moment, and he doubted the luscious Miss Magee was the one-night-stand type, even if he was. Pity, but there it was. “Look, Miss Magee—”
“Isis.”
Of course it was. Trust a crackpot archaeologist like August Magee to stick his kid with the name of an Egyptian goddess. “Let me be brutally frank here, Isis. Your father’s reputation precedes him. He was archaeology’s darling more than a decade ago, but he has a problem with veracity. He’s cried wolf more often than not. And frankly his drinking hasn’t done him any favors.” He pinched his fingers together as if holding a shot glass and tipped it back for illustration. “If the tomb really exists, and if this time the find is genuine, then he’s going to need evidence before he’s believed. Having you do it for him probably won’t do the trick.”
“He has Alzheimer’s,” Isis said flatly.
Thorne stared at her for a moment, waiting to see if there was anything else. Satisfied there wasn’t, he got to his feet. Not that he was walking anywhere. But he rose so she’d take the hint and leave. “Then it would appear you’re screwed.” His leg protested as if a great white shark had seized his thigh muscle between its teeth. He gripped the edge of the desk, keeping his expression neutral with effort, even though his knuckles were turning white. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
She beamed those big, tear-drenched eyes up at him like a surface-to-air missile with complex target tracking. “Please.”
Gut tight in reaction to her soft plea, he resumed his seat. “All I can tell you is that whatever was inside the box is somewhere in the museum in London. While my skills are pretty specific, the best I can do is give you the general location of what you’re looking for. Finding it could possibly take you months, if not years. There are in the neighborhood of seventy million items there.”
She frowned. “How could you possibly know that?”
“My father is one of the benefactors of the museum. The Egyptian section of the Natural History Museum in London, in fact.” Thorne was going to hand Zak his arse on a platter five minutes after the emotional Miss Isis Magee departed. He was supposed to be recovering, not dealing with emotional-baggage-laden weepy females.
“The Earl of Kilgetty is your father?” Her eyes went wide and she slid to the edge of her chair. “That’s terrific. He’ll be a big help. And I know every single artifact my father donated to the museum, right up to the last piece. We can go through the exhibits. Hands on. I know we’ll find something that’ll lead us to Egypt and Cleo’s tomb.”
We? “Unless you have a mouse in your pocket the answer to that is a resounding no. I have absolutely no desire to return to England under any circumstances.” For two excellent and compelling reasons that were none of her damned business. “Moreover, I loathe Egyptology, as many people in authority would be delighted to tell you.”
“My cousin Acadia assured me that Lodestone finds anything, anyone, anywhere.” There was now more than a bite to her words. “I believed her assurances that you were as good at this as Zak is.”
Ah. Her cousin Acadia. Zak’s lovely new bride. Suddenly all the puzzle pieces fit neatly into place. A small detail his friend had conveniently omitted before clasping him on the shoulder and telling him to “Take it easy” while he was out of the country.
“Well?”
Bugger it! “Is your photograph under the word tenacious in the dictionary?”
She sat back, crossing her long legs. She was wearing strappy purple sandals, and her toenails were painted an unexpected fluorescent pink. “I know that my father finally found Queen Cleopatra’s tomb. I believe it so much that I’ve liquidated all my assets to prove it. I’ve sold my condo, Mr. Thorne. And my car. And cashed in my stocks. I’ll do anything to prove once and for all—to everyone—that this time he did it. Will you help me find the tomb?”
Fuck. He understood high stakes. She was gambling everything on a roll of Lodestone dice—Thorne owed Zak. His capitulation had nothing to do with Isis. Life was for the living, not the dead. Thorne leaned back, steepling his fingers. His thigh throbbed, his chest ached like a mother, and he didn’t need a sixth sense to tell him he was going to regret this. “Start at the beginning.”
CONNOR THORNE HAD A tightly coiled intensity that Isis found both mildly disconcerting and