11 CONNOR
“What should I expect?” I asked, watching Sam step out of the bathroom in something completely different from her usual street clothes.
Her loose pants and flowing button-ups had given way to a black dress secured by a gold clasp at the neck.
A sort of hood covered her hair. Where the fabric gathered in some places, it left much of her skin exposed in others.
When she twirled in front of the only mirror in the house, a golden thread flowed down the center of her bare back like a river, running from her neck to the small of her back.
“Don’t make that face,” she grumbled, passing me as I stood there like one of the statues I’d seen at the airport. “I hate this outfit too, but I need to look more like girls my age.”
I didn’t respond because I didn’t know what to say. I definitely didn’t hate that dress—or the way it fit her body.
“Are you ready?” She stopped in front of me and looked over my clothes. I hadn’t packed anything fancy, so I’d done the best I could. Luckily, I had a gray button-up and clean pants. “Not ideal, but it’ll have to do.”
I was ready to leave when she stopped me at the door.
“You can’t go with that.” She pointed to the gun at my waist.
“I’m not going out unarmed.”
“They won’t let you in there with that,” she insisted.
“You’ll have to work your magic.”
“You know what? You just gave me an idea.” She opened her sparkly purse and pointed at me. “Put it in here.”
“I may have been completely reckless getting you involved in this, but I’m not stupid enough to hand over my gun.”
“If you insist on being armed, you need to put it in here.” She placed her hand on the grip, and I covered hers with mine, stopping her from pulling it free. “I can’t stop them from searching you, but I can convince them I’m not carrying anything dangerous in a damn little crystal purse.”
I ran my fingers over hers, letting her pull the gun free by the grip. Our eyes never left each other as I felt the weight of the weapon shift from my waist to her hand.
She lifted the gun like she was holding a rabbit by the ears and stuffed it into her purse.
“I’ll give it back as soon as we get inside.” She smiled and headed for the stairs.
Before we reached the street, she pulled me toward the side door of our building.
“I need to check something,” she said, opening the door for me to enter.
When she flicked on the yellowish light, I realized we were in the antique shop’s stockroom.
The dim glow seemed to multiply, reflected by every golden piece in the room—and there were plenty.
Besides plates and vases, there were sculptures, chunks of stone, and other old things people pay good money for.
Samantha disappeared into a corner where a dozen dusty books sat while I examined the pieces more closely. She had handwritten the price for each one.
“Do you work here alone?”
“Huh? Yeah.” Her voice sounded distant from the stockroom as I made my way into the showroom, where only a few lamps were lit. “I work in exchange for a place to live. And sometimes…”
Her voice trailed off, and suddenly she appeared beside me.
“…I share the place with outsiders.”
“As if you were a local,” I teased.
“I feel like one, in a way.” She walked past me with a large book in her hand, setting it down on a counter up ahead. “Though I miss my home terribly.”
“Cartagena seems like a beautiful place,” I said, stepping closer. “Do you think about going back?”
“One day.” She met my eyes before opening the yellowed pages. It looked like some kind of phone directory, judging by how the entries were arranged. But nothing I could understand—it was all in Arabic, like almost everything around here. “But for now, we have work to do.”
“What am I looking at?”
“This morning while I was here, I kept thinking about that photo you showed me… the khopesh.” She flipped through the pages, searching for something specific. “Like I said, every weaponsmith has a signature. Even the contemporary ones. I figured I might find something here.”
“You think the weaponsmith is from here?”
“It’s a hunch.” She kept her eyes on the book. A strand of hair fell across the side of her face, and she tucked it behind her ear. She wore a beautiful pair of earrings that suited her perfectly. “…and he was a supplier for Mr. Omar.”
I realized I’d missed something when the sentence didn’t make sense.
“Are you okay?” she asked, noticing I hadn’t responded. “It’s a long shot, but maybe this Raafat guy will recognize the work and know who he sold it to.”
“Right. It’s a possibility.” She took my hand and wrote Mohammed Raafat’s name on my palm. “So we don’t forget.”
I still wasn’t thinking straight.
“You have a funny look on your face,” she said, suddenly smiling.
“Do I?” I adjusted my sleeves as she released my hand. “I guess I’m thinking about too many things at once.”
“Oh, that happens to me all the time. Today while I was helping that big guy, I got lost thinking about how much I’d love to eat seafood.” She closed the book and turned to put it away, but her dress seemed to have snagged on a marble piece near her foot. “Shit.”
“Easy. Don't pull or it might tear.” I crouched down and spotted where the fabric had snagged. I stretched to reach it and wobbled a little, having to brace myself against her leg to keep from falling.
“Careful,” she murmured. I lifted my face to look at her, but my gaze got caught on the length of her legs, half-exposed where the fabric had bunched up. “Did you get it?”
“Almost.” I did my best to concentrate. “Got it.”
I stood up, and the way I'd been off-balance had left us close. Very close.
“Thank you,” Samantha breathed, looking into my eyes. In that light, her eyes looked like two pools of honey.
“You need to be more careful,” I grumbled, and she made a face, brushing past me, clearly annoyed by my response. Which made me smile despite myself.
The whole way there, the nerve endings in my skin kept replaying the sensation of our fingers touching over my gun. The shade of her eyes in the antique shop's dim light. Her minty breath.
The night was cool, the coolest since I'd arrived. Still, I felt suffocated.
“Who would've thought I'd see you here again.” A male voice rang out behind us while we stood in line to enter Azur. “I'm starting to think Mohani's girl wants back in the game.”
“Valentine.” I noticed Samantha's body tense as a man nearly seven feet tall touched her shoulder. She looked tiny next to him, and not just because of his height.
“Don't tell me you came to see me.” The guy turned his attention to me. “Or did I lose out to the old guy here?”
“Back off, Valentine,” she grumbled. “Funny seeing you so chatty. Usually your mouth's too full of Mohani's balls.”
Valentine's expression shifted, and I had to hold back a laugh.
“And you—who are you?” he asked me.
“Just a tourist looking to experience Cairo nightlife,” I replied.
“You came to the right place.”
“That's what she told me.” I fixed my gaze on Samantha.
“I'll let Mohani know you send your regards,” Valentine said to her.
“Of course you will.”
The line moved and we shuffled forward a few steps, leaving Valentine behind. As Sam had predicted, they searched me at the entrance but barely gave her a second glance.
“Who was he?” I asked once we reached the bar.
“Someone who deserves a date with Ammit,” she huffed, ordering drinks for us.
As soon as the bartender served us, Samantha took a long drink.
“And what about this Mohani?”
“Mohani's some kind of promoter for this place,” she said, taking another sip. “Never knew exactly what he did here. Just that he's influential.”
When she went to take another drink, I stopped her.
“We shouldn't be drinking here.” She set the glass down on the counter.
“I needed a way to get in here, so I got in his way,” she said vaguely, and I didn't press.
“Could he be a problem?” I finally asked, scanning the room.
“I don't think he's involved in your friend's disappearance.”
“That's not what I mean,” I said, drawing her gaze back to me. “I want to know if there's any chance he'll be a problem for us… for you.”
Samantha held my gaze in silence before finally saying:
“I know how to handle Mohani.”
“Good.”
An awkward silence stretched between us until we both broke it at once.
“Look, I—”
“Listen—”
Samantha smiled, and it was contagious.
“Go ahead,” I said.
“I was going to say that if we want to find out what's on the second floor, we need to look like easy targets.”
“Right. What do you suggest?”
“We need something expensive and flashy.” She turned to the bar and narrowed her eyes at the wall of bottles behind the counter. “That.”
She pointed to a bottle set apart from the others.
“Can you serve this in the lounge?” she asked the bartender, who promptly smiled at her.
Samantha turned to me with a mischievous look.
“Still got those American dollars?” Her smile lit up, and I knew I was headed for bankruptcy.