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  “You didn’t interrupt.” Alexana studied him intently for a moment, then brushed past. She quickly shoved away a moment of admiration for a journalist who could actually ferret out Khalil. “I was just leaving.” The last thing she needed was to deal with Khalil and another hotshot American reporter.

  Khalil reached out and grabbed her arm. “We are not finished here, Alexana.”

  She looked defiantly up at him. “Oh, yes we are.” She shook off his hand and ducked out of the tent.

  Ridge stood back, watching the interchange and wondering what the story was. I bet it’s a good one, he mused silently. A beautiful American and the leader of Hamas. He admired women with gumption, like the one who had just left. “Women,” Ridge said amicably, shrugging, as Khalil scowled back at him.

  “Your visit is ill-timed, Mr. McIntyre,” Khalil said.

  “So it seems. If you’d rather I return another time—”

  “No, no,” his host said, waving off his dark thoughts. “I will see her later. You are here. What is it that you seek?”

  Alexana sped past the two guards in her old BMW, feeling exasperated and suddenly tired. Was it wise to accept the position without Khalil’s protection? She pushed away all thoughts of doubt. Archaeology was in her blood; her great-grandfather had studied Israeli biblical sites in 1905; her grandmother was on one of the first teams to excavate the Temple Mount in 1928; her father had excavated the site where the Dead Sea Scrolls were found in the 1940s. Alexana saw no other path, felt no other passion.

  Still, she had hoped to secure Khalil’s nod of approval, which would have guaranteed noninterference from Hamas and assured her own personal safety. Samuel Roarke would not like the danger surrounding this assignment, and Sam Jr., her brother, would be impossible. Alexana sighed. “Dear God, I just know there’s something fantastic down there beneath the Temple Mount,” she prayed aloud. “Please clear the path. Help me show the world the places where you walked.”

  She checked herself. One-sided conversations with God had become habit long ago. “Do I only want to please you?” she asked. “Okay, okay, I admit it. There is glory in it for me. Help me to keep my priorities straight and give me wisdom in choosing my path, Father.” Oh, how she wanted this! How could God not give it to her?

  “I want it for you. I do. And for me. Help me to do the right thing, not just act on my own greed. Use me if you choose to do so.”

  The miles sped by, and Alexana sighed repeatedly as her car climbed the streets of Beit Jala, a Palestinian village on the road to Jerusalem. Reaching behind her seat, she grabbed a bright, red-and-white-checked kaffiyeh—the traditional Palestinian headdress—and threw it over her dashboard in a halfhearted attempt to appease potential rock-throwers on the walls and rooftops that lined the road. In years past, she had replaced many windshields damaged by the guerrilla tactics of protesters who assumed she was a Jew; today she passed the rows of simple limestone houses without incident. Either the kaffiyeh protected her, or the Palestinian boys did not bother to lob a stone.

  The next neighborhood, a Jewish settlement, consisted of more limestone houses, surrounded by hundreds of hastily constructed modular units. Alexana shook her head. The “town” had been placed on land allegedly purchased from an elderly Palestinian. Before the PLO or Hamas could act, hundreds of Israeli settlers had moved in. Over three hundred acres had been usurped by vigilant Israelites, dedicated to taking back their homeland by pushing out the other natives, the Palestinians. It was a never-ending, circular battle.

  As she neared the Old City, Alexana decided she needed some fresh air and her brother’s company. After parking outside Damascus Gate, she made her way toward the western, Christian quarter of the city, walking the quarter-mile to her apartment. There was no direct access to her home other than by foot.

  Suddenly she could not wait to see her brother. Sam would certainly have a new joke to tell her, and working alongside him at Caesarea Maritima would feel more like play than work. It would be like a vacation compared to the heavy days she had been through recently.

  Alexana smiled and nodded her way through the quiet afternoon streets, brightening at the prospect. She purposefully looked away from the Temple Mount as she passed it, pushing away thoughts about the caverns underneath, unexplored.

  Turning her mind instead to the afternoon ahead of her, Alexana smiled. It would be good to return to Caesarea, good to get in the water again.

  Twenty feet under the Mediterranean is just where I want to be.

  CHAPTER TWO

  FEBRUARY 1

  Ridge exited a second highway and headed toward the ancient harbor of Caesarea Maritima. The week had continued to run in the eighties, unseasonably hot. He rolled down his window as the road crested and the brilliant blue of the Mediterranean opened up before him.

  The sea was bluer than the Pacific and greener than the Atlantic, a beautiful combination. If there had been palm trees swaying along the coast it would have resembled an island paradise; instead, the harbor created its own mystique marked by grassy, sandy banks and quietly lapping water. The smell of salt filled Ridge’s nostrils. Yes. I like this assignment.

  He neared the ancient site of Caesarea Maritima and pulled to a stop in the parking lot. A quarter-mile off were the crumbling remains—surprisingly intact in places—of a Herodian aqueduct that had once carried fresh water from the mountains and valleys to the coastal residence of the Roman governor. Inside the city walls were the remains of an amphitheater and numerous buildings. Above, a restored Crusader castle was now used as a restaurant for tourists.

  Ridge briefly looked over the sites before heading toward the harbor. He had done his homework. Through the Internet, he had seen drawings of what Caesarea once looked like: Herod had accomplished an amazing feat by constructing the first artificial harbor on the coast of what was then Judea. Built of massive blocks and constructed through the use of slave labor, it had become one of the most prosperous harbors of its time. Entire buildings had stood on the artificial walls, welcoming seafarers from all over the known world.

  Most of what remained of the harbor two thousand years later was under water, leading to this excavation led by Goldfried and Hoekstra, and reportedly cosupervised by the man he sought, Dr. Roarke. Ridge spotted people alongshore: Some were working under several white tents that flapped in the breeze; others were walking between them and beached rafts. The group was a flurry of activity as he neared. One segment carried artifacts from the rafts to giant sieves, then to a large work tent. Another headed back out in rafts powered by small motors to what Ridge supposed was the dive site.

  Shielding his eyes against the sun, Ridge looked out toward the dive boat, where he could barely make out several figures climbing aboard, scuba tanks on their backs. Another motorized raft came toward shore as Ridge reached the tents. He checked his watch. “Good,” he muttered. “Lunchtime. The gang should all be here.

  “Good afternoon,” he called cheerfully to a college-aged girl entering the nearest tent. Catching some extra credit from the university, he surmised.

  Her eyes widened, and she self-consciously touched her tousled hair as she looked him over. There was no mistaking it: The girl’s expression communicated her thoughts as clearly as words could have: He’s even more attractive than he is on television. It wasn’t the first time he’d been recognized. If he continued to do a good job, it wouldn’t be the last.

  Ridge smiled back at her. His dark hair fell across his eyes, giving him a practiced casual look as he brushed it back into place.

  In the international news pool he had made a stir with his roguish looks and unconventional style, but he was an undisputed female viewer favorite. It had helped him land this plum assignment. Ridge knew it. He could not argue with what God had given him and, in truth, did not hesitate to play up his assets to get what he wanted.

  “Ridge McIntyre,” he said, introducing himself despite the fact that the girl had clearly recognized him.

 
; “Jill Jensen,” she said, smiling shyly. “Ridge McIntyre of CNN?”

  “That’s happening more frequently now,” he said, raising one eyebrow. “I’m still not used to losing my anonymity,” he said conspiratorially, leaning closer to her. A visible shiver of excitement shot through her body.

  A large man came out of one of the tents and rang a triangle bell. Ridge smiled at the young woman again, letting his silver blue eyes meet hers. “We’re a long way from the Ponderosa, but I guess whatever works to call in the troops there should work here, too.”

  She giggled and nervously glanced at the ground. His deep voice brought her head back up.

  “Jill, I’m looking for Dr. Roarke. Can you point me in the right direction?”

  “Which one?”

  Ridge frowned. “Alex Roarke, I think it is.”

  “Over there,” she said with a small smile, nodding toward the raft that had just reached shore. “Come join us for lunch after you’re through,” she invited.

  “Why, thank you,” he said graciously, but his attention had shifted to the woman and man who had climbed out of the raft and were walking up the beach to the tents. Where have I seen her before? He racked his brain, but nothing came to him. Better just go introduce yourself to the man you came to see, McIntyre, he chastised himself. Work, not women. Work.

  “Excuse me,” he called. Halfway up the beach, the man and woman turned toward him and in a moment met Ridge outside the main tent. Ridge looked into the man’s eyes. “Dr. Alex Roarke?”

  The man laughed and glanced at the woman beside him. “Bad first move. There’s nothing my sister hates more than being overlooked.”

  Alexana nudged her brother and smiled at the handsome reporter, enjoying his discomfort. He obviously was rarely caught in such a gaffe and was hemming and hawing, trying to figure a way out of the faux pas.

  She decided to show some mercy. “This is my brother, Dr. Samuel Roarke,” she said cheerfully. “I’m Dr. Alexana Roarke.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry,” Ridge said smoothly, drawing on charm to try and save himself. “I obviously needed to do a bit more research on the Roarke family. I’m—”

  “Ridge McIntyre, CNN.”

  “Have we met? I’m sorry, I thought you looked familiar, but …”

  Alexana watched him squirm without apology. She enjoyed putting playboys, particularly journalists, in their places. During their years in the business, the Roarkes had encountered their share of world-renowned correspondents and had been treated unfairly at times. Besides that, she remembered clearly where she had met the man. And right now, the last thing she needed was for Ridge McIntyre to make up a story about Dr. Alexana Roarke and Hamas leader Khalil al Aitam.

  Alexana ignored his question, inwardly acknowledging that it would keep him up all night. All journalists shared one thing: the need to know. “What can I do for you?”

  “The news office says that you’re my best contact for archaeological news in the region,” he said distractedly, obviously still trying to place her.

  “Might be. But I’m sorry—I don’t have time to baby-sit an American journalist.” She walked into the tent and collected a plate full of fruit, cheese, and crackers. The two men followed closely on her heels. Sam couldn’t suppress a grin as he gestured for Ridge to try again.

  “Please, help yourself if you’re hungry,” Sam said inside, waving to the platters in front of them.

  “Thank you,” Ridge said, grateful for the excuse to stick around. Alexana walked away from the serving table and sat on a bench among several raucous university assistants. Her brother joined her, smiling into her frowning face as he left an empty seat beside her for the newsman. Ridge quickly gathered his own lunch and sat down, ignoring Sam’s apparent enjoyment of the scene unfolding before him.

  Alexana scowled at Sam, feeling like she was three years older than he, rather than the other way around. She did not appreciate the fact that he was egging Ridge on. Sam loved to see her put journalists in their place, and Alexana knew that he would love doing it himself even more. I’ve had my fun. Now I just want him out of here, she decided, growing more uncomfortable by the minute. It was only a matter of time before the ace reporter placed her.

  “Look,” Ridge said, after taking a bite of watermelon. “The network would pay you good money to help me out. We’re talking ten, maybe twenty hours a month.”

  The group had quieted, eager to hear what this man wanted from the Roarkes. They broke up laughing at his statement.

  “Big mistake,” Sam said with a grin. “The Roarkes have never been motivated by money. Witness our lavish working conditions.”

  “Well, I don’t know, Sam,” Alexana said, returning his smile. “I’ve been wanting a new BMW …”

  “I can smell a trap,” Ridge back-pedaled, holding his hands up in a gesture of submission. “What can I say to convince you? I need a reputable source in the scholarly and field communities of biblical archaeology. According to the central office, you’re the one I need.”

  “And since I’m not interested in money, what do I get out of the deal?” she asked forthrightly, taking her tortoise-shell glasses off to polish them with a napkin.

  Ridge studied the woman, her hair a damp mass of tangles after her dive. And suddenly his eyes sparkled as he made the connection. Carefully, he chose his next words, spoken so that only she and her brother could hear.

  “Help me, and I won’t dig into the story about the current personal relationship between you—the prominent choice to lead the Solomon’s Stables dig—and international terrorist Khalil al Aitam.”

  Sam’s blue eyes darkened and he rose slowly, physically menacing in his anger.

  “Come on, Sam,” Alexana said quietly, placing a firm hand on his arm as she stood. She put on her glasses and looked at Ridge, her lips set in a grim line. “Perhaps the three of us should take a walk down the beach.”

  “Wait here,” Sam said to Ridge firmly, pulling his sister farther away from him and the spellbound group inside the tent. Sam and Alexana walked about twenty feet, then stood face to face, quietly arguing. Not to hear their conversation was excruciatingly painful for Ridge. Still, he took comfort in the fact that he had found something that could make the seemingly impenetrable Alexana Roarke—and her brother—squirm.

  Seldom had Ridge met a woman who did not cater to his needs and desires in one way or another. It both infuriated and intrigued him. He stared unabashedly at the twosome across the sand.

  “Sana, tell me you haven’t seen Khalil …,” Sam said, shaking his head as if he dared her to tell him otherwise.

  “Look, Sam, I needed to—just for a moment. It was purely professional.” Her tone was firm, not wheedling.

  “Khalil’s intentions have never been professional toward you,” Sam sputtered. “It’s no longer safe to ‘drop in for a visit’ with him, even if he is an old school chum. And you let someone like Ridge McIntyre see you with him? What were you thinking?”

  “Sam, you and I both know that I’ve practically been handed the Solomon’s Stables assignment. I thought I’d try to establish some security for the team, and Khalil was the best man to see about it.”

  Sam snorted. “Right. What’d he say?”

  Alexana turned away. “He asked me to marry him again,” she said, avoiding the real issue. Years ago, soon after they found out he was a member of Hamas, she and Sam had agreed never to see Khalil again.

  Her brother laughed. “And you said?”

  “What do you think I said? ‘Yes, take me away’? Obviously, my mission was futile. Just forget about it. I got out—safe, unharmed.” Her tone brooked no argument as she took command of the situation. If Sam knew that Khalil had told her that even he could not protect her from a Hamas reprisal, her brother would try to stop her from accepting the assignment. She turned back to the reporter.

  “McIntyre,” she beckoned curtly, furious that she had to deal with this at all. If he hadn’t been meddling, Sam would�
�ve never found out …

  As Ridge approached the Roarkes, Sam looked out to sea, seemingly ignoring what his sister was about to say.

  “Khalil would never hurt me,” Alexana began carefully. “Nor is he some Bedouin lover of mine. We’ve been like family since we were this high,” she said, indicating the height of her denim cutoffs. Alexana frowned when Ridge’s eyes lingered on her tan legs and waited until his eyes met her own clear blue ones. She pursed her lips and then shook her head. “You can’t be serious about making up some story about Khalil and me. We’re just two old friends on two very different paths.”

  “If you’re on such different paths, why look him up?” Ridge questioned suspiciously.

  “No comment. You obviously know nothing, so your ‘story’ can’t go anywhere. Idle threats don’t work any better with me than promises of money,” she said haughtily.

  “I’ve made some good connections in the three weeks since I’ve arrived in Jerusalem,” Ridge said. “You of all people should know that, since you saw me track Khalil down—something few have been able to do.” He stopped to take a breath and regain some control, running his hand through his hair.

  He began again, his voice much calmer. “Look. I’m not going to make up some tabloid story of intrigue and love in a Bedouin tent … although it’s tempting. I know that in the past, archaeological digs have been stopped or handicapped by Jewish or Palestinian subgroups who protest. People have been injured. What I offer you is this: the inside scoop on anything I hear that impacts archaeological excavations in the region—including your own—and financial remuneration, simply for being neighborly and giving me a few of your hours.”

  Alexana stood back and thought. She hadn’t the time to keep up with all the politics that might impact her work or those she loved. Besides, if he had connections with men like Khalil, perhaps he would actually obtain some useful information. And who knew if the man would actually develop the story on her and Khalil, if pushed to it? It could be aired in a juicy fashion that might endanger her position as supervisor for the Solomon’s Stables excavation.