Heather Graham Read Online Free

tried to stare at the pictures again, hoping Jim would call back. But as the time passed, she grew drowsy and accepted the fact that the phone systems in the UAE must not be among the best. He had probably decided not to call back since he would be seeing her tomorrow night.
    She finished her wine and plumped her pillow a little vengefully to take out her frustration, then closed her eyes and prayed for a decent night’s sleep. She didn’t want to dream about Wayne. A long time ago she had schooled herself not to think about him or her broken marriage, and she didn’t want to start spending sleepless nights again because he had written. And she didn’t want to worry about Jim. Little tingles of fear had touched along her spine when the connection had been broken, but she was sure she was being ridiculous. Nevertheless, it seemed to take her forever to doze off again.
    When she did sleep she didn’t dream of Wayne once. The visions that spun in her mind were of colossal statues, endless sand dunes and golden idols. She dreamed of massive puzzle pieces floating in space. And when she did dream of a man’s face, it wasn’t her ex-husband’s. It was a deeply tanned face with piercing dark eyes, eyes that could impale one, eyes that could reach across space and touch someone. Stern, remote, yet vital and electric. The face and eyes would merge with visions of Bedouins racing across desert sands on Arabian stallions with majestic tails flying high. Sabers slashed the air as they rode, their Arabic chants riding high to the skies. …
    None of the hodgepodge of dreaming mattered. Alex didn’t remember it in the morning. She overslept and had to rush to dress and race against time to make her initial flight to Paris.
    Once airborne, she was both too tired and too excited to dwell on either worries or dreams. Her real-life fantasy was just coming true, and she wouldn’t worry about anything again until she reached the airport in Cairo.
    Then she would worry herself sick. Because Jim would never show up.

CHAPTER TWO
    T HE SETTING OF THE sun created a strange orange and golden glow in the western sky, a haze of color that seemed to shimmer with the cooling remnants of a shattering heat. The everlasting sand of the desert, which permeated even Cairo’s central streets, seemed to combine with that strange color and shimmer. It was the twenty-third of July, and hot as could be in Cairo. The workday was ending; buses with passengers hanging precariously to windows and doors honked their way through the melee of traffic, humanity, chickens and occasional other animal life.
    A taxi stopped in front of the Hotel Victoria, an establishment owned by British interests but operated by a pleasant crew of Egyptians. The man who exited the vehicle might have been Arabian himself, except perhaps for his height. In stocking feet he stood a few millimeters over six foot three. He was dark, and his hair went beyond jet. The mahogany of his eyes was so deep it too might be mistaken for black.
    He was a man who was seldom at a standstill. A vital and passionate interest in life sizzled from those deep jet eyes, and even when he sat quietly, he seemed to emanate explosive energy. Those jet eyes were always alert. When seemingly half closed with laziness beneath jet lashes and thick arched brows, they were still assessing, probing, searing.
    His features, taken separately, were not particularly handsome. His nose was long and a shade crooked due to a break in a college boxing match years before; his cheekbones were high but a shade too gaunt. His jaw was decidedly stubborn—square, determined and strong. His mouth was a curiosity; the full lips were well shaped, but when he became angry, they could draw to a grim line as white as his eyes were black.
    Yet whatever analysis could be made of his individual features, they somehow combined to make him a devastating man. Or perhaps the uniquely arresting quality had nothing to do with looks; it might