Chosen (3 page)

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.

She studied him intently before speaking again. “I usually manage to keep up on anything that might impact my dig, but I’m going to be very busy in the next few months,” she admitted casually. “I suppose I can consider your offer, give you a couple of days.” Her face remained impassive. “But after this month, I cannot promise you any particular amount of time. I can only give you what little I can spare.”

“Great,” Ridge said, taking her admission for agreement. “An in-depth analysis of the people and politics of the Old City is what I need the most. I’m leaving town for a few days. Can we meet at the end of the week?”

Alexana turned away, walking back toward the tent. “I live in the Old City. You can look up my number,” she said over her shoulder, dismissing him.

“I’ll just do that,” he muttered, averting his eyes before Sam caught him staring at Alexana’s legs again. He turned to walk back to his car. Her voice stopped him. She stood, twenty feet away, blond hair flying in the ocean breeze.

“One more thing, McIntyre. As I said, I don’t have time to baby-sit a journalist. You step on any of my friends’ toes, and we’re done.”

“I don’t need a baby-sitter, Alexana. I need a competent source.”

T
he ancient black telephone rang for the eighth time. Alexana sleepily reached for it with one hand, while holding a pillow over her head with the other. Blindly locating first the huge dial holes, then the cradle, she lifted the receiver and slowly brought it to her ear. “Roarke here.”

“I’ve been trying to reach you for days. I thought we were to meet at the end of last week.”

Alexana recognized the famous voice from her brother’s television. She supposed many women would be thrilled to be on the phone with the man who had been labeled “News Junkie Hunk of the Year” by
People
magazine, but she did not consider herself a part of the man’s fan club. “I just got in. I was away doing research,” she said idly, determined not to explain herself further.

Alexana smiled as she listened to the static on the other end.
That put him in his place.
The reporter, for once, was silent. It probably shocked him that she didn’t jump to be at his beck and call. Perhaps he had expected her to call him for breakfast as soon as he got back from wherever he had been. Alexana could just picture the playboy with a girl in every port: a shapely model from Madrid, a flight attendant in Paris …

Ridge cleared his throat. “Yes, well, I was wondering if you’d be
available to meet me for lunch today. I’ve cased the streets—gotten to know the city pretty well. But I need more. I need to know it like the locals know it.”