Crescent Moon by Delilah Devlin

Author:Delilah Devlin [Delilah Devlin]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Montlake Romance
Published: 2013-06-04T07:00:00+00:00

Back at the museum, Juste rolled his shoulders. A dull ache had settled in his neck, likely because he’d slept on his back rather than his belly while he’d held Khepri against his body last night.

After lunch, Haddara had excused himself to make a phone call to his benefactor, the sheik, who had left him a text message that he’d boarded a private plane and was on his way to New Orleans. Haddara had drawn a deep breath and offered Khepri a small tight smile. “I mentioned you. He’s eager to meet you. And concerned …”

They’d shared a long glance that made Juste uncomfortable, because the two had taken an instant liking to each other. The fact Haddara had accepted her story without a quibble was odd to him, but Khepri seemed relieved. Like someone who had found a much-needed ally.

Juste didn’t like that she couldn’t trust him. But trust ran both ways, and she had yet to give him anything solid to believe. He didn’t even believe things he’d seen with his own eyes. The more time that passed since she’d slumped to the floor in Turney Hall, the more he wondered if what he’d seen had been a trick of the light streaming through a tall window.

Mikey opened the conference room door and lifted his eyebrows in a quick waggle before stepping through. “I asked them to come in together.”

Juste nodded. Not the way he usually conducted an interrogation, but he was antsy to get the hell out of the museum. He cut a sideways glance at Khepri, who wrinkled her nose.

“Will this be the last of your interrogations?” she asked quietly.

“Why? You got somewhere to go?”

Her gaze narrowed. “I must make my own inquiries, in my own way. If your investigation turns up something helpful to me finding him, then I am satisfied, but when it does not—”

“This is the last of the interviews,” he said, his tone terse.

Three people filed into the conference room. They looked exactly like what they were, a professor and his graduate assistants. The professor’s hair was a shaggy, graying blond, and he wore a pair of wire-framed glasses perched on the end of his nose. He was dressed in khaki twill trousers, comfortable loafers, and a rumpled, short-sleeved striped shirt. His assistants, one male and one female, both wore T-shirts. The male wore one from the museum’s gift shop, with a picture of a sarcophagus and the dates of the exhibit. The girl, blonde and in her early twenties, wore a pink tee that hugged her small unbound breasts.

Juste wondered which of the men she was trying to attract. When she chose a seat next to the professor rather than the grad student, he thought he had his answer.

He glanced at his notes. “Dr. Anton Felton?” he said, pointing at the professor.

The professor gave a curt nod. “This going to take long?”

Juste ignored him and aimed his glance at the girl, “Becky Ward?”

“Yeah,” she said, straightening in her chair.

“And Charles Mabry.”

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