ve spent my whole life looking for. If I can just see Amanirenas’s tomb once, I don’t care what it’s called in the history books.”

  “A noble sentiment,” Peterson said facetiously. “And he’s really been surprisingly useful. He found the map, after all. And when we couldn’t translate it, he was the one who suggested sending it to you. We would never have found the site without that.”

  Vanessa’s eyes widened as she remembered Peterson, standing over her work, slipping his phone into his pocket as she walked in. He wasn’t just stealing her expedition, he was stealing her work directly. And Abraham had helped him do it.

  “Come now, Miss Hawkins,” Peterson said. “We should get you back to civilization.”

  He began moving towards the jeep, and Vanessa, crushed, stood to follow him. She didn’t know what to say to Abraham. She could only stare at him, her eyes wrought with disappointment. The professor had no answer for her either, except to look away, ashamed.

  Vanessa turned her back on him, following Peterson to the jeep. He climbed into the back, Taggert in the driver’s seat, and she climbed in beside him, stiff and shaking with impotent fury. What could she do? They’d taken everything. Peterson would find the tomb before her and declare it whatever he wanted it to be with no regard for the actual contents. He probably wasn’t above fabricating evidence if he needed to.

  Even if Vanessa went to every authority she could about the theft, Peterson’s father would cover it up. It would take a decade of work to convince even the archeological community that Peterson’s work was a sham, and nothing would ever change the popular conception, especially if Peterson really found a way to tie it back to Noah himself.

  The jeep rolled across the sand in silence, Vanessa’s stomach rolling with distress. Everything she’d worked for was gone. And Professor Van Rees, a man who’d been like a father to her all her academic career…

  They’d been driving for a while before Peterson gestured to Taggert to stop the jeep.

  “I really do have to thank you,” Peterson said as the jeep slowed to a stop at the top of a dune. “We would have been quite stuck without your help on that map. Renée is excellent, but she can’t hold a candle to your obsession, I’m afraid.”

  “Why have we stopped?” Vanessa asked, tired of his posturing. “You’ve won. I just want to go home.”

  “Most of all,” Peterson continued without acknowledgment as Taggert climbed out of the car, coming around to her door and pulling it open. “I have to thank you for stumbling into my camp tonight. It really wouldn’t have been complete without getting to do this.”

  Vanessa started to ask what he was talking about, but Taggert grabbed her by her shirt and dragged her out of the car, throwing her down into the sand.

  “When I find Cush and then Noah,” Peterson preened, “no one will ever be able to accuse me of riding my father’s coattails again. I’m going to be in every history book from here to judgment day, and you—well, ideally you’ll never even make it out of this desert. Goodnight, Miss Hawkins.”

  Vanessa stared, shocked beyond all reaction, as Taggert climbed back into the driver’s seat. By the time she was on her feet, they were already pulling away, and though she ran after them she had no hope of catching up. As she fell to her knees, giving up, a cold night wind swept over the sand, erasing even the tracks of the tires.

  People underestimate just how cold the desert gets at night. The sand holds no heat, and once the sun disappears, temperatures drop below zero with shocking speed. Vanessa went from overheated and sunburned to shaking with cold.

  She stumbled on, following roughly the direction the jeep had gone in. She tried at first to keep an eye on the stars to ensure her direction by them, but she’d already spent half the day walking and overheated, and now she was freezing and more tired than she’d felt in her life. She soon lost focus and could only blindly walk forward, hoping she’d find the road eventually.

  Part of her almost didn’t care; perhaps she should just lie down in the sand
and give up. What options would she have if she did make it out of this desert? Give up the work she’d been ready to spend her whole life on? Keep at it, knowing it likely wouldn’t be vindicated until she was Abraham’s age, if ever? Pick some other lost cause Peterson could just as easily snatch from under her?

  She stumbled and nearly went down, raising her head with effort. There was a light in the distance, glimmering on the other side of the dunes. She hardened her jaw and straightened her back. No. She was going to take her work back. She would stop Peterson, one way or another.

  She headed towards the light, determination filling her anew. The light, as she drew closer, turned out to be a palace.

  Had it been daylight, she would have called it a mirage. It rose out of the sand like it had been scooped up from some richer place and dropped here. Palm trees and ferns grew green and lush over the high stone walls, and towers topped with onion domes stretched towards the starry skies. It glowed with golden light like something from a fairy tale.

  Vanessa stumbled towards it, a little dazed by the sight, only to be stopped abruptly by a gun.

  She stumbled backward, hands in the air, as a guard pushed his gun into her face, shouting at her in high-speed Arabic. Vanessa was much better at written Arabic than spoken, and scrambled to remember the words to say that she was harmless and lost.

  A second guard joined the first, both of them yelling over each other as they interrogated Vanessa, making their words all the more difficult to understand. She tried to blurt out an explanation as one of them grabbed her by the arm.

  “Vanessa!”

  The guards looked up at the shout from behind them as a familiar figure appeared in the palace gates. Sheikh Ramin hurried towards them, pushing the guards away to pull Vanessa into a tight embrace. Stunned, Vanessa just stood frozen in his arms until he let go.