Trouble With Harry Read online

  TROUBLE WITH HARRY

  An Ellora’s Cave Publication, August 2005

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.

  1056 Home Ave.

  Akron, OH 44310

  ISBN MS Reader (LIT) ISBN # 1-4199-0326-8

  Other available formats (no ISBNs are assigned):

  Adobe (PDF), Rocketbook (RB), Mobipocket (PRC) & HTML

  TROUBLE WITH HARRY Copyright © 2005 MYLA JACKSON

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book may not be reproduced in whole or in part without permission.

  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. They are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.

  Edited by Briana St. James.

  Cover art by Syneca & Willo.

  Warning:

  The following material contains graphic sexual content meant for mature readers. Trouble With Harry has been rated E–rotic by a minimum of three independent reviewers.

  Ellora’s Cave Publishing offers three levels of Romantica™ reading entertainment: S (S-ensuous), E (E-rotic), and X (X-treme).

  S-ensuous love scenes are explicit and leave nothing to the imagination.

  E-rotic love scenes are explicit, leave nothing to the imagination, and are high in volume per the overall word count. In addition, some E-rated titles might contain fantasy material that some readers find objectionable, such as bondage, submission, same sex encounters, forced seductions, and so forth. E-rated titles are the most graphic titles we carry; it is common, for instance, for an author to use words such as “fucking”, “cock”, “pussy”, and such within their work of literature.

  X-treme titles differ from E-rated titles only in plot premise and storyline execution. Unlike E-rated titles, stories designated with the letter X tend to contain controversial subject matter not for the faint of heart.

  TROUBLE WITH HARRY

  Myla Jackson

  Trademarks Acknowledgement

  The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:

  SpongeBob Squarepants: Michael Evan Shapiro

  New York Yankees: Partnership Composed of Joseph A. Molloy

  Kevlar: E. I. du Pont de Nemours and Company

  Prologue

  Zagros Mountains in the Kingdom of Iraq 1924

  Harry Taylor brushed his hat against his dust-crusted trousers and knelt in front of the sarcophagus. Pry bar in hand, he paused. Within the heavy coffin lay the culmination of five years searching, studying and digging in the driest of deserts near the base of the Zagros Mountains.

  “Are you going to open it, or what?” William Prater, Harry’s assistant and friend, stood on the other side of the stone platform, sand and sweat streaking his blond devil-may-care looks. “Whatever you do, hurry it up. You never know when those tomb guards will show again.”

  “Or the meddling British, for that matter. Give me a hand with this thing.” Harry jammed the pry bar between the lid and the casing and leaned hard on it. A crunching, scraping noise accompanied the incremental movement of the cover as it rasped across the top, revealing the treasure within.

  A glint of light reflected off a shiny surface inside and a squiggly line of carved snakes appeared beneath Harry’s arm. Adrenaline spiked in his system, sending blood racing to his heart. He’d done it! “William, my friend,” he said in a reverent whisper, “we’ve found the tomb of Vashti, daughter of Azhi, the Devil Shah of ancient Persia.”

  “A princess, huh? She was probably daddy’s little girl and completely spoiled. She better be loaded is all I got to say.” Will leaned his shoulder into the lid and it slid to the side, where it teetered for a moment then fell with a resounding whomp, shaking the sandy floor of the tomb.

  “I think we’ve hit pay dirt, Will.” Harry straightened, tossing the pry bar to the ground, excitement bubbling up in his belly at what lay before him. A smile stretched his lips across his face, and he flipped his hat in the air. “Do you realize what we’ve found? Do you have any idea?”

  Will stared down at the mummified remains of an ancient woman surrounded by decayed woven baskets and several unscathed decorative bottles. He frowned, his lips twisting in a lopsided grimace. “A mummy and some old bottles?”

  Harry laughed, his voice echoing off the chamber walls. “Will, look past the dust and decay. Don’t you see the details in the finely woven gown she’s wearing? Look here, the embroidery is still intact. These symbols are those of the ancient lovers, Vis and Ramin. See the stone with the carving of a two-headed dragon lying over the mummy’s head?”

  “So, it just looks like a big dumb rock to me.” Will shrugged. “Big deal.”

  “William, my man.” Harry draped an arm around Will’s shoulders. “Beneath that layer of dust is the most mystical stone known to man. Kings have fought wars to possess it, but it was lost long ago. Heinrich Schliemann himself couldn’t find proof of its existence.”

  Will’s chest puffed out. “But we did it, eh?” He gave Harry a skeptical glance. “So, why’s it so damn important?”

  “Because of the legend.” Will’s lack of enthusiasm irritated Harry. He began to wonder what Will thought he’d been searching for all these months. “The legends say that whomever touches the Stone of Azhi will have great powers. Powers to change the world as we know it. Powers to make every wish come true.”

  “My wish right now is for a ten-pound steak and a woman to share it with.” Will licked his lips. “Suppose it might be worth something back in the States?”

  “It’s priceless—if only for its historical significance. But there are many men who would pay a king’s ransom for its professed magical properties.”

  Will leaned over the mummy and reached for a dusty bottle. “I wonder what the bottles are for?”

  “Probably contained the princess’s favorite perfumes. Never mind them. It’s the stone we want. No one’s gonna pay for old glass when they can have all that power.”

  “Shit, I’ve been three long weeks without the comfort of a woman.” Will waggled his eyebrows. “Does it have the power to grant me a woman?”

  Harry was glad Will had finally understood the importance of their find. He slapped his friend on the shoulder. “Why settle for one? You could buy a dozen women with the money we’ll make.”

  “Hell, I might even buy you one.”

  “No thanks.” Harry lifted a bottle from the collection at the mummy’s feet and brushed the dust from it. The blown glass reflected hues of deep sea green and blue, and was rimmed with gold bands.

  “You aren’t still mad about Fiona, are you?”

  “Not in the least.” He set the ornate container back in the sarcophagus.

  Will lifted another of the glass bottles and tossed it lightly in the air, catching it one-handed. “Good, she’s not your type anyway.”

  What was his type? Someone willing to follow him on wild chases across hostile continents? What woman in her right mind would do that? Harry didn’t know and really wasn’t too interested in finding out. Last one, Fiona, had tried to hem him in with ultimatums.

  Had he stayed, he’d have resented her. Leaving her had been the only answer.

  “I’m so hungry I could eat a steak the size of Cleveland about now.” Will grabbed for the stone at the same time as Harry.

  “Wait, Will. We need to be careful.” What if the legends were true? Could the stone be dangerous? When his fingers felt the smooth points of the two-headed dragon, tingling spread from Harry’s hand up his arm and into his chest. The tingling turned to a burning sensation.

  “What the hell?” Will staggered backward, his forehead creasing into a frow
n. He stared down at his hands and shook them.

  The floor trembled and the walls around Harry and Will shook. Dust rose and filled the air until Harry couldn’t see the hand in front of his face, much less his friend. “Will!”

  “Harry! What’s happening?”

  “I don’t know.” Harry’s heart raced and his breathing came in short gasps, his lungs filling with sand. “I feel like I’m on fire.”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here!” Will called out.

  But the doorway remained shrouded in thick dust.

  The burning intensified until Harry felt he’d been seared by the sun. He gagged and choked on the sand rasping against the lining of his throat. Giant stones fell from the walls and ceiling.

  What a way to go. Just when he’d discovered the stone of Azhi, he’d die in the mummified arms of the devil king’s daughter.

  The dim light from the torches snuffed out and blackness engulfed his tortured body. As if picked up by a tornado, he was jerked off his feet and sucked toward the sarcophagus, spiraling like a puff of smoke filtering through a tiny opening. His body screaming in pain, he could hear Will’s terrified cries echoing his own. Then a loud thump ended the storm, sealing him in darkness. Harry drifted into oblivion, wondering what the hell had happened.

  Chapter One

  Present

  “You’ll never take me alive, you filthy pirate!” Edie held the sword in front of her, her feet planted wide.

  “Ah, but I will, my pretty.” The black-haired blackguard flicked his weapon, deftly sending hers skittering across the ship’s wooden deck.

  Stripped of her sword, Edie backed away, desperately searching for a way to escape this evil man. “I will not be your slave. I’d rather die than suffer your hands on my body!” Her back made contact with something solid, the heavy oak of the ship’s main mast.

  The captain of the ship, Black Bart, the fiercest pirate in the Caribbean, nodded to his men. Edie’s arms were caught on either side and quickly tied behind her to the mast.

  “Seems you’ll be doin’ me biddin’ after all.” The bare-chested captain, bronzed muscles rippling over his chest, stepped closer and trailed a finger down Edie’s cheek. “Ummm, ye smell of flowers. I would taste of yer nectar.” His finger trailed lower to skim the top of her bosom bared by the low cut of her gown.

  All air left her lungs and she teetered on the edge, the lusty captain’s magnetism drawing her nearer like a potent spell.

  His mouth hovered over hers, his breath warm against her skin.

  If she lifted her face just a fraction, their lips would touch. Despite her claim to the contrary, she longed for a kiss from the legendary pirate. Ached for the weight of his swarthy bare chest pressed against hers. He nudged her bodice lower, exposing one breast, its nipple pebbled into a hardened peak.

  “Ah, the flower’s petal is ripe fer pluckin’.” Black Bart leaned in and flicked the tip with his tongue and stood back, his arms crossed in front of him, a twinkle in his bottomless black eyes. “What think ye, lass? Shall I pluck ye, or walk away?”

  Her sensitive skin quivered when the cool air kissed her moistened breast. Fear had transcended into blood-searing desire. “Don’t tease,” Edie whimpered, ashamed of her body’s fevered response. She’d said she’d die before he laid a hand on her body, but she knew in her heart, she’d die if he didn’t. With a frustrated sigh, Edie rose on the balls of her feet, straining to press her breast into the pirate’s mouth. She wanted more.

  “It’s a different tune ye be singing now, wench.”

  “I don’t care. Touch me, Black Bart. Make me yours!” God, how she’d always wanted to say that.

  “Edie!” A harsh voice echoed off the high ceiling of the museum warehouse.

  Edie’s arm jerked, and she dropped the ancient sword she’d been holding, the metal clanking against the cement flooring. Damn, he’d caught her daydreaming again.

  “Yes, Mr. Baumgartner.” She scooped up the weapon and stuffed it in the padded crate she’d been unpacking. “I’m coming!”

  In her sensible pumps, Edie hurried across the crowded warehouse floor to Mr. Baumgartner’s office. Before she stepped in, she paused a moment and smoothed the dust from the apron covering her khaki skirt and plain white oxford shirt. She wrinkled her nose. Her clothes were just like her, plain and dowdy, her only outstanding feature being her flaming red hair.

  “You can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear, Edie.” Her father’s words echoed in her mind. He’d said them often enough, they must be true.

  Her father. Edie tried again to think of a reason to be sad she’d moved out on her own, but couldn’t. Since her mother died, her father hadn’t had anything nice to say to her, about her or anyone else for that matter. When her mother was murdered in a dark alley, the father she’d known and loved died with her.

  “Woman, get in here!” Mr. Baumgartner yelled.

  With a start, Edie jumped across the threshold into the dimly lit office. “Sir.”

  Mr. Baumgartner sat at his desk, scribbling into a ledger. “We got a crate from that dig in the Zagros Mountains. I want you to open it and catalogue everything inside it. Supposed to be some dead princess or other. If you need help, get the janitor to assist. I expect the sarcophagus will be heavy.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Edie,” the man gave her a narrow-eyed look over the top of his reading glasses, “if you find anything interesting, let me know.” His attention dropped to the ledger on the cluttered desk.

  “Of course, Mr. Baumgartner.” She hesitated in case he had more instructions.

  He looked up again, a frown denting his uni-brow. “Whatcha waitin’ for? An invitation? Go on!”

  “Yes sir.” Edie dashed for the door. She didn’t like it when Mr. Baumgartner yelled at her. He reminded her too much of her father. If only she had more of a backbone. If only she didn’t get cold feet at interviews and go all tongue-tied. If only she had a little encouragement, she’d leave this morgue of a museum and find some adventure. Travel, see the world.

  If only.

  Edie trudged through the aisles of crates and cartons carefully stacked on shelves and racks in the warehouse. When she reached the overhead doors at the rear of the museum where delivery trucks deposited new arrivals, she found the box marked “Zagros Dig, Iraq”.

  “This must be it.” Pulling a crowbar off the wall, she began the laborious task of stripping the wooden slats from the crate. She’d do as much as she could by herself before she asked for help. She didn’t like to ask anyone for help, because that would mean actually making conversation with someone besides her boss. A shiver ran down her spine and her stomach burbled.

  In her imagination, she was strong, fearless and desirable, capable of speaking to huge gatherings of people without a problem.

  But reality had a way of showing her for her true self—doormat, Edie Ragsdale. Scared of her shadow, dowdy as a dishrag, Ms. Ragsdale. Destined to be alone.

  Edie sighed. She couldn’t change who she was, and why should she? She’d still work in this musty old museum, she’d still live alone. Who could possibly find her interesting?

  When the boards were cleared away, the carved stone sarcophagus stood in solitary dignity, out of place in the modern cardboard and foam-peanut world of the warehouse.

  Edie wondered who this person was to have such an intricately carved casket. The likeness on top indicated a female. Etched over her head was the shape of a two-headed dragon, its body tangled over the woman’s head as if protecting or imprisoning her.

  Was she a great queen of some legendary kingdom? Or had she been the wife of a cruel ruler, who beat her to death for some imagined infraction. Perhaps she was the lover of a man who’d worshiped the ground she walked on.

  Whoever she was, Edie suddenly couldn’t wait to get the lid off and see what, if anything, was inside. She ran to find Ernie, the janitor.

  “Don’t know why ya gotta open old smelly caske
ts,” Ernie mumbled. “Some things are best left in the ground where they belong.” Within minutes, Ernie had the lid off and carefully placed to the side of the sarcophagus. As quickly as he’d come, he left, muttering something about cleaning toilets in another part of the vast museum.

  The mummified remains of the woman smelled like dust and old bones. Edie had seen her share of mummies, each telling a story of its own. Tucked next to the mummy’s feet was a bottle, coated in the dust of perhaps thousands of years.

  Curious, Edie carefully lifted the bottle and rubbed the sides with the soft cloth she kept tucked in her pocket.

  The floor shimmied and thunder rumbled outside.

  Edie set the bottle back in the sarcophagus and strode to the dingy window. Was it going to rain? She hadn’t brought an umbrella and she’d be walking home soon. Damn. Why didn’t I bring an umbrella?

  What little bit of sky she could see between the buildings looked as it had that morning, although the gloom of dusk cast long shadows into the alley. No clouds skittered by, no hint of rain. Then why had she heard thunder? Maybe it was a garbage truck dropping a dumpster onto the pavement. Sometimes they made enough noise she’d mistake it for thunder.

  No matter. The skies were clear and, as soon as she cataloged the items, she could go home. With a shrug, she turned back to her work only to stop dead in her tracks.

  A tall, naked man stood next to the ancient coffin, stretching as if he’d just woken from a long sleep.

  Edie gasped, the only sound in an otherwise silent cavern. This man very much resembled the pirate in her daydream. Dark-haired, suntanned. Her heart skittered erratically, her pulse banging against her throat. He was naked. Totally naked. Her gaze skimmed—okay, slowly perused—from the top of his shiny black hair and over his angular face, continuing downward. She panned the wide expanse of his smooth brown chest tapering to narrow hips. Nestled in the dark shadow of curly hair, his penis hung flaccid, but still most impressive.