“We can talk here.” Leila took a step back. “I’m listening.”
“No. Not here. Not now.” He swung his leg over his horse’s back.
“You can’t—” Leila’s protest was cut short when her forearms were seized from behind. She screamed as the men forced her hands behind her back, kicking her legs and twisting her torso until one of the thugs shoved a wad of cloth into her mouth and pulled a hood over her head.
Chapter Eighteen
Leila groaned. Her head pounded. Her arms and back and legs ached. She forced her eyes open, her gut churning with confusion. It took a moment for her vision to adjust to the dim room.
The only light came from the arched ogee window where a burgundy-colored curtain blocked the sun from overheating the already stifling space. Birds chirped outside, and she could hear soft footsteps and voices— none of which she recognized.
A dresser stood against the opposite wall. A chaise lounge under the window invited her to sit back and relax with a thick book. Leila tore her eyes away and examined the bed she sat on. The covers were smooth silk of a deep purple, adorned with gold embroidery in an arabesque design. She longed to trace the swirls and flowers.
The thumping in her chest began to settle. Where was she? Her breaths steadied, and she sat up, leaning her back against the wall. Her muscles protested each movement. She raised her knees, sliding her feet toward her. She jolted at the sound of metal clinking together.
Her gaze landed on the chain clamped to her ankle and followed its length, the end bolted firmly into the wall.
Like a punch in the gut, the memories of the night before came rushing back.
With the black hood over her head, she hadn’t seen anything of the ride in the back of a Jeep or SUV. There had been one stop on the way. The rushing of the Nile had been unmistakable, as well as the loud splash as if someone had jumped in. Or had been dumped.
She drifted in and out of sleep, rocking in the back of the vehicle, something in the air making her drowsy. Her hood wasn’t removed until she sat on her bed. By then, Black Robe had lowered the scarf from his face, offering her only a self-satisfied smile before he left.
Leila swallowed and glanced back down at the cuff around her ankle. The metal was thick, clamped shut with a keyhole in the center. She’d have to cut her foot off to free herself.
What a raging dumpster fire I’m in now. She leaned her head against the wall, wondering if Xander found himself in a similar setup. If he was even alive. Her skin prickled at the thought. But what could she do now?
Break the window?
Her gaze settled on the glass panes, taunting her with freedom, inches out of arm’s reach. A small bird’s shadow flitted across. She could try and lift the furniture, break off a leg from the chaise lounge, or—
The door creaked open. She jumped at the noise and whipped her head around, only to see a pair of large, brown eyes peeping at her through the gap. Their gazes met. With a squeak, the eyes vanished and pattering footsteps fled.
She took in deep breaths to calm herself. It was only a kid. The presence of a child was somewhat comforting, but not enough for her to want to stick around. She eyed the crack in the door. Her captor would probably be alerted she was awake. Her pulse accelerated and she wrapped her arms around herself. A place to hide would be nice but nothing in the room would work.
Footsteps came from outside the door. Leila dropped her arms and flattened herself against the wall.
Instead of the man from last night, a veiled woman entered the room, carrying a tray in her hands. Her head lowered, she placed the tray on the dresser. Silently, she glided to the window, drew the curtains back, and opened the glass panels to reveal a brilliant blue sky. Keeping her head down, the woman then left without a word. The door clicked shut behind her.
The room filled with the spicy aroma of the fava bean chili and baladi bread, but Leila remained in her spot, not daring to move. Under different circumstances, she could have easily vacuumed down the chili and bread offered to her, but her stomach churned and tightened with such ferocity that the very idea of eating made her nauseous.
She buried her face in her knees, resolved not to touch the food. Not only because she wasn’t hungry, but what if it had been drugged? She didn’t know what the grave robber was planning to do with her. The minutes went by. After a few moments, she peered at the tray on the dresser. Even if she didn’t eat the food, she could use the dishes as projectiles.
With a cautious glance toward the closed door, she slowly stretched her legs. She slipped them over the side of the bed and, clenching the chain in her fists so it made as little noise as possible, padded over to the dresser.
Steam rose from the ceramic teapot’s spout in playful wisps. The hot liquid would leave a nice burn. She picked up a glass teacup and rotated it in her hand, feeling its weight. It would cause a bruise if thrown hard enough. And scratches when it broke.
She glanced back down at the tray with a frown, wondering why there were two cups, when she noticed movement from the corner of her eye.
Her head shot up and her eyes locked with those of the man in the doorway. An icy breath enveloped her, freezing her to the spot. Ignoring her quickening pulse, she wrapped her trembling fingers tightly around the teacup until her knuckles turned white.
With a casual disregard for her terror, the man relaxed against the doorframe. He held his lightly bearded chin high, leering down at her through half-open eyelids. He appeared as if he had just strutted out of a brooding Armani advertisement with his black hair combed away from his face, his arms crossed over his tailored white collared shirt. The first couple top buttons remained open, revealing the gold Sneferu pendant from Dahshur.
The longer he stood there, the more Leila was torn between wanting to scratch his eyes out and jumping out the window to flee—if she weren’t chained to the wall.
His eyes followed hers to the window, then he prowled farther into the room, his movements smooth. Like a leopard ready to pounce.
Her hands twisted around the teacup as he neared, any intention to throw it forgotten. Something about his manner told her if she did, she’d regret it instantly.
He leaned against the dresser next to her and crossed his arms again. Too close for comfort, she shrank back.
“Tell me about yourself, Leila,” he said, skipping over any sort of polite introduction. He studied the dresser, running his fingers over a jagged nick on the edge.
Leila simply stared at him, her mouth too dry to speak. Not that she would have told him anything if she could have. He appeared to already know plenty, anyway. She clenched her jaw, pressing her lips together.
“I am aware that you’re an archaeologist, of course. But what hobbies do you have? What do you do when you’re not researching in libraries or excavating in the desert?”
This was not the conversation she’d been expecting. She managed to swallow, though it did nothing to calm her shaky voice. “Why should I tell you anything? I don’t even know you.”
“My apologies.” He didn’t sound a bit sorry. “My name is Amir Al-Rashid. I thought you knew.”
“How should I know? I don’t associate with grave robbers.”
He lifted one eyebrow. “You had a photo of my father in your room.”
Her jaw slackened. A picture of his father? Then she remembered. The photograph had her dad, Soliman, and a third, unidentified man. She tried to recall the picture but couldn’t quite put a face to the third man. What were the odds that man’s son would be robbing archaeological sites? There had to be more to this story. Hoping he’d explain, she remained silent, relaxing her grip on the teacup and setting it back down on the tray.
When she didn’t answer, Amir brought a hand up to hold his chin. He wandered away from the dresser, pacing the length of the room.
