itch on the back of his neck. The kind of itch that warned him he was in someone’s crosshairs.
Returning to London before the Boris Yermalof investigation was resolved had been a mistake of monumental proportions. And it wasn’t as if he hadn’t been warned.
“We won’t find anything at this time of night in the dark,” he told her, keeping an eye on the driver’s fly-speckled rearview mirror to watch the traffic behind them.
The driver seemed oblivious to the swinging ornamentation hanging in the middle of the cracked windshield, which was adorned with a Christmas tree air freshener so old it curled at the edges, and a dozen dangling hamsa, palm-shaped five-fingered protection amulets. One would think his view impaired. Or maybe that was why he slammed on his brakes every few hundred yards whether he needed to avoid the car in front of him, a pedestrian, or animal, or nothing at all.
Twenty people could be following them, and Thorne wouldn’t know it, as the headlights behind them zigged and zagged between other vehicles like Indianapolis 500 racers gunning for the checkered flag.
“We’ll find the place first thing in the morning,” he assured her, watching as a closed-panel white van crept up on their left.
He rested his hand on the weapon in the small of his back. Thanks to MI5, he’d discreetly brought the weapon with him from Seattle.
“At least let’s drive by and see what we’re dealing with,” Isis pressed. “My father left clues in some odd places. We don’t know what it is, but can see where this one is, and perhaps plan a strategy for tomorrow.”
She might’ve let him know about her father’s proclivity to leave clues. But even though Thorne had the notebook, he had still run his hands over every artifact in every fucking drawer for eight hours.
The notebook was all he had to show for an extremely long day. Thorne was not in the best of moods.
It took twenty-five hair-raising minutes to get to the souk Khan el-Khalili, where his mental GPS indicated the book had originated. The souk was of course empty, the stalls closed for the night, but the fragrance of cooked meat and spices still perfumed the air, coupled with the stink of urine and wet dog.
“Satisfied?” he demanded, not masking his irritation as he ordered the driver to continue on to the hotel.
“It was worth a shot. I’m not surprised my father left a clue in the Khan. That shop is owned by an old and trusted friend, Beniti al-Atrash. He sells carpets and small replica—” She stopped yammering to shoot him a sympathetic glance. “Oh, God. It’s your leg. Here, let me do that for you.”
Thorne didn’t realize that he was massaging the tortured muscles with one hand until Isis pushed his gripping fingers aside and laid both slender hands over his spasming muscle. “Oh, Thorne…”
Her hands were small, but strong, and she seemed to know what she was doing as she massaged the muscles firmly. “My aunt used to get excruciating muscle spasms in her butt,” Isis told him, her attention totally focused on his leg as her hands kneaded the hard muscles with determination. She glanced up. “That’s not too hard, is it?”
The massage felt far from therapeutic. He grabbed her wrist. “Move up a few inches and tell me yourself.” He resisted the temptation to move her hand over his dick, which had come to life the second she touched him. Or, more likely, it had been semi-erect since he’d met her back in Seattle. “Don’t look so shocked, darling. You’re the one with her hand on my crotch. Do you want to screw in the back of a taxi?” His voice was intentionally harsh. “You certainly give every indication it’s what you want to do. If so, I’ll be happy to oblige you. But you might want to wait for a clean bed at the hotel.”
Her fingers curled against his thigh like lotus petals closing at night as she gave him an assessing look. “Were you this mean before your accident?”
“I was this mean from the day my mother stuck a silver spoon up my arse. This is who I am, Isis. Don’t dick around with my dick. I’m a man, not a boy. Give me a scintilla of encouragement and I’ll have you naked with your legs spread before you can say ‘You’re not ready’ in that sweet, reasonable tone. Do I make myself cl—”
The crunch of metal erupted—front and back, simultaneously—as they were rammed