All For A Dead Man's Leg

Excerpt:
TEASER EXCERPT
Unable to orient myself, I closed my eyes again and snuggled closer to the other body. If I was suffering from hallucinations, so what? The person beside me turned over. Strong arms wrapped around me. Mmm.
Then Will kissed me again. I knew it was Will. I recognized the lingering scent of his musky aftershave spiced with a smidgen of salt from the ocean water, the firmness of his lips, the muscled chest and slightly coarse hair. Everything I’d fantasized about all day. This time I was breathing, so I responded with enthusiasm.
Nice. Really nice.
Finally, he eased us apart and sat up beside me. He placed his hand on my shoulder and gave me a little shake. “Come on, Harriet, open your eyes. I know you’re in there.”
With reluctance, I did as I was told and smiled up at him. “How’d you know I was awake?”
In the subdued light, his teeth flashed as he smiled. “Well, let’s see. You stuck your tongue down my throat and nearly chewed my lip off. That’s a pretty sure sign.”
“Sorry,” I said, not sorry at all. “I was dreaming.”
“About what?”
“I’ll never tell.” I adjusted the covers around me, my face burning. Considering the fantasies I was having, I must be feeling a lot better. “How, ah, did I get like this?”
He knew exactly what I meant. “I had to warm you up.”
I propped myself up on my elbows, making sure the blanket was tucked around my chest.
“Warm me up for what?” My imagination shifted into overdrive, running away with me. It must have shown on my face. Maybe it was the way I was panting, not to mention the drooling.
He laughed as he climbed over me, got off the bunk, and stood up. I was disappointed to see he was wearing an ill-fitting pair of trousers that looked too short for him. Only his chest was bare.
“Not warmed up for what you’re thinking. I mean warmed up as in not dying. You know, to prevent hypothermia. Any other kind of warming you up might be a little awkward right now.” He indicated our surroundings with a lift of his chin.

CHAPTER ONE
Looking back on it, I could see now that everything would have worked out fine if Archie Philpot hadn’t chosen that particular time and place to die.
Not that he did it maliciously, mind you, nor did he exactly choose. But I’m sure that if he’d thought about the welfare of the many—our tour group, to be specific—as opposed to the convenience of the one, he might have staved off the event for another ten or twelve hours. Then there would have been no problem.
Well, not exactly no problem.
But perhaps I should start when everything began to fall apart.
My name is Harriet Ruby, Tour Director Extraordinaire. Or so I’d thought. I had just begun to believe my first solo stint in Europe was a roaring success, when we got lost in the medina—the ancient walled city—in Tangier, no less.
“Let’s stop here for a moment,” I called to my tour group.
While they assembled, I glanced around at the souk, the market place within the city walls. It was a maze of tiny shops, tents and winding passageways crowded with Moroccans.
“I’m never going to find my way out of here.” I pulled out my cell phone and punched in my driver’s number. Mario knew the route and spoke Arabic, but he had gone to fix a flat tire on our bus while I herded our fourteen tourists around the medina. That was two hours ago.
No answer.
Harriet, this does not bode well for your goal of a long and successful career in the tour business.
With the back of my hand, I swiped at the perspiration popping out on my brow. “Please, stay right here and don’t go anywhere. I’ll be right back.”
All of them smiled and nodded. Grimacing, I hurried to one of the tea shops we had passed to look for someone who spoke English. No luck. I was only gone for two or three minutes, I swear—well, maybe it was five or six—but when I returned to the place where I had left my tourists, they were gone.
This was not starting out to be a good day.
“Mez Harri Boobies!” The shrill cry sliced through the confusion of sweating bodies crowding the market. An arm shot out of nowhere, and a brown hand clamped about my wrist. I swallowed my shriek of surprise. Tangier was rife with hands that grab at foreigners.
“Mez Harri Boobies, you come queek,” the man whispered in my ear. “Mezter Pillpot no good, yes? You come.”
“It’s R-u-b-y, not Boobie.” I repeated my name for Mr. Takamura, one of the three almost-English-speaking Japanese tourists in the small group I was directing through Spain and Morocco. While my name was not destined to be in lights on Hollywood marquees, for the past twenty-four years it had served me well enough. I had a sentimental attachment to it.
Without a reply, he released my arm. Insinuating his slight body into the crush of street peddlers, dirty children, and veiled ladies, he moved quickly out of sight. With a deep sigh, I followed him, devastated by the foreboding that I would be nicknamed Hairy Boobies for the rest of my career as a tour director, which might not be very long after this little incident.
He penetrated further into the ancient market through twisted narrow passageways filled with malodorous bodies and a myriad of colors rippling in the heat—the red, blue, amber, purple of clothing, goods for sale, food, tents. In pursuit, I skirted white-robed Moroccans bartering for goods, men sipping
Mint tea, and women painting the hands of girls with rich sienna-colored henna. The humid air, replete with an exotic mixture of scents—ginger, curry, rare perfumes, cigarette smoke, donkey dung—stirred my senses. The babbling of many languages and the lilting of pipes assaulted my ears.
“Wait!” How in the world had they gone this far in such a short time?
He stopped for an instant, turned and waved. Then he disappeared again. Finally, Mr. Takamura stopped in a small plaza with a colorful tiled fountain in the center, a calm refuge in the midst of chaos. In stray beams of sunlight, tiny motes of dust danced in the thick atmosphere. The Japanese gentleman waited for me to catch up, then smiled and bowed.
My gaze followed his nod. “Ohmigod!”
Archibald Philpot of London, the most distinguished and eldest of my tourists, knelt doubled over the lip of the fountain, hurling his guts. Oh, boy.
My tourists—three American and two Swedish couples and the other two Japanese—watched with helpless concern on their faces, while a growing knot of Moroccans glared at us with mayhem in their dark eyes.
The disbelief and thin-lipped anger on their faces indicated they were not pleased about the desecration of what was probably their water supply. I couldn’t blame them. This could get dicey. A drop on sweat dribbled into my eye.
Edith Johnson, a ditzy fiftyish blond trying to look thirty, was the first to see me. She clapped her hand to her bosom and cried, “Thank goodness you’re here, Harriet. Do something.”
Who, me?
I dropped down beside Archie. His complexion was gray-green, his rheumy eyes were glazed over, and by the stench, I guessed the poor man might have a case of diarrhea. My stomach heaved. Swallowing hard, I managed to maintain my tour director decorum. This was definitely not in my job description.
I gently put my hand on the man’s forehead. His skin was searing and he perspired profusely. He vomited again. I closed my eyes in resignation—well, maybe in part because I don’t really like the looks of barf—held his head and decided that tour director wasn’t such a wonderful profession anyway.
Mr. Takamura, rather inappropriately attired for such a sweltering day in a three-piece silk suit, sat down on the fountain’s ledge next to where I knelt. “I do okay?” he asked, beaming.
I nodded. “Thank you for bringing me.” There was no point in asking how they had ended up here. It was enough that they were still together. “Please, help me get him up.”
One thing you could say for Mr. Takamura. In addition to the fact that he had an unpronounceable first name that sounded like Bon Jovi, he was always ready to help regardless of how overdressed he was. He got down beside me in the gunk and helped pull sweet old Archie out of the fountain. Finally, Bob Feldman, one of the Americans, joined us.
The three of us heaved the gasping old gentleman to his feet. His flyaway white hair stood out in clumps in all directions, and his vest was soiled. His wire-rimmed glasses and duck-headed walking stick were gone. Lifting his arms over our shoulders, we half-carried, half-dragged the stumbling eighty-five-year-old to a nearby café’s outdoor dining area.
“Put him here.” I pulled out one of the chairs with my foot. The men got him into it, and I placed his arms on the table so he could lay his head on them. He looked as though he was simply taking a short nap. Rolling my eyes upward, I sent a fervent prayer to heaven that his condition wasn’t too serious.
“Mr. Takamura…Bon Jovi.” I mumbled his name to hide my weakness in Japanese pronunciation. “Would you please buy a bottle of water inside? Thanks.” I handed him two fifty-Dirham coins. He took them, bowed and rushed off to make the purchase.
Okay, so this is a setback. But things had a way of turning out all right. Always the optimist, I pasted a perky smile across my face and clapped my hands for attention.
“All right, everyone, let’s get the group together,” I shouted, my voice oozing with tour director enthusiasm. I hadn’t been a cheerleader in college for nothing.
While they assembled in a loose circle around me, I tried phoning Mario again. Still no response. Once everyone was there, I counted twelve plus Bon Jovi still in the café and Archie draped over the table. As I looked at each of them, a slow burn in the pit of my stomach rose as bile in my throat.
Damn Mario. Damn the whole Adventure Seekers Travel Agency. It was their fault I was here, alone and unable to speak the language. When I accepted this gig on a moment’s notice, they promised my driver would stay with me at all times.
My charges stared back at me with expectation on their faces, waiting for direction. I gave myself a little shake to force my mind back to grim reality.
“As you can see, Mr. Philpot—Archie—isn’t feeling well.” I gestured toward him, still asleep or passed out on the table. “We’ll stop here for some refreshments and give him a few minutes to rest. Everyone go inside and make your selections.”
Once they all had the beverages of their choice and found places to sit outside, I slumped down beside the patient. He hadn’t moved, so I sat there and watched his back as he took slow shallow breaths. The poor man probably needed a doctor, but I honestly didn’t think I could find my way out of the medina without help. With Mario unreachable, what was I going to do?
A hand on my arm made me jump. My shin hit the wrought iron table leg with a hard thunk.
“Ow!”
“Excuse me, Miss,” a pleasant deep voice whispered close to my ear. “You seem to be having some difficulty. May I help?”
Rubbing my injured leg, I turned. Sitting at the next table was a bronze-complexioned man of indeterminable origin. He wore tan slacks with razor-sharp creases down the legs and a black short-sleeved shirt open halfway to his belt. Nestled in the curly hair of his chest lay a thick gold chain. His impossibly long legs stretched out in front of him.
Although he appeared to be in his early thirties, his dark hair—in a spiky, longer-than-military cut—had just enough gray at the ears to be very sexy. His blue eyes, brilliant and clear, locked on mine and sent me floating through space like a slow motion Alice in the rabbit’s hole. My senses swirled in a cloud of musk-mixed-with-danger scent. My temperature went up ten degrees, and a swarm of butterflies tap-danced in my stomach. Wow!
I don’t know how long I gaped at him before things snapped back into place.
“Help? Difficulty?” I repeated, still a little dazed by his incredible good looks, but the words registered. Oh, thank you, God. I promise I’ll never sin again. Actually, I had done quite a bit of bargaining with the Almighty since I’d embarked on the tour, but this promise was heavy.
“Yes! Yes, I do need help. I’d be forever grateful if you could get me and my group out of the medina and back”—I paused and racked my brain for the name—“back to Jamaa el Fna Square.”
The stranger raised one eyebrow and blinked. “Marrakech?”
I blinked back, nonplussed. “Marrakech?” For a moment, I thought we were speaking different languages.
“That’s where Jamaa el Fna Square is located.” He grinned. My legs started to melt into the paving tiles. Thank goodness, I was sitting down.
I waved my hands. “No, no, I meant the square here…in Tangier. Where the tour buses stop.”
“Hmm, yes.” He nodded and smiled, flashing straight white teeth. “Forever grateful, you say?” he repeated in a low, sexy voice.
Wow again. He was drop-dead gorgeous. My cheeks warmed as I rummaged around inside my brain for a witty response and came up empty.
He rose, ignoring my embarrassment, made a slight bow, and held out his hand. All charm. “William Talbot, at your service. Call me Will.”
I cleared my throat so I could speak. “Hello, Will.” I shook his hand with a firm grip, determined not to be judged as weak. “I’m Harriet Ruby, tour director with Adventure Seekers Travel.”
He eyed Archie collapsed on the table. His nose twitched slightly. “Won’t you join me over here?”
I must admit, by now Archie did smell a little ripe. I nodded and moved to the empty chair at his table.
He raised his thick, dark brows. “Tell me, how is it that a tour director needs help getting out of the medina?”
“This is my first solo as a tour director here in Europe.” I lifted my shoulders in a shrug. “To make a long story short, I was supposed to be an assistant-trainee for the season with the regular guide who does these Spain-Morocco trips. Unfortunately, for both of us, he was in a motorcycle accident the day before we left. So, here I am.”
“They turned you loose in Morocco alone?” He sounded incredulous.
“Not exactly,” I replied and explained my situation. “I have plenty of experience as a tour guide in the States, and my driver has done this trip for years. We were doing fine until Archie Philpot got sick. Now, I need to get my group back to the bus so I can find a doctor for him.”
“And you haven’t got a clue.”
It hadn’t taken him long to peg me, had it? Who was this guy? A mind reader? My face flushed again and I hoped he hadn’t tapped into my less-than-chaste thoughts.
“Right.” What else could I say?
“Well, then.” He pushed back his chair and stood, tall, well-muscled, and somehow even more handsome than before. Upright, he exuded the slightest hint of danger which made me tingle all over. I was always a pushover for the Bad Boy type.
“I’m not a doctor but I’ve had some medical training. Let me take a look.”
I braced my hands on the tabletop and rose slowly. Did I dare put the health of one of my tourists into the hands of a complete stranger just because I found him attractive? My first inclination was to trust Will, and I did need help. Archie Philpot was depending on me. Since nothing really bad or traumatic had ever happened to me, I believed everyone meant well. Things would always work out, right? But still…
“I appreciate your concern, but the welfare of these tourists is my responsibility. I don’t even know you.”
He watched my hesitation and smiled. My temperature rose another five degrees and my insides went squishy. Yikes. That smile could melt diamonds.
“Ex-military, Special Forces,” he whispered. “Trust me.”
What choice did I have? I sighed and nodded. I mean, I would be standing right next to him, wouldn’t I? What could happen?
He shot me a nod of approval, then gently lifted the old man’s head, peered into his eyes, and took his pulse at the neck. Since this stranger seemed to know what he was doing and didn’t need my advice, I counted my flock again to appease my paranoia over them disappearing a second time.
“Is he very sick?” I asked Will in a whisper, moving close so the others wouldn’t overhear. “Do I need to take him to a hospital?”
He straightened and squeezed my hand in his. “No, Harriet, there’s no need to take him to a hospital,” he returned my whisper in a low grim tone, softened by a curious look in his eyes. “I’m afraid Archie Philpot is quite dead.”
“What?” I cried at the startling news just delivered by my would-be savior. “Dead?”
I managed to whisper the second word before the troops realized what I was yelling about. Still, everyone looked at me with curiosity.
“Sorry,” I called out and waved them away with a flap of my hand. “We’ll be leaving in just a few minutes. Finish what you’re doing.”
I grabbed Will by both arms and hauled him off to one side. Sweat broke out on my forehead and dribbled into my eyes, stinging them.
“He can’t be dead.” My voice came out as a hiss. I wanted to wipe away the perspiration with the back of my hand, but I didn’t dare let go of him. “He was alive a few seconds ago.”
Will pried my hands off and held them in his, a reaction to my fingernails digging into his flesh. “I’m afraid he’s not alive now,” he said for my ears only. “I’m not an expert but—”
“But you’ve had training,” I cut in with a tad too much sarcasm as I fought the panic welling inside me. “Ex-military. Special Forces. I’m supposed to trust you, remember?” Yeah, right.
His brilliant blue eyes clouded with hurt, and he let my hands go. Instantly I regretted my words. I’d missed a good opportunity to keep my mouth shut. I flicked my tongue across my suddenly-dry lips.
“I’m sorry. I’m a little stressed right now. What were you going to say?”
He cleared his throat. “I was going to say,” he replied, his cool tone giving me a taste of my own medicine, “that although I’m not an expert, it looks like poison to me.”
My jaw dropped and I took a step back. “Poison? How…how do you know?”
“I don’t, for sure, but I’ve seen this kind of thing before.” He ran his fingers through his hair, leaving a slight trail by skewing the dark spikes. His hair looked soft. I was tempted to reach out and check. “Based on the timing, his color, the vomiting and all, that’s my best guess.”
At that point, my legs gave out. I pulled a chair away from a nearby table, plopped down with a groan, and dropped my head in my hands. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about the nickname. This disaster was likely to get me blackballed from every respectable travel agency on the planet. Tours to the International Space Station would be my only hope.
“That’s just great. I told them not to eat anything here without checking with me first.” I paused. A fat lot of good that would have done. What did I know? “Do you suppose he bought something tainted from a vendor in the medina?”
“I doubt it.”
“Then how could he get himself poisoned?” Icy fingers crept up my spine and I began to shake. I had no doubt that Will knew what he was talking about, and the idea that he did made me uncomfortable. Well, frankly, it scared me. Lust-at-first-sight notwithstanding, this wasn’t a good time to get all fluttery about a man, even this to-die-for hunk.
He procured another chair and sat next to me. “Harriet,” he whispered softly in my ear as he put his arm around my shoulder. A shiver slid down my spine, and my skin tingled all over. For half a second, a sense of well-being settled over me, as though everything would be all right. “I suspect that Archibald Philpot wasn’t just an ordinary tourist.”
My feelings of security vaporized. I pulled away staring off into space. Who was this guy?
I sat silently for a few moments, unsure if Will was serious or playing with me. “What makes you think that?”
“Mmm,” he hummed, avoiding an answer to my question. “You’ll have to trust me.”
That didn’t sit well and made me all the more suspicious. After all, he was a perfect stranger. But there was something about him, apart from his good looks and gorgeous body, that did make me want to trust him. He seemed so competent and confident. So sincerely concerned.
But could I rely on my own judgment right now?
Finally, I turned toward him and mustered my most serious tone. “I don’t know who you are, William Talbot,” my mouth turned down with a frown, “but if I understand you correctly, you’d jolly well better turn out to be James Bond.”
He nodded and patted my hand. I presumed he was responding to the “understanding correctly” part of my statement and I sputtered a few unladylike words under my breath.
“So…” I took a deep breath and struggled for some degree of composure, “you mean it’s not just a dead body I’ve got on my hands, but an international intrigue?” I looked into those blue pools and, for a moment, wanted to go swimming. Then I snapped back to reality.
“What…what am I going to do?” Tears prickled behind my eyes. “I’m lost, I can’t speak Arabic, and if I get everyone back to the plaza, Mario probably won’t be there with the bus. I have to report this and I don’t even know where the American Consulate is.”
Will’s eyes narrowed slightly, and a look of alarm rippled across his face. He took me by the shoulders with those warm bronzed hands and gave me a tiny shake as though desperate to get my attention. “Oh, no, Harriet. You can’t report this.”
“Why not?” To me that was the appropriate, and legally required, thing to do. But what did I know?
“For starters, the Moroccan government would detain your entire group until everyone was questioned and all the paperwork was completed. That could take a week, maybe even two.”
I blew stray tendrils of hair off my face. “You mean we’d be quarantined?”
He shot me a phony-looking smile. “Well, not exactly quarantined…but close enough. Besides, reporting Archie’s death would be much too dangerous.”
Dangerous? I wrinkled my nose and strained my brain. Inconvenient, yes. A disaster, yes. A financial loss for Adventure Seekers and for me, yes. But dangerous? Usually I was never at a loss for words, but this time I could only ask, “Why?”
Seemed like a perfectly logical question to me.
Without answering, he jumped to his feet and pulled me up along with him. “Stay here. Get your group together, but don’t let on that anything is wrong. I’ll be right back.”
“You’re not leaving me here alone, are you?” As much as I wanted to trust him and knew I shouldn’t, my pulse accelerated and my mouth went dry and fuzzy as though it had sprouted fur. Part of me—my left-brain, maybe—was puzzled. Miss Independence never relied on others. The rest of me teetered as though I was going to faint.
He shook his head, a tiny smile turning up the corners of his mouth. “Does James Bond ever leave a beautiful damsel in distress?” He leaned down and planted a kiss on my forehead.
My heart pounded against my rib cage as I watched him disappear amongst the crowd in the market. Absently, I touched my forehead with a finger tip, the moisture of his kiss still on my skin. It might have been fear sending the ’ol ticker into palpitations—for all I knew, that would be the last I’d see of him—but it might be something else that put my pulse into orbit. I couldn’t help sighing. Maybe William Talbot wasn’t the real James Bond, but I’d have welcomed that kiss a few inches lower.
Once he was out of sight, I took a moment to gather myself and rally my resources. It took everything I had, but I pasted that big smile on my face again and clapped my hands as I stood up.
“C’mon, everyone,” I called out. “I’ll give you five more minutes to buy post cards, then let’s get ready to rr-rum-ble.”
The tourists were grumpy but they all laughed, except Bon Jovi and his Japanese friends who saw the serious side of everything. They took my joke as a directive, dashed over to the nearest postcard vendor, and began making purchases in earnest.
By the time I had them rounded up, Will had returned—thank goodness—with a short rotund man wearing a striped robe. At one time, the garment had been woven of bright yarns, but now it was faded and a bit dark and ratty around the hem. He had a dark beard flecked with gray and his head was covered with a keffiyeh that resembled a plaid dishtowel. They were both speaking fluent Arabic.
Oh, yeah, Mr. James Bond a.k.a. Will Talbot was full of surprises.
“Time’s almost up,” I called to my group. “Mr.—” Just in time I bit back the name Bond. “Uh, our local guide, Mr. Talbot, has found a…paramedic to help us with Archie.” I motioned everyone back into line and made tracks to intercept the two men before they got too close.
“Who is this?” I asked Will. If any of my tourists believed the man in the disheveled robe was a paramedic, I was Madonna.
Will gave me a military salute and bowed slightly. “Harriet Ruby, meet Essi Ahmed Mutassim O’Reilly. He’s an old friend. He works for Mohammed Brothers Rug Emporium down the way.”
I rolled my eyes. Was that minimalist explanation supposed to tell me something?
“How do you do?” With exaggerated politeness, I extended my hand. The Arab took it with a firm, friendly grip that surprised me.
Will leaned close to my ear and whispered, “Everything I said is true. He really does have medical training. I wouldn’t jerk you around about that.”
Yeah, yeah, yeah. Ex-military, Special Forces, trust him and all that. By now, I knew the drill, but at the moment, I was beginning to wonder whose military we were talking about.
“May I call you Essi?”
“Essi Ahmed is fine.”
Oo-kay. Biting my lower lip, I looked at Essi Ahmed. “So, what’s the plan?” I sincerely hoped there was a plan.
Essi Ahmed smiled, exposing large stained teeth, and reached up to put his arms around both our shoulders. Will had to stoop but the Arab and I were eye to eye.
“This is what we’re going to do. One of my men will go in front of your group. He’ll blend in and no one will notice him. You follow him and he’ll lead you out of the Kasbah.”
I blinked. His English was perfect and his accent American. If he hadn’t grown up in the United States, he must have lived there for some time. To my surprise, the guy impressed me, so I didn’t question—out loud, anyway—the plan or the phrase “my men.” Did he command an army? Was he with the FBI? The CIA?
“You have to act like you’re in the lead,” he went on. “As far as everyone else is concerned, Will is just a friend who’s joined you.”
I shook my head. “Not possible. Our insurance won’t let me bring an unauthorized person with the tour. I told my people he’s our local tour guide.”
Essi Ahmed released us and stroked his beard thoughtfully. “That will work. He’ll stay in constant communication with my man in front. I’ll bring up the end of the line with…the sick guy.”
“With Archie Philpot,” I corrected him. No one in my group was a guy. “What about stragglers?” By the expressions on both of their faces, it was another one of my not-so-professional questions. Well, how did I know?
The Arab smiled, and I noticed a wide space between his front teeth. Something green was wedged there, and I guessed he’d eaten spinach for breakfast.
“Don’t worry, they won’t get past us.”
I opened my irrepressible mouth to ask if this was a rescue or a SWAT operation, but good sense prevailed and I clamped it shut.
Who were these people?
The shivers in my bones were enough to convince me they were professionals. Professional what, I didn’t know, and I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out. I only wanted to get my group out of there and back to the bus.
So we set out. One anxious tour director, the enigma William Talbot a.k.a. local guide, thirteen tourists, one dead and possibly faux-tourist, and an unidentified gaggle of Arabs, Essi Ahmed’s men.
My job was to act casual…this was just another day of touring in Morocco. I pulled off the casual part, but kept a keen eye on Will so I wouldn’t get lost again.
I couldn’t see Essi Ahmed What’s-His-Face O’Reilly—I wanted to hear the story behind that surname—and his buddies behind us. For all I knew, they could have rolled up poor Archie, stuffed him into a black and white bag, and were kicking his dead remains like a soccer ball through the rat maze.
Trust Will, I reminded myself for the umpteenth time, and tried to ignore the chill inside me. Like a good tour director, I focused on my responsibilities. My primary objective was getting my still-alive tourists back to the plaza and onto the bus. I didn’t want to think about what would happen after that.