‘I see.’ He studied the mural, a faint smile curving his mouth, and Joanna felt suddenly uncomfortable as she guessed what he was thinking; most of the figures were draped in a white cloth that had been painted to appear almost transparent. ‘Rum lot, those ancient Egyptians,’ he remarked; he had removed his sunglasses, and in the glimmer of the torchlight she could see the glint of mocking humour in his dark eyes. ‘Did they dress like that all the time?’
She forced herself to return him a long, cool look— it was rather disconcerting to have him standing so close, so tall and wide-shouldered and so…uncompromisingly male. ‘Most of the murals of that particular period appear to show a similar style of clothing,’ she responded with frosty dignity. ‘Would you like to see the burial-chamber?’ He nodded, and she shone the torch-beam across the floor. ‘Be careful here—there’s a robbertrap. I’ll cross first, and then hold the torch for you.’
The trap was a deep pit that opened right across the passage. Investigation had revealed it to be about twenty feet deep, but as a deterrent to grave-robbers it clearly hadn’t been too successful—the burial-chamber, when they had reached it, had long ago been looted of its treasures.
They had placed a plank across it, weighed down with sandbags, to make a bridge, and she skipped nimbly across, and then waited for him to follow her. The beam of the torchlight threw his shadow against the far wall, huge and menacing, and she felt her mouth go suddenly dry. They were all alone down here, and the nearest village was five miles away…
She stepped back quickly as he reached her side of the plank-bridge, hoping he wouldn’t hear her heartbeat pounding. ‘This is the burial-chamber,’ she announced, her voice sounding oddly unsteady to her own ears. ‘We found the remains of the sarcophagus, and a few bits of the canopic jars, but all the rest had been stolen.’
‘A pity.’
Was it just her imagination, the way he was looking at her? She retreated a little further into the chamber. ‘Unfortunately, all the other tombs we’ve found so far have been in the same state,’ she rushed on. ‘We were hoping to at least find something that would identify the occupants, but unless we can find a sarcophagus still intact it doesn’t seem very likely.’
‘How many more tombs are there?’ he enquired. His tone was quite neutral, but the way he was standing there, his wide shoulder propped against the wall, gave her the uncomfortable feeling that he was barring her way out.
‘I…I don’t know for sure. We’ve found nine so far, but there could be more.’
‘We…?’
She hesitated, wondering if it was quite wise to let him know how unprotected she was out here. But he would find out anyway soon enough. ‘Just…myself and my assistant, Annette.’
He arched one dark eyebrow in surprised question. ‘Just two women?’
‘Yes.’ She felt a flood of heat rush through her. ‘We’re perfectly capable of undertaking a project like this.’
‘Oh, I’m sure you are.’ There was no mistaking that faint hint of mockery. ‘But isn’t it rather heavy work?’
‘Not with modern equipment.’ She was beginning to find his proximity a little too much to cope with. Mustering as much dignity as she could, she moved past him, back towards the plank-bridge. ‘Well, that’s all there is to see, I’m afraid…’ And if he so much as tried to touch her, he would find out just how strong six months of humping great big stones around had made her.
But he made no untoward move, merely following behind her as she stepped across the plank-bridge and scrambled up the slope to emerge into the bright glare of the Egyptian sun. She drew in a long, deep breath, feeling a little foolish now for letting him unsettle her like that for what had really been no reason.
‘Well…As I said, all the others we’ve found so far are in much the same condition.’ She felt much calmer now—it must have just been an unexpected attack of claustrophobia. ‘But we’ve started to dig lower down— we think there may be another level below this one.’
‘And how long would it take you to find out?’
She glanced up hopefully, searching his face, but all she could see was her own reflection in his sunglasses. ‘Oh, about…three months,’ she suggested tentatively. ‘We’d have to finish by the end of June anyway—it would be much too hot to carry on by then.’
‘I see.’ He shook his head with what she could almost have taken for genuine regret. ‘Well, I’m sorry, but I won’t be able to give you that long. We’ve a contract to meet. We start blasting in three weeks.’
She stared at him in startled horror. ‘Blasting? You mean you’re going to use dynamite!’
That oddly intriguing mouth quirked into a mocking smile. ‘Well, what did you think we were going to use?’ he taunted. Picks and shovels?’
She returned him an angry glare, not amused by his humour. ‘You’re just going to blow everything up?’ she demanded, blazing.
‘Well, not quite as drastic as that,’ he conceded. ‘But modern quarrying methods are pretty efficient.’
‘It’s nothing but licensed vandalism!’ she flared. ‘You’re just going to destroy all that history…’
‘The decision isn’t mine,’ he pointed out drily. ‘It’s the Egyptian government’s. The country needs the foreign exchange that exporting the ore will bring in. You can’t eat history, or put it on your kid’s feet instead of a pair of shoes.’
She felt her fist clench. He was perfectly right, of course—but she’d be damned if she was going to admit it. ‘Well, since I have so little time, I’d better not waste any more of it,’ she rapped, a bite in her voice. ‘Good morning, Mr Marshall.’
That cynical mouth curved into a mocking smile. ‘Thank you for showing me around,’ he drawled. ‘I shall probably be seeing you again, Miss…? Or is it Mrs?’ he added, deliberately provocative.
‘Ms.’ Why, three years after her divorce, was she still so defensive? ‘Holloway.’
He acknowledged the stilted introduction with a slight inclination of his head. ‘I see. Well, Ms Holloway, it’s been very pleasant meeting you. I’m sorry my arrival signals the end of your work here—I can imagine how frustrating that is for you.’
She found that he was holding out his hand, expecting her to shake it, but with a sudden rush of embarrassment she remembered how rough her own hands were from all the work and neglect she had been subjecting them to for the past six months, how damaged her nails.
‘Yes, well…’ Instinctively she tucked her hands out of sight behind her back. ‘There’s nothing much I can do about it, is there?’
‘No, I’m afraid there isn’t.’ Again that mocking smile. ‘Goodbye, then.’
‘Goodbye.’
She watched him go, her mind a tangle of confusion. Why had she acted like that down in the tomb—like some prim little schoolroom miss? Had she been too long out here in the desert, that she had forgotten how to respond when a man showed her even a spark of admiration? He must have thought she was crazy.
Or more likely, she reflected ruefully, that she wasn’t accustomed to it. She twined one finger around the strand of hair that had slipped from beneath her hat, feeling the rough, dry ends; she had neglected it terribly these past couple of months—out here in this hot, dusty climate she really ought to take better care of it. And her hands were just awful—she couldn’t remember the last time she had given herself a manicure.
Not