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Evelyn could hardly contain her excitement long enough to properly turn her attention to the details of planning for departure. There was so much to think about in putting together a field expedition, so much equipment, so many supplies, such frequent memories of the firm, warm pressure of Rick O'Connell's lips on hers …

"Stop it," she told herself aloud. Nothing good could come of romanticizing a moment that should never have happened. Also, he was a barbarian, no doubt disgusting in his personal habits. And a criminal, who had been locked up and nearly hanged. She wasn't going to think about him any longer. She was going to think about her list of necessary tools and whether there was enough kerosene for the lanterns and how it would feel to walk into the offices of the Bembridge scholars with the Book of Amun-Ra safely tucked under her arm.

Rick went back to the cheap lodging house where he'd kept his things, astonished to find that it hadn't been looted. Apparently the extra gold he'd been slipping the hotelkeeper—or the suggestive winks he'd tossed in the direction of his pretty young daughter—had been enough to earn him a few days' grace. He was overcharged for the bath he took, but the soap had a nice scent, and it was nice not to look, feel, or smell like a goat for a change. God, Egyptian prisons were miserable. French ones were better. Not by much, but still …

Nonetheless, it would be nice not to see the inside of a jail cell again for a long while. He gingerly touched the rope burns around his neck, wincing. That had been entirely too close a call, and he had only been saved by some slip of a girl—with very beautiful eyes—who had no idea what she was getting herself into.

Well, Rick would take her into the desert. He would show her the way to Hamunaptra. He would hope to hell that the bodies of his men weren't still lying scattered across the ground. And he would do his best to bring her back in one piece. It was all that he could promise.

And he would not—absolutely would not—resolutely would not—think too much about the softness of her lips, or the way her eyes had widened when he kissed her. Evelyn Carnahan was too good for the likes of him, and neither of them could live a day in each other's world. One kiss, born of desperation, was all there would ever be.

Evelyn found herself increasingly nervous as she prepared to leave for the docks. This was it. This was the moment she set off into her real life. Had she brought enough clothes? Were they the right ones? Could she work properly in them? What about the tools for the dig? They had come at a suspiciously good bargain—what if they broke on the first day of the dig, and they all had to scrape through the sand with their hands, finding nothing to bring home, nothing to show the Bembridge scholars?

"Hey." Jonathan caught her arms, holding her still for a moment until she focused on his eyes. "It's all right."

"Oh, Jonathan, I don't know. We're trusting this scruffy ruffian and going off into the middle of the desert, and for what? Buried treasure? This isn't a storybook."

"It is not," he agreed. "But people are finding artifacts in digs all over Egypt. There's no reason why we shouldn't be among them." His face was unusually serious as he looked at her. "Think how proud our parents would be of us, here in Egypt together, looking for Hamunaptra."

She couldn't help but smile. "They would, wouldn't they?" Evelyn had so few memories of her beautiful mother and her strong, handsome father—she had been so young when they disappeared—but she knew they had been quite the adventurers, and all her life she had longed to be one herself, if only to feel closer to them. Now she was doing it. "What are we waiting for?"

"That's the spirit!"

Jonathan let her go and she turned to the Egyptians she had hired to carry their things to the boat. "I'm ready now," she said to them in Arabic. "Thank you for waiting."

They bowed, accepting the coins—likely too many, but Evelyn liked to be generous when she could—she handed them, and began shouldering boxes and lifting crates.

Evelyn took her leave of the curator, who she was sure was going to miss her, even though all he said was a gruff dismissal of her journey as a complete waste of time and a fool's errand.

She and Jonathan reached the port in good time, the ship still being loaded by a steady stream of dock workers.

A new concern was filling her. They hadn't paid O'Connell yet; he had no reason to follow through on his promise. "Do you really think he's going to show up?" she asked Jonathan abruptly.

"Yes, undoubtedly, knowing my luck. He may be a cowboy, but I know the breed. His word is his word."

"Well, personally, I think he's filthy, rude, a complete scoundrel. I don't like him one bit." A few more words and she might have convinced herself, but her diatribe was interrupted by a deep voice.

"Anyone I know?"

Evelyn turned and found herself facing a nicely fitting suit coat over a clean white shirt. She looked up, and up, into a pair of blue eyes she remembered far better than she would care to admit. The ruffian she had met in the prison had shaved, bathed, put on clean clothes, and was … ridiculously good-looking. "Oh." The sound—more of a gasp than a word—was out before she could stop it. "Um, hello."

Oh, get hold of yourself, girl, she thought crossly.

Jonathan proved a useful distraction, patting the front of O'Connell's shirt and grinning at him as he shook his hand vigorously. "Smashing day for the start of an adventure, eh, O'Connell?"

"Yeah. Smashing," O'Connell agreed hesitantly, checking the inside of his jacket for his wallet.

"Oh, no, no. I'd never steal from a partner … partner," Jonathan assured him.

O'Connell chuckled good-naturedly, but he didn't appear convinced. Probably because Jonathan wasn't convincing. He had never stolen from Evelyn, but she believed she was unique in that respect.

"That reminds me. No hard feelings about the, uh …" O'Connell mimed a punch.

"Oh, no, no. Happens all the time."

It did, too, Evelyn thought, trying her hardest to stop staring at Rick O'Connell's handsome face. She gathered her wits about her. If this was going to work—if she was going to stop being such a ninnyhammer—she was going to have to show who had the upper hand. Drawing herself up, she said severely, "Mr. O'Connell, can you look me in the eye and guarantee that this isn't all some kind of a flimflam? Because if it is, I am warning you—"

"You're warning me? Lady, let me put it this way: My whole damn garrison believed in this so much that without orders, they marched halfway across Libya and into Egypt to find that city. And when we got there, all we found was sand and blood." He had looked her in the eye the whole time; there was no doubt about his sincerity. Reaching down, he picked up her suitcases. "Let me get your bags."

And he was gone, up the gangplank with her belongings, his broad shoulders filling out the jacket quite nicely.

While Evelyn was staring, unable to tear her eyes away, Jonathan came up behind her. "Yes, yes, you're right. Filthy, rude, complete scoundrel. Nothing to like there at all."

Evelyn glared at him, but before she could speak another voice, this one less expected, interrupted her.

"A bright good morning to all."

It was the warden. She wrinkled her nose against his stench. "Oh, no. What are you doing here?"

He was already halfway up the gangplank, calling to her over his shoulder, "I'm here to protect my investment, thank you very much."

She and Jonathan exchanged sighs before following him up and onto the ship.