“So intelligent.” His voice dropped an octave. “So attractive.” He licked his lips, a predator on the prowl.
So much for keeping him talking.
She spun, bolting for the door.
He beat her to it, blocking the exit. “Come with me. Yes, yes! That’s it! Once I sell this load to Wormwell, I’ll have enough to sail to China. Right to the source. Do you have any idea how much opium can be found in a Shanghai warehouse?”
Ami sucked in a breath. So that was his game. Steal Edmund’s artifacts, sell them, then run with the money. What a cad! “How can you do this to your business partner? Mr. Price would never cheat you in such a foul manner.”
“Then he shouldn’t be so easy to dupe. Stupid man.” He took another step toward her.
Heart pounding, she backed up, a quick glance over her shoulder revealing a window. No good, though. Beyond the glass were iron bars, protecting the office from break-ins. But she could swing around the desk and Mr. Fletcher behind it, then she’d have a clear shot at making another pass to the door.
“So China, hmm?” She forced a pleasant tone to her voice, the rest of her shaking like a leaf in a gale.
Maniacal laughter ripped out of him, spittle spraying from his mouth. “You do fancy me after all, eh?”
He lunged.
She bolted around the desk, straight toward the slate on the chair.
Fingers dug mercilessly into her arm, jerking her away from the only weapon in the room. Though she wrenched and wriggled, Mr. Fletcher’s hold was superhuman. “You’re hurting me!”
He yanked her to him, the reek of spirits so strong she gagged. “Ha-ha! I know all about hurt. And I will be the one to teach you.”
Edmund paced in front of Sergeant Newell’s desk. He shouldn’t have taken time to come to the police station. Should have just gone straight to Wormwell’s warehouse and demanded Ami’s release. And yet...
He closed his eyes as a ragged sigh leached out of him. The professor had been right in that neither of them was trained in anything other than clawing at dirt with pointy tools or wielding a sharp business deal.
“Sit down, Mr. Price!” The sergeant bellowed behind his desk. “I don’t appreciate the rut you’re wearing into my floorboards. I’ve sent my two best men, so trust the process.”
“That’s just it,” he grumbled under his breath. “I don’t trust the process.” He whumped so hard into the chair the thing wobbled back on two legs.
Leaning aside, the professor laid a hand on his forearm. “Amisi is a resilient girl. This isn’t the first time she’s gotten in over her head, and she always lives to talk about it. I am certain the fine officers the sergeant sent to retrieve her shall return with her any minute now.”
Edmund pulled away from the man’s touch, antsy, angry, agitated beyond measure. Despite it being the wee hours of themorning, it was abominably hot in this stuffy little office, which only added to his irritation.
“Are you not the slightest bit worried about your only daughter?” he snapped—and instantly regretted his tone of voice. Ami’s father didn’t deserve his contempt. The brigands who held Ami did.
The professor tugged at his bow tie, magnanimously ignoring the tetchy words. “In my line of work, Mr. Price, one becomes accustomed to uncertainty. I have learned over the years that worrying doesn’t accomplish anything other than a headache. Besides, Amisi is like her mother, able to read people, understand their motivations, and rearrange bad situations to her advantage. I have no doubt she can and will survive the harshest of circumstances.”
Edmund narrowed his eyes. “And yet you’ve never once taken her on a dig with you. Why is that, I wonder?”
“The world of archaeology is a cutthroat sort of existence, filled with rivalries, academic politics, personal agendas. I’ve always tried to protect her from the ugly side of the profession.”
He couldn’t help but snort. “It seems to me she’s currently facing a threat far more dangerous than an academic rivalry.”
“Indeed.” He stroked his chin. “A fact that makes me reconsider.”
Shouts boomed in from the main hall, followed by a few choice curses. Edmund shot to his feet as quickly as Sergeant Newell. He tagged the man’s heels out the door only to see one of the two “finest” officers helping the other one sink onto a bench. Blood soaked that man’s trouser leg, his face as pale as the waning moon outside. Edmund shot a glance beyond him to the door.
No sight of a perky brown-haired woman.
His gut clenched rock-hard. “Where is Miss Dalton?”
“What the blazes happened?” the sergeant thundered.
The officer yet standing faced the sergeant. “We din’t make it through the door a’fore Hobson here got popped. WhateverWormwell’s sittin’ on, he ain’t gonna part with it so handily. We’ll need more men to get into that warehouse, Sarge.”
