the valley, we’ll be able to hitch a ride into Cairo.”
“And go to the police.” Her tone was grim. She was panting slightly from the exertion, and the sounds she was making reminded Thorne of the sounds she’d made when they made love.
The sound of her and the smell of her sweat-dampened skin turned him on, even here and now in the middle of nowhere, facing death head-on. It seemed that pain, trying circumstances, and exhaustion couldn’t keep a good boner down.
“I’ll get in touch with my contacts at MI5,” he amended, cursing his body’s response to her, which made walking even more of a challenge. One stiff leg was more than enough. Thorne concentrated on not thinking about it as he dug one foot in front of the other while they climbed a steep hill of shifting sand. He hoped he didn’t have to climb or descend it again. Up, down, and up again was more than his leg wanted to deal with.
Isis slithered backward on all fours, and he backtracked to grab her arm and help her climb. The wind-driven sand flayed every bit of exposed skin, and he tugged her scarf up as it threatened to blow off her hair. Trudging up a steep dune, Thorne held on to her arm to assist her so she didn’t tumble head-over-heels back down the hill again. It was heavy going in the dry, shifting sand and they had to lean into the persistent wind to make progress.
There was no point talking—they didn’t even try. Just kept moving, backsliding, grappling to remain upright, and moving again.
He didn’t have much, if any, faith in the locals. Kidnapping might not be a cottage industry in Egypt as it was in South America, but the local authorities were more likely to turn a blind eye than investigate. This was above their pay grade. The kidnapping plot was sophisticated and elaborate, well thought out and flawlessly executed. In other words, professional. These were no backwater thieves looking for a quick payout.
Too bad for their kidnappers that it wasn’t going to fucking well work. He’d die trying to save Isis, and she was equally determined to live.
It was hard to tell if what he’d found was a cave or a long-forgotten tomb entrance, but it was imperative they find shelter until the storm stopped. The good news was, the bad guys weren’t going anywhere in the sandstorm, either.
What looked like a pile of fragmented mud brick blocks, almost completely obscured by piles of sand taller than he was, indicated an opening. “This way.”
Isis spread her hand on one of the blocks for balance as the wind picked up velocity, almost strong enough to knock her off her feet. “This looks like the access corridor to a burial chamber.” She raised her voice over the rustle of sand blowing against sand. Without further ado, she turned sideways and slipped into the narrow, dark opening.
The woman was fearless. Denizens of the desert would have the same sense of self-preservation, and Thorne expected to encounter snakes and scorpions as well as assorted other critters waiting to welcome them inside. Venturing into a pitch-black, confined space—while unavoidable—could prove as fatal as staying outside in the elements.
Thorne paused to look back the way they’d come. Their footprints had already been wiped away, leaving no sign of their passing. A plus. The speed of the wind pretty much guaranteed that their faux camp was blown away as well.
“Connor?”
He loved hearing his name on her lips. When the hell had anyone last used it? His associates called him Thorne. His parents used his middle name, James, and his lovers called him by endearments. The only person who’d called him Connor had been his twin, Garrett. The ache in his chest had nothing to do with squeezing his too-large body through a too-narrow, unyielding opening.
Bending and contorting, he squeezed in after her. The opening was several inches too low and uncomfortably narrow for the width of his body. Letting out his breath, Thorne forced his torso to follow an arm and a leg. But for a moment he was pinned in place, neither in nor out, the pressure of the unyielding stones surrounding him, squeezing the air from his lungs.
The position painfully reminded Thorne of Yermalof’s men pinning him down while the Russian finished torturing Maciej and Ayers. He felt the same pressure to survive now, the same urgency.
“Thorne, is it too tight?” There was a trace of panic in her voice, and