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The three of them returned to their camp, but even Jonathan was uncharacteristically quiet as they prepared their evening meal. Rick got up and left the two of them alone as they ate, making a quick circuit of the camp. Just what he expected to come out of the darkness, he couldn't have said, but … something was going to. He could feel it.

On the way he stopped for a chat with the Americans. They hadn't found anything, either—but several of their diggers had stumbled into a thousand-year-old trap and been literally melted. That was the kind of thing that took the heart out of a man, as Henderson said. They were regrouping tonight with a bottle of whiskey, and would be back at it the next morning. Ready for treasure, they said confidently.

Today's events had put an end to any dreams Rick had of treasure. Getting out of here in one piece—getting her out of here in one piece—that was all he wanted.

As he returned to his own camp, he heard Evelyn asking softly, "What do you suppose killed him?"

"Did you ever see him eat?" Jonathan countered.

Taking a seat next to Evelyn, ignoring how much he wanted to wrap an arm aorund her and pull her against him, Rick said, "Seems our American friends had a little misfortune of their own today. Three of their diggers were, uh, melted." Saying it out loud, it sounded ridiculous. That didn't happen to people in the real world. Of course, this was pretty damn far from the real world.

"What?"

"How?"

"Salt acid. Pressurized salt acid. Some kind of ancient booby trap."

"Maybe this place really is cursed," Jonathan said, as seriously as Rick had ever heard him speak.

The wind whistled around them in an eerily well-placed moment, and Evelyn shivered. Tales of ancient Egypt were rife with curses and the supernatural.

But Evelyn was a modern woman, she reminded herself, and tales were just that. Stories. She shook herself, looking at the two men, both of whom seemed to be buying into all this hokum. "Oh, for goodness' sake, you two!"

"You don't believe in curses?" O'Connell asked mildly, poking the fire.

"No, I don't. I believe if I can see it and I can touch it, then it's real. That's what I believe."

O'Connell lifted his rifle. "I believe in being prepared."

"Let's see what our friend the warden believed in." Jonathan reached for his bag. A bit ghoulish, in Evelyn's opinion, but after all, whatever was in there, the warden wasn't going to be needing it any longer. She watched as Jonathan dug around in the bag. Suddenly, he gave a shout and yanked his hand back out of the bag.

Not having expected that, Evelyn screamed and ducked against O'Connell's—very firm, very warm—arm. "My God, what is it?"

Jonathan inspected his fingers, seeming satisfied that they weren't hurt, and reached back into the bag. "A broken bottle." He pulled it out, studying the label. "Glenlivet. Twelve years old. Well, he may have been a stinky fellow, but he had good taste." Tugging the cork out of the broken bottle neck, he took a swig.

Rick smiled. Of course, Jonathan would find treasure in someone else's belongings.

Behind them, a horse whinnied. Something was wrong. His instincts told him so. Handing Evelyn the rifle, he said, "Take this. Stay here."

Evelyn had no intention of being left behind. Whatever was happening, she wanted to know about it, too. "No, wait!" she called after him. "Wait for me. Wait!"

Jonathan's protesting "Evie!" followed her even as she hurried to catch up to O'Connell. "Excuse me, but didn't the man just say to stay here? Evie!"

And then there was chaos. Black-robed men on horseback invaded the camp, rifles blazing. With torches, they burnt any tents they could reach. The Americans were out of their tents, shooting back, giving as good as they got.

Rick pressed himself against the wall of a ruin, watching for his shot, taking down one of the black-robed figures and then another, making the bullets count.

Evelyn had the rifle still in her hands, but she had lost O'Connell in the confusion. She looked around her, trying to find anyone she recognized. Whirling about, she found one of the men on horseback coming up behind her. Almost by reflex, she fired, the rifle kicking up in the air as she did so. But the horse reared at the same time, and her shot found its target by the purest luck.

Out of the furor O'Connell heard his name being shouted. He recognized Jonathan, sprinting toward him with a good half-dozen of those guys behind him. The bottle of Glenlivet was still firmly clutched in his hand.

Rick leaped off the wall, pulling one of the black-robed figures off his horse. The man drew a scimitar, Rick drew a gun. The bullet ricocheted off the blade, but it took the blade out of the man's hands, which was enough for the moment. Another man came up behind him, and Rick took his focus off the first long enough to take the shot … and long enough for the first man to retrieve his scimitar. The next shot went wide as the blade hooked the barrel of the pistol and tugged it out of Rick's hands.

Quickly, Rick rolled toward the fire. He dug a stick of dynamite out of his pocket, lit the fuse, and held it out. The men backed up, recognizing the danger.

The one with the scimitar seemed to be the leader. He called out to the others, "Enough! Yallah! We will shed no more blood … but you must leave. Leave this place or die." Over his shoulder as he returned to his horse, he added, "You have one day."

And then they were gone, as quickly as they had come. Rick pinched the fuse off the dynamite. He turned, his heart in his throat when he recognized the figure sprawled on the sand behind him. "Evelyn!" Kneeling next to her, he took the rifle she was still clutching out of her hands and helped her sit up. "Are you all right?"

"Yes, I'm fine." She got to her feet.

"You sure?" He couldn't help himself—he gently lifted her chin, letting his fingers linger there even as he inspected her for injuries. If she'd been hurt …

"Thank you." Evelyn wasn't sure what she was thanking him for. Saving her, or for the softness in his voice, or for the way her skin tingled under his touch.

The short American, Daniels, came up behind them. "See, that proves it! Old Seti's fortune's got to be under this sand."

Rick's hands slid down Evelyn's shoulders, closing on her upper arms, holding her against him. He couldn't quite seem to let go, and she couldn't quite seem to want him to.

"For them to protect it like this, you know there's treasure down there," Henderson agreed.

But Rick wasn't so sure. "No. These men are a desert people. They value water, not gold."

Burns, who had been caught mid-shave, approached them. "You know, uh, maybe just at night, we could, uh, combine forces, hmm?"

Evelyn found it amusing that these three Americans, with their entourage of help, felt it necessary to beg for O'Connell's protection.

O'Connell seemed to, as well. Or at least, so his grin said, as he answered. "Sure. Why not?"

He let go of Evelyn at last, and the desert night seemed especially cold without the warmth of his body against hers.