Mariah Stewart - Last Breath

He’d ordered an American breakfast-eggs, toast, potatoes-and a pot of coffee, and once again sat on the balcony to eat. After weeks traveling from desert to mountain and to desert once again, the view of the Atlantic had been as welcome as an oasis. He thought about borrowing a boat from Cyrus. He’d drop anchor in one of the coves and dive in and swim until his arms and legs wore out, then he’d climb onto the boat and return to the marina.

His eyes had strayed to the courtyard, and to the flash of white that moved to the corner table. He’d recognized the hat, white and flowing like the dress she’d worn the day they’d almost met. Smiling, he’d put down his coffee cup and leaned over the railing.

“Please be you,” he’d said aloud. “Take off that silly hat so I can see if it’s you.”

The hat remained on her head, so he grabbed his sunglasses and headed for the door. On his way across the lobby, he ran into a Jordanian he’d once worked with, one of his old field contacts. Trapped, he’d chatted politely, even while he watched a swoop of white move from the courtyard to the gate and disappear beyond the Villa’s outer wall.

He’d caught Magda’s eye, and from the gleam he saw there, he knew that the woman in white was the woman he’d sought, and he knew, too, that she would be back.

“You win, Magda,” he’d said as she passed by on her way to the kitchen. “What time is dinner?”

“The corner table in the courtyard at seven-thirty. Perhaps you will have company.” She poked him in the ribs. “Then again, perhaps not.”

She was already there at the table when he arrived, sipping water with a slice of lemon, looking as fresh as a flower after a gentle rain. She’d looked up at him with eyes the color of cornflowers when he approached the table, and all he could think of to say was a most unoriginal “Hi.”

She’d extended a hand to him, and he’d smiled as he took it. Her appearance was very feminine and soft, despite her casual attire-khakis and a cotton shirt-and total lack of makeup. Her hands were hands that worked in the field, tough and calloused, the nails short and devoid of polish and she was deeply tanned from months in the desert. Images of every other woman he’d ever known flashed through his brain, but none were like her. She appeared to face the world without thought of fashion or embellishment, or even-he couldn’t help but notice-a professional haircut. Hers looked as if she’d cut it herself.

Later, he’d been hard-pressed to recall much of the conversation, except that they’d talked about their families. He’d been surprised to learn that she, too, had lost a brother, but other than that, for the most part, he only remembered her eyes and the sound of her laughter.

Fifteen minutes into dinner, he’d been trying to think of a way to make the evening last beyond the meal when they’d been interrupted. A message had been left for him at the front desk: a meeting he’d expected to attend the following day had been moved forward and would take place in one hour. He’d have to leave the Villa immediately in order to make it on time. There was no question that he’d keep the appointment; it was the reason he was in North Africa. He’d had to make his apologies to Daria and cut their evening short.

He’d given her his card before he left, and asked her to call him when she was back in the States, or when she was planning on coming back to the Villa.

“Call that number and leave a message, it will get to me,” he’d told her. “Anytime. Day or night. I’ll get the message.”

It had been with great reluctance that he’d left her there at the table, alone, on a beautiful Moroccan night.

He’d really expected that in order to see her again, he’d have to travel back to the Villa. But wonder of wonders, here she was, almost in his own backyard, just a little over an hour away. That she’d kept the card all these months, that she’d called him when she needed help, satisfied him deeply.

She remembered me, and she called.

He couldn’t remember the last time anything had pleased him more.

Daria stood by the window in Louise’s office and watched the sleek sports car park in the first visitor’s spot. Even before the door opened, she knew who was behind the wheel. The car looked like the man-sleek and dark, sexy and dangerous.

He stepped out and looked around the campus as if to get his bearings, one arm leaning on the top of the car. He wore dark glasses and a shirt open at the neck, well-fitting jeans, and had a light-colored sport jacket slung over one shoulder.

He looks like a government agent, she thought as she stared shamelessly. Or a spy.

“…wondering if you’d had a chance to look through those journals of your great-grandfather’s,” Louise was saying.

“Oh. Yes.” Daria reluctantly turned from the window. “I did. Almost all of them, actually. It was quite fascinating, almost like being there.”

“That’s what I thought, too, when I read them. I was thinking if once we get the exhibit open, perhaps your family might give approval to have them published. In the hands of the right publisher, we might have a bestselling series.”

“Well, the reading is certainly interesting enough, I agree. I don’t know who you would have to get permission from, though.” Daria frowned. “I don’t know who actually owns them. It may be the university. If they were part of his estate, and the estate was left to the school…”

“We can have that looked into. I’d still want the blessing of the McGowan family even if Howe does legally own them. Maybe we could include a forward from you,” she said thoughtfully. “The bridge between one generation and another. Perhaps your father would want to contribute, as well.”

Louise was about to say something else when there was a knock on the half-opened door.

“Dr. Burnette?” The tall man filled the doorway. “I’m Connor Shields.”

Louise walked to the door to greet him.

“Yes, I’m Louise Burnette. Please, come in, Agent Shields. We’ve been waiting for you.”

“Good to meet you.” Connor shook her hand and smiled, then looked beyond her.

“And you know Dr. McGowan,” Louise stepped aside as Daria made her way across the office.

“Daria, it’s good to see you again.” Connor took her hand and held it warmly between both of his.

“Thank you for coming right away, Connor.” Daria cleared her throat. “Especially since it’s Sunday.”

“When I said anytime,” he lowered his voice, “I meant anytime. ”

“I…we appreciate it.” A flush crept up from beneath Daria’s collar to her cheeks.

“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” Louise gestured toward the chairs near the window.

Connor let go of Daria’s hand, and waited until both women sat before seating himself.

He is very well-mannered, for an American, Daria recalled Magda saying, and the hint of a smile crossed her lips.

“Daria explained your situation on the phone,” Connor told Louise. “Frankly, I have to admit I’m having a hard time understanding how such valuable objects could have been kept here all these years, yet no one bothered to check on them.”

“It isn’t so unusual, Connor.” Daria touched his arm. “There are many, many museums that have locked rooms with locked crates that haven’t seen the light of day in fifty or a hundred years. New objects are acquired and the older acquisitions are moved farther back into the storage area-often a basement or warehouse. Curators are hired and fired, and sometimes their records are misplaced. Acquisitions are often forgotten over time.”

“And here at Howe,” Louise added, “in the last fifty years, dinosaurs became more popular than ancient cultures. As I mentioned to Daria, the last curator’s interests lay in the area of American natural history. Professor McGowan’s finds, along with those of another archaeologist who led an expedition about the same time, were locked away and pretty much forgotten as other items were acquired and put on display.”