Always Emily. Mary Sullivan
set her away from him, his hands hard on her shoulders. “I’m not your friend, Emily. The next time that jackass hurts you, the next time he screws around on you, don’t come crying to me. If you leave tomorrow, this will be our last time together.”
She struggled to catch her breath. She wasn’t this kind of woman. She didn’t keep two men at one time. When Salem had been married, and since her relationship with Jean-Marc started, she’d been careful to not give Salem any sign he might construe as encouragement. She had put aside her youthful infatuation, had buried it deeper than the most elusive artifact, opting instead for only friendship and a shoulder to cry on. By the time Annie died, Emily had already become deeply involved with Jean-Marc.
Shaken that she’d almost lost reason, she stepped away.
Salem wreaked havoc with her good intentions. And he hadn’t even kissed her. Lordy, Lordy, what if he had?
She swiped beads of sweat from her upper lip and pulled herself together. Her hand shook. Salem, what you do to me should be against the law.
“I have to go back,” she whispered. “There are things—”
“Fine. It’s over.”
She saw red. She didn’t know that could be real, but holy relics, it was. “Over?” she asked, her voice dangerously quiet. “How can something be over when it never began?”
“Get on that plane tomorrow morning and consider us done. The next time you visit your family, stay the hell away from me.”
He strode to his beat-up old Jeep, slammed the door and spewed gravel, leaving ruts in the side of the road.
Her best friend, her onetime crush, meant it. He never wanted to see her again.
The air around Emily became thin, leaving her dizzy. For too long, she had taken Salem for granted, had assumed he would always be here waiting for her. Now he was gone, as far away from her emotionally as Jean-Marc was physically, and it cut a dent into her heart, hacked out a hunk of it and left it bleeding on the road.
Exhausted, she got into her car to drive home to her father’s house, in the opposite direction Salem had gone, and wasn’t that freaking symbolic?
Hadn’t they always been heading different ways?
Stay here with me.
Oh, Salem, and what would I do about my work? About my...my what? My boyfriend? What a pale description for her relationship with Jean-Marc. And too simple. My lover? Yes, that, but more.
The following morning, although it made her sick in both heart and body, she boarded the plane to return to work and Jean-Marc.
Present day
“STAY WITH ME,” Jean-Marc said, bringing back memories of one year ago, when the words came from a better man. She’d made the wrong choice, and now it was too late. Too late to get Salem at any rate.
She could certainly dump Jean-Marc, though, and gladly.
“We can work everything out,” he said, ramping up the charm with his too-easy grin and continental good looks—long tawny hair and ghostly pale blue eyes above high cheekbones in a rugged face. Over time, the elements roughened his skin and made him look even better, as though the sun’s sole purpose was to serve this man. She’d grown tired of his looks and his arrogance. Other women hadn’t. They flew to him like moths to a flame, but like a flame, Jean-Marc burned brightly but only briefly for any given woman.
Women envied her. Don’t, she should tell them. He’ll only tear you to pieces, too, just as he has me.
Brilliant at getting governments and countries to open their borders and doors to him even in tumultuous times, when others couldn’t, Jean-Marc had an enviable reputation in the world of archeology. He knew how to work the press, how to make digging in the dirt sound sexy and how to promote himself as much as any of the ancient ruins on which he worked. He brought glamor to archeology. With his daily tweets and constant Facebook presence, added to his raging good looks, he’d become a star.
Humans were a great lot for mythmaking. She got that. In her line of work, how could she not? But her job was to separate fact from fiction. It should have been Jean-Marc’s, too, but somewhere along the way, he’d begun to believe his own press. He thought he was God, all-powerful and above reproach.
“We can work this out,” he repeated.
“Stuff it, Jean-Marc.” Yeah, she was being rude. Dad’s wife, Laura, would be appalled. Dad, on the other hand, would applaud. He was a fighter like Emily. A scrapper. She’d held her tongue for too long, the result of being involved with one’s boss. Foolish girl.
Two nights ago, she’d caught Jean-Marc in bed with the latest PhD groupie, another one drawn in by his charisma. Until now, she’d been able to deny these things happened. In a weird and wonderful way, she was relieved that it was all out in the open. She could end it cleanly. If only she didn’t feel so lousy. If only her breakfast would stop playing hopscotch in her stomach.
Over the years, she’d endured whispered rumors about his affairs and pitying glances. She’d ignored it all. No longer. “I’m sick of it.”
She lifted her backpack onto the bed to fill with her carry-on items. She had a flight to catch. Yesterday, she’d boxed up her tools and had arranged to have them sent home. She’d said goodbye to dear friends and colleagues.
A hot breeze blew the dust of the desert in through her open window. Local merchants hawked their wares four stories below. Inside, Jean-Marc tried to sell her damaged goods. “Come on,” he said. “Be reasonable.”
God, what an asinine phrase. Jean-Marc meant, Agree with me.
“Save your smiles for the young women you chase.” She packed her cosmetic bag. “They no longer work on me.”
Emily shoved a sweater into her backpack, ready to walk out of this man’s life for good. It had taken her a year to come to her senses.
“You’re running away.” If one more man told her that, she would scream.
Disillusioned with him, she’d also come to the end of her love affair with the past. Somewhere along the way, archeology had lost its magical allure, had changed from the excitement of revealing ancient treasures and had become...digging in the dirt.
Relics, the secrets of ancient worlds, still commanded her respect and awe, but she was tired of it. She needed a firmer attachment to the present. She needed to get a life that worked. Past time to go home, she was determined to get out of here in one piece, with her sanity intact.
Too late, kid. That’s long gone.
She swiped a hand across her brow, skimming sweat from her forehead. She was used to the heat of the desert, but today’s heat was way too high for May. Even her brain felt foggy. She’d lost track of their argument. What had Jean-Marc said? Oh, yeah.
“I’m not running away,” she stated. “I’m leaving. There’s a difference.”
“Explain it to me.” She already had, but Jean-Marc was a notoriously bad listener, especially when he disagreed with a point.
She’d given the man too much, because that’s what she did as a matter of course. When she committed, she gave her all. It had been her downfall with Jean-Marc.
Time for self-preservation.
She stuffed all of her socks beside her one sweater. Why did she bother? They were ragged. It might be hot as hell in the desert in the daytime, but nights were cold. She’d worn the daylights out of her clothes. They’d become as ragged as some of the relics she’d unearthed in her career, and a sad metaphor for her life.
Time for a new me. It starts with a clean break.
“We can work things out,” Jean-Marc insisted.
“Really? By me being a doormat while you sleep your way through all of the young beauties of the Sudan?”