The shopkeeper began to wrap the artifact in a cloth, chattering on about something. He reached into a drawer and pulled out a sturdy string of rope to wrap the package.
Then he reached into another drawer and Olivia saw metal—a knife! With a quick spin he thrust it into the other man’s chest. Before the gunman could recover, the shopkeeper disarmed him and smashed his face with the package of granite.
Then he ran.
Olivia’s heart pounded with excitement and fear as she realized the man with the funerary cone was coming upstairs.
Toward her!
She searched frantically for a weapon and found a solid wooden table statue of a fishlike woman that she hoped would do the trick. He was nearly to the top of the steps.
She swung with all her might and hit her target forcefully in the nose. He staggered backward, reaching with one hand for the nearest wall. She dropped the statue, grabbed the artifact from his loosened grip, and pushed him in the chest.
He reached for her in defense and grabbed her hat and hair in one painful squeeze.
She swung the granite cone up and underneath, into his chin, wincing at the successful contact.
His mouth dropped tragically, his tongue bleeding openly. “Uh-thuh-thew,” he said, falling backward, his eyes rolling.
“I know. No honor among thieves.” Olivia quickly stashed the artifact in her bag.
Stafford stood on alert when she returned to the main room. “What’s going on?”
She tugged his arm. “We need to leave.”
He frowned.
“Stafford.” She squeezed his arm and got only hard muscle. She grabbed the back of his shirt and pulled. “We need to leave. Now.” Olivia was already turning, calling to the crewmen who were with them.
Samuel studied Olivia. She was flushed. And something else … Nervous. Guilty. Triumphant? Scared. Definitely scared. Hat missing. Wig askew. That wasn’t right. “What is it?” he asked.
“Trouble.”
“You find it everywhere, don’t you?”
“Lectures later, please,” she begged, obviously nervous.
Samuel followed her worried gaze as she turned to the stairs. Then to the entrance. Nothing. He shook hands with the furniture vendor and told him to pack his selected items to be picked up on his return trip. Samuel had a feeling there wasn’t going to be time today.
Olivia made her way out, bag secured under her arm. She poked her head out the entrance, then back at him. “Don’t rush. We should look innocent.”
“Most of us are,” he said.
They began their walk back to the carriage. They were halfway there when one of the crewmen turned at a man’s beckoning. He took the hat from the man and called to Olivia.
“Professor. Your hat.”
Samuel watched as Olivia froze and slowly turned. “You’re mistaken. That’s not mine.” Samuel saw the Algerian man watching. Olivia turned away.
“Are you sure?” the crewman asked.
Samuel took the hat and gave it back to the Algerian and explained. He knew damn well it was her cap. So did the Algerian. It matched her brown coat flawlessly, completing the nervous-professor look she had perfected. The Algerian didn’t take the hat back. He pulled a knife.
Samuel acted instantly. He stepped back, kicked the knife from the man’s grip and smashed his heel into his face.
The man fell over.
A hush fell over the market. Samuel looked up and swallowed. He nodded to the bystanders, who froze and stared silently. Then he turned to the wary eyes of Olivia and the men. They spun to escape the danger. Then stopped.
An array of men had formed a semicircle in front of them. A tough, barrel-chested Englishman stood in the center, looking arrogant, satisfied, and triumphant. A little like the way Olivia had looked earlier.
Samuel put his arm around her waist and moved her behind him as she inched backward nervously.
This was not good.
“The bag, if you will, sir.”
Samuel looked back to Olivia. She shook her head, still inching backward, never taking her eyes from the Englishman. Samuel knew what she was thinking. She was getting ready to run. That might be a good thing.
“There’s clearly been some mistake here,” Samuel offered.
“No mistake,” the Englishman said. “That man”—he pointed to Olivia—“took something that belongs to me.”
“It belongs to the British Museum, sir. And I intend to take it back there,” Olivia dared, peeking out from behind him.
“Not if you know what’s good for you,” the Englishman threatened with a wave to his men. They closed in. A bloodthirsty group, if Samuel had ever seen one. He had Olivia and five others. Without Olivia, it might have been an even fight. With her, who knew what handicap she would inflict on him?
He stepped to her side and spoke a few words in German. Thankfully she understood.
The Englishman lifted a gun. “You’d be wise to make this easy,” he said to Samuel. “The first bullet is for you.”
Olivia stood terrorized. Until Stafford grumbled at her.
“Nothing like having a good day of work disrupted by an arrogant British bastard.” Then he put on his best English accent and mocked the man aiming the gun. “The fuhhst bullet is fa you.” He turned back to Olivia. “I hate it when they say that. It’s so
English.”
Olivia nodded in dazed agreement. He’d lost his mind. The stress, likely. Nonplussed, she watched him turn back and realized he hadn’t lost his mind. He’d been reaching for the gun concealed on his side. In one graceful movement, he turned, his left arm uncurling across his right hip, straightening, then—
bang.
The Englishman wavered, then fell face forward. Stafford reached across his left hip for his second gun and shot another villain. The crew did the same, and in short order, the numbers were even.
The Algerians pulled knives. Stafford’s crew did the same, charging the attackers fearlessly. Olivia stood back, clinging to her bag. Until suddenly her feet left the ground.
“Stafford!” she screamed. The man voice was gone. Olivia bit down on an arm and got her head yanked back. Her glasses fell, her wig came off, and hair was loosed from her tightly wrapped chignon, revealing exactly who she was not.
An Algerian giant carried her and her bag away as she struggled futilely. Receding further from the fight, she forced herself to think, to become aware of her body and the position of the man carrying her. All his parts were big and muscled. She reached in front of her, over the bag.
A hand. Big fingers, but a possibility.
She dug her nails around the middle finger of his left hand and waited for an opportunity. For one brief moment, he reached to open a door, holding her with only one arm. She pulled the finger back as hard and fast as she could. There was a satisfying snap.
He dropped her in surprise.
She fell to her feet. And ran.
Stafford’s directions to her in German were to go to the shop with the yellow covering. She ran back out into the street and smack into Stafford. The collision knocked her down. She got up in time to see the giant barreling toward them.
“Watch out!” she warned. Olivia didn’t think there were many men on Earth bigger than Stafford. Unfortunately, he was about to meet one of them.
The first punch sent him staggering backward. Then, determined, Stafford stepped up and speedily administered three sharp strikes—two at the face, one in the gut.
The giant grunted with annoyance. Then advanced.
“Ah, hell.” Stafford seemed to reach for a weapon, but none could be found. “Ollie! Run!”
Olivia watched. She couldn’t leave and let him be pulverized. She looked for the others. They were engaged. It seemed as though some market locals had joined the brawl.
Gads. She was Stafford’s only hope!
The giant swung, and Stafford took one in the ribs. Another caught the side of his head. He kicked fiercely from the side and pushed the giant off balance. Another strong kick was aimed between his victim’s legs, but was blocked.
Olivia felt around the inside of her bag and repositioned the granite cone to one corner. She shadowed the giant from behind, waiting for the right moment. The two men exchanged fierce swings, Stafford ducking a few frightening ones. Then the giant seemed to need a breath. He huffed for air and stepped back. Olivia stepped forward, swung, and fell to her knees from the force of her move, the weight of the granite carrying her forward.
Crunch.
She grunted. The giant howled.
Bones he didn’t know about in his foot brought him new awareness. He looked down as she swung again at his kneecap.
Crunch.
This time the howl had a fury in it. The back of a hand swung, swiping at her, and sent her tumbling backward. He hobbled. She rolled away, bag secure, and staggered to her feet as Stafford grasped her arm and dragged her away—at full speed—toward the shop with the yellow awning.
“I told you to run!”
“I couldn’t let him spiflicate you after I periclitated you!”
Stafford stopped and stared. Then he laughed and planted a firm and fast kiss on her. “You’re absolutely right. I’m sorry.”
She smiled, gratified. And inspired. And her lips were a little tingly … She was still contemplating his apology when a tall, dark-skinned Algerian woman in thick gold jewelry greeted them. Stafford magically pulled a box from his breast pocket and handed it over.
“This is for you.” Then he planted a firm kiss on her lips as well. “We’re in trouble. I need your help. Can we hide here?”
“In the back,” she said. She glanced at Olivia and nodded. Her expression was neither a welcome nor a scowl. Nothing. The Algerian beauty turned back to Stafford and smiled in a way that was almost gentle. “We will miss your visits, Captain. Now hurry.” She touched his cheek and turned away.
Stafford dragged Olivia through the small maze of wares in the back of the shop. A worker looked up briefly, then went back to his job.
“You kissed her.”
“Yes.” He dragged her further back, looking for a spot to hide.
“You can’t kiss her right after you’ve kissed me!”
“I just did.”
“Well, it’s wrong.”
“What’s in the bag?”
“The funerary cone of the Librarian of Alexandria. The one stolen from me.”
“So you’ve almost succeeded in stealing it, eh?”
“At least I don’t steal kisses.”
“They’re a lot more harmless.”
She huffed.
“It was a last kiss,” he explained, yanking her sideways through a narrow path of stacked fabric.
“Why?” She sounded plaintive, even to her own ears.
“The woman in London. Remember?”
“Oh.” She mulled it over. “Well then, it wasn’t very good for a last kiss. Much too fast, and—”
“For her,” he clarified, wearied.
“Oh. Still …” She thought it through. “Wait. You’re making the final rounds?”
“Yep.”
“That is so … conceited.”
“No doubt,” he agreed.
She was outraged, offended for the poor woman in London who knew nothing about his women in every port. “How many more are left?”
He sighed with marked exhaustion. “Too many to count.”
“Where’s the crew?”
“Running for cover,” he said.
She punched his stomach.
He grunted. “What was that for?”
“That poor woman in London!”
“Right.” Sarcasm dripped.
She didn’t appreciate it. She punched him again.
He’d had enough. He caught her fist, turned and pressed it up against the wall, then pressed his body flush with hers, save for the lump where her bag intruded.
His head lowered to hers, his mouth hovering above her mouth, his breath hot. “Hit me one more time and I will strip off your pants and whip your behind until it’s raw. And I don’t care who sees.” He grabbed a fistful of hair with his free hand and made her look at him. “You got that, Lady Olivia Yates?”
“Yes,” she breathed. “I got that.”
“Good.”
Good? The thought of being stripped suddenly did sound rather … stimulating. Gads! Her heart pounded. When did this happen? The mere thought of being naked next to him made her body flush. She couldn’t take her eyes from his mouth. Her skin became hot. If she stretched on her toes … But no. She looked up again. Into his eyes. The warm gold melted her bones. The thought of kissing him again had lingered on her mind for some time. She had worked out a plan to take a stroll on deck and put her visualization to the test, but it had been very clean and scientific in her mind. A study in pleasure. Not this … this hot, messy, emotion-filled stirring that she had now. This was not good. Not at all.
But she wanted it anyway.
Her body swayed into him. It seemed all the invitation he needed.
“Dammit, Olivia. Not now.”
His voice sounded like she felt. Husky, raspy, pained.
Hungry.
“Maybe we can wait it out here,” she murmured.
Then, as if he couldn’t stand it anymore, he possessed her lips. Slowly, thoroughly, completely. Drinking in every taste he could find. She responded in kind, dropping her bag carefully to the ground and wrapping her arms tightly around him. She felt his hardness, his entire body crushing her, and that other part, between his legs, touching an intimate part of her through her breeches. She arched, pressing closer.
Very stimulating.
He lifted his head, his thumb brushing near her lips.
Then, rip!
She yelped as the mustache came off and was tossed to the side.
“Sorry. Didn’t feel right.” He gently caressed his lips over the red area, soothing her pained whimpers. “That’s better. Soft. Lovely.”
Olivia clung to him. She wanted this. Desperately. To touch him, kiss him, be held by him. It felt so good. She felt so alive. Her hands stroked over his shoulders and down his muscular arms. He was raw. A rare combination of earth and sea. Grounded, but aware. In tune to life around them. In tune with her and her desire for him.
She gasped in shock and pleasure when he hooked an arm under her knee and pulled her more tightly against him. Her head fell back and he plundered her neck, nipping gently, causing tremors throughout her being. She clutched him, unconsciously begging for more, her hands raking down his chest, stopping at the discovery of hard nipples under the pads of her fingers. She squeezed them, surprised when he groaned in her ear. She squeezed, and again a husky moan escaped before he grabbed both hands and flattened her completely against the wall.