Duel In The Sun

‘So you found her.’

‘Yes. She ended up at Omar Rafiq’s house.’ Lucas turned to Catriona. ‘This is Bryan Stone, the surveyor. And this is Mike Pearson, our plant expert.’

The other chess-player stood up to shake hands. He was younger, around thirty, and there was an abstracted air about him, as if he was thinking of something else. ‘Hello. Catriona Fenton, isn’t it?’

‘Yes. Hello.’

‘And this is our Egyptian colleague, Mohamed.’

The man who had been watching television also stood up. ‘Kayf haalak, tasharafna be-mearefatak,’ he said, bowing over her hand.

‘“How do you do? Pleased to meet you”,’ Lucas translated.

Catriona smiled and came out with her only Arabic word. ‘Shokran. Thank you.’

‘And this is Lamia, Mohamed’s wife.’

Catriona had quite liked the look of Mohamed, but his wife was something else. She didn’t bother to get up but reached up an indolent hand to let it be shaken. In her early thirties, she was dark-haired and attractive, but there was antagonism in her eyes. ‘Hello.’ Catriona smiled at her. ‘I’m sorry I don’t speak Arabic.’

The friendly overture was ignored as Lamia answered in perfect English. ‘How odd that you got lost.’ Making it sound as if she also thought it extremely stupid. ‘How was Omar?’

‘You know him?’

‘Of course, or why should I ask?’ Again as if she thought her a fool.

But Catriona could give as good as she got. ‘He was very well,’ she answered. Adding, ‘How strange, when you know him so well, that he didn’t send you his regards—or even mention your name.’

She thought she heard Lucas give a soft chuckle behind her but couldn’t be sure. Lamia’s eyes narrowed, but before she could speak Lucas said, ‘We haven’t eaten. Is there any food ready for us?’

‘The cook had to stay on. I’ll tell him you’re here.’

Lucas let her go, not offering to do it for her. ‘I’ll show you your room,’ he told Catriona.

He picked up her cases and she followed him up the stairs with her hand luggage. The roughly surfaced walls had been painted white, presumably throughout the building, but were now very dingy, and although there had been a couple of pictures on the walls of the sitting room there was none elsewhere. On the first floor there were six rooms opening off the landing. Lucas pointed to one opposite the stairs. ‘That’s the bathroom. We all have to share it, I’m afraid. And water’s scarce so you’re only allowed two showers a week. Why are you grinning?’

‘“From the sublime to the ridiculous”,’ Catriona quoted.

He had no comment to make about that. ‘This is your room.’ He opened a door to the right of the stairs, took her cases in and dropped them on the bed. ‘See you downstairs in ten minutes.’

The room was clean and had the basic necessities: a bed, just a rail for her clothes, a wash-stand with old-fashioned jug and basin, a table with a light over it, and a chair. Catriona had seen pictures of prison cells that looked more comfortable. And it was so drab: white walls, no curtains at the high window, and a grey-coloured blanket on the bed. With a degree in art and design, it was the lack of colour that most offended her. And it would be the first thing that she would put right, she decided. If she was going to spend six months here, then there would have to be some colour in her life.

There was water, cold, in the jug, and the towels were clean. Catriona washed her face and hands, brushed her hair, added some lipstick, and went down to dine with Lucas Kane.

The dining room had just one large table with half a dozen chairs set round it. But there was a tablecloth, although it was already stained, and there was wine to drink. The food, brought by a white-robed Egyptian boy, was quite good. The conversation, though, wasn’t.

‘Did Omar tell you anything about me?’ Lucas asked her.

‘Only that he knew you.’

‘He didn’t say anything about the dig—or the team?’

‘Only that I would find the house most uncomfortable and I wouldn’t like it here.’

Lucas’s lips twisted into a grin at that, but he gave the slightest nod of satisfaction, making Catriona wonder just what Omar might have told her. Changing the subject completely, he said, ‘What experience have you had?’

Dodgy ground. ‘Didn’t you have my CV? It’s all in there.’

‘Yes, of course—but I’d like to know in detail.’

He would. With an inner sigh Catriona said, ‘I have an honours degree in art and design and did my thesis on the influence of historic costume on modern fashion. I then had a six-month placement in the textile conservation department of a museum, and after that—’

‘They didn’t offer to keep you on?’ Lucas interrupted.

‘No, they couldn’t afford to. They were under-funded and had to keep taking on new graduates for half-yearly placements because that way they didn’t have to pay very much.’

He nodded, apparently satisfied. ‘And after that...?’ he prompted.

‘I worked in various aspects of the textile industry, broadening my knowledge and experience.’ She had quoted verbatim from her CV because it was the best way she knew of covering a catalogue of odd jobs that she had been forced to take to earn a living. In the recession there had just been no jobs going for a young, ambitious girl with ideas of her own. And her looks hadn’t helped; often her qualifications had got her through to the interview stage, but museum curators and prospective employers had taken one glance at her delicate figure and fair beauty and refused to take her seriously, or else thought that she would soon marry and leave.

Once, she’d thought she’d really got the job she so wanted: designing costumes for an opera company who were launching an entirely new production. For a while all went well, but again the lack of finance had intervened, their sponsors had crashed and the new opera had been called off, making Catriona, along with a great many other people, unemployed yet again. For some time after that she’d had to work as a waitress, until she had found the job with a clothing company as a supervisor over a sweatshop of overworked immigrant women. This wasn’t satisfactory, but at least she’d been working with clothes—until the day she had felt driven to complain about the women’s pay and conditions and had been immediately dismissed. But how did you explain that to a man who had never been out of work, had been given his own excavation at twenty-four and had never looked back?

His grey eyes seemed to see into her mind. ‘Elucidate,’ he ordered shortly.

Catriona did so. She didn’t lie, but she made the most of those jobs she’d had that she thought would be an advantage and glossed over those that didn’t, and missed out the waitressing job completely.

She didn’t fool him, she hadn’t seriously thought she would, not once she’d met him and seen the kind of man he was. When she’d finished Lucas said, ‘So beyond six months in a museum, two years ago, you have no practical experience of historic textiles, and probably none at all of ancient Egyptian.’

‘Why did your last textile expert leave?’ Catriona countered.

His eyebrows flickered. ‘Personal reasons,’ he answered dismissively.

But she wasn’t to be put off. ‘What personal reasons?’

‘They need hardly concern you. She just found it necessary to leave.’

‘She? It was a woman?’

‘Aren’t most textile experts nowadays?’ And, before she could answer, ‘Stop trying to change the subject. Have you or have you not any experience of ancient Egyptian textiles?’

‘No. But I—’

‘In other words you got the job under false pretences,’ Lucas said harshly. He frowned angrily. ‘I hate deceit. Can you give me one good reason why I shouldn’t put you on the first plane back to England, and charge you for the fares we’ve wasted?’

‘Yes,’ Catriona answered promptly. ‘You haven’t got anyone else. And I know I can do this job.’

‘Do you?’ His eyes were on her earnest face and determined chin. ‘If I thought that I could get hold of another expert quickly, I’d get rid of you tomorrow. But as it is...’ He shrugged. ‘I have no choice but to give you a try.’

‘Thank you,’ she said unsteadily.