Heather Graham Read Online Free Page B

Sheriff?”
    “Umm.” Dan liked Rajman. He was a bright twenty-year-old with a quick and engaging wit, and a curiosity and penchant for life not unlike his own. Rajman worked for him every time he came into Egypt. Dan appreciated the young man’s exuberant help, and Rajman loved the excitement of Dan’s life. The relationship had grown to a bond of special friendship.
    “Ali was—or still is—planning on financing Jim’s expedition. And I know Jim met with Ali two weeks or so ago, so if anyone knows anything about what Jim is up to or where he might be, it’s Ali. So get me a flight out, will you?”
    “Of course. For just you? Or are you taking a film crew?”
    “Just me.”
    Dan drummed his fingers lightly on the counter and grimaced. “See you in the morning, Raj. I’m beat.”
    Raj nodded. “Don’t worry about your flight,” he called after Dan as the older man headed toward the gilded-cage elevator. “I’ll take care of everything.”
    “Thanks,” Dan answered as the doors clanged open for him. “One more thing, Raj—send me up something to eat, will you? Whatever you’ve got that looks good. Just tell the boy to set the tray in the parlor.”
    Raj nodded again, and the doors clanged shut on Dan. Dan grinned slightly as the little cage began to grind its way up to the third floor. There was one good thing about the situation—he was going to be glad to see Ali Sur Sheriff.
    The Arab was one of the wealthiest sheikhs within the incredibly wealthy emirate of Abu Dhabi. His father had become extremely affluent when vast oil resources had been discovered in his sheikhdom in the fifties. Ali had been sent to school in the United States, and there he and Dan had become fast friends.
    Now Ali was second only to the emir himself in power. He was a man of strange contradictions. He traveled frequently, had homes in Paris, London, New York and Cairo and could meet with the best of company in the best of places with suave sophistication. He was a brilliant man with an astounding perception of the world around him.
    But he was also an Arab sheikh and a Muslim, a man dedicated to his people and his culture. He preferred his desert tents to all the luxuries of the so-called more civilized world. He followed devoutly the teachings of his religion, and very much a family man. As a husband, he was touchingly faithful—to all four of his wives.
    The elevator groaned and clanged as it halted at the third floor. Dan left the small cage with his smile fading, his worry about James Crosby returning as he automatically moved down the hall with long strides.
    Dan’s room was actually a suite consisting of a bright parlor that overlooked the street, a nice-size bedroom and a gargantuan bathroom with a massive claw-foot tub. Dan dropped his duffel bag on the love seat in the parlor and headed straight for the bathroom.
    He grimaced at his reflection in the silvering mirror over the sink. He needed a shave badly, and he looked as dusty as he felt. Anyone who met me in a dark alley would probably scream, he thought dryly, rubbing his scratchy chin. It was hard to believe that his was a face millions of Americans tuned in to see three or four times a year when he presented his documentaries. Shaking his head at the sorry reflection, he considered shaving first, then decided the hell with the idea and turned to grasp the ancient faucets for the bath and began to run a stream of steaming hot water. As the water ran, he stripped off his boots, grimacing again as a little molehill comprised of sands of the Sahara formed on the floor. He tossed his boots into the bedroom, shed his shirt and trousers and briefs and sank gratefully into the tub, leaning his head against the rim and closing his eyes. The hot water felt wonderful, permeating his worn muscles and creating a spell of comfort. He leaned up for a moment to douse his face and hair strenuously, then reflected that he could really go for a drink. He jumped out of the tub,