Race to World's End (Rowan and Ella Book 3) Read Free Page A

where it counted. When she leaned over to pick up her bag, he caught his
breath to see the fullness of her creamy white breasts straining against the
low bodice.
    Surely they had fifteen minutes to spare?
    A light tap at
the door ended that thought, accompanied by a silent groan from Rowan.
    “You okay?” Ella
stood next to him, frowning. She had enveloped herself in her matching silk
wrap, looking once more only a mere goddess and no longer the lush succubus he
couldn’t resist.
    “Never better,”
he said as he finished knotting his tie. “I assume that’s Mohammed alerting us
the car’s here.” He held out his elbow. “Milady?”
    She took his arm
and he breathed in her scent. It wasn’t French. Knowing Ella, it was probably
something she picked up at the bazaar. Something bewitching and foreign, just
like her.
    ***
    The night could
not have gone better.
    Normally, Ella
didn’t love these evenings out with his colleagues and their wives, he knew. It
was a testimony to her love for him that she endured them and performed so
believably for his sake. They dined at Shepheard   Hotel, where else?
    Rowan’s boss, Matthew
Dunbar, and his wife, Betsy, were good people. Older than him and Ella and so a
little on the paternalistic side, but that was fine. They were from the
Midwest. They’d raised their kids back in the States and then bolted for their
first love—Egypt. Well, at least, Dunbar’s first love. Betsy was clearly
just along for the ride although she came stoically. Rowan couldn’t help but
wonder if the constantly wistful look in her eyes was for the children and
grandchildren who lived an ocean away.
    Benjamin Johnson
and his wife, Cynthia, and Hector Davis and his fiancé, Lydia, filled out the
group. Rowan had worked with them both for two years now. Johnson, who might
have been a close friend, regarded Rowan with suspicion and outright competitive
malice. Davis was pleasant but insipid. Rowan had tried on several occasions to
advance the friendship but was constantly thwarted by the man’s insecurity and
shyness. If there was a way to penetrate his reserve, he hadn’t found it.
    The minute the
three couples were seated in Shepheard’s grand dining hall, Dunbar lifted a
glass of champagne in Rowan’s direction.
    “To Rowan, for
giving all Americans in Egypt the honor of his accomplishment with this
invitation from the British Museum.”
    “Hear, hear,” Davis
said automatically.
    Rowan noticed although
Johnson reached for his glass, he remained silent. Everyone drank and Rowan felt
an instant flush of satisfaction. Being lauded by his boss in front of their
wives—and Johnson—was great stuff in itself. But the fact was, he
had yet to come down from his high over the accomplishment himself.
    During what
historians will certainly call one of the most exciting times in
British-Egyptian history, he, Rowan Pierce from Sandy Springs, Georgia, was
being recognized as contributing something extraordinary.
    Out-fucking-standing.
    Dunbar turned to
Ella. “I hope you know how amazing this feat is,” he said. “What your husband
has done is single-handedly open up the possibility for a coordinated effort in
the sharing of the subject of Egyptology that puts the Americans front and
center. For a change.”
    “I’m very proud
of him.”
    “As well you
should be. He’s our up-and-coming young Turk, is Rowan.” Dunbar laughed and
leaned over to squeeze his wife’s shoulders. Betsy smiled on cue, but Rowan
noticed her face relaxed back into an expressionless stare as soon as the
conversation and attention moved away from her.
    “There’ll be no
stopping us now,” Dunbar continued. “With this invitation—and the book,
of course, following soon after—we’ll be uniquely placed to influence
attitude and styles of thought in relation to antiquities going forward. And I
see that as everything from their discovery to their display. I’ve already received
a request from The Field Museum in Chicago