“What’s with you and beating on women, Serge?”

Light on her feet, she dodged another punch, and swung a return that connected with his jaw. But it wasn’t hard enough to make his head jerk.

“Violence is gauche,” he answered. “I would never harm a woman unless she disobeys a direct request.”

“Is that so? But taking core samples from people is cool with you?”

“As a matter of fact, it is.”

The heel of her boot soared through the air. Serge blocked the roundhouse with a forearm, and swung his other hand to grip her ankle. He twisted her leg, and she went down, her body spinning to land forearms and knees on the snow. But she was quick. Kicking back with her other leg, she managed to bruise the side of his knee.

Serge yelped.

The ground was slick with fresh-fallen snow. He teetered. His heel slid through the wet grass. In that moment, a kick to his ankle knocked him backward. It was humiliating to be felled by a female.

The woman landed on his chest, crouched and determined. She punched his jaw. Once. Twice. The third time, he clapped a hand about hers and kneed her in the gut.

With a ragged grunt, she spilled sideways and rolled across the snowy grass. The open grave lay nearby. She didn’t move. Had he knocked her out? Not from a gut kick.

A small storm aimed for his head was blocked with a fist. The snowball clattered against his elbow. Snow wet his face.

She no longer lay on the ground, nor stood in front of him.

A heavy rubber heel to the base of his spine stung and prickled through his extremities. Serge swung back, growling. He managed to clothesline her across the back of her shoulders.

He lunged and gripped one of her ankles. A hard heel crushed the side of his face. She went down, but gripped the front of his coat. He rolled over her, clasping her in an embrace as he did. Her face landed in the snow and she snuffled. A fist to her gut, right up under the lung left her motionless.

Jumping to his feet, Serge palmed the bowie knife.

Annja groaned and rolled to her back.

She was tiring. But he hated to see her brought to her knees when he was sure she didn’t have the skull. She must have handed it off to someone, or hidden it. And he wouldn’t be able to follow a dead woman. So he’d end this, but not completely.

Annja pushed onto her hands and jumped to stand. A fist to her sternum, right above the center of her breasts, put her back. She wobbled, sucking for the air the punch had stolen from her.

Working swiftly, Serge landed punches to her throat, her shoulder and her jaw. She spun, arms out and groping the air.

Striking her across the back produced an agonizing moan from the woman. She lost balance and fell forward, into the grave.

Working quickly, Serge kicked the dirt over her inert body.

“Sweet dreams, Annja Creed.”

WHILE HER MIND GREW heavy and her lungs took on the dirt’s muffling weight, Annja struggled with the idiotic situation. She’d let the man get the better of her again. And now he would bury her alive!

Why hadn’t she drawn the sword? The thought to do so had tickled her brain. And then Serge had smashed it with his fist. It was as if the sword was being fickle.

Serge still needed the skull from her. So what was his deal?

She’d landed facedown. The hard dirt froze against her flesh. Dirt crumbled on her tongue. Her chest ached from the forceful punch. The earth was icy cold and numbness already thickened her fingers.

Thought about worms crept in. Worms were just wrong. They were about the only thing that could make her get up from a dig and, shuddering, wander off for a deep breath.

They would not be so high in the soil this time of year, she thought hopefully.

Fingers curling, she clawed into the cold earth. The numbness reduced her efforts to futile movements. Lifting an elbow backward to drag through the dirt was difficult. There was little give.

A heavy thud of something landed on her back and squeezed her lungs. He was seriously burying her!

Eyes closed, because her face was flush with the earth, her ears popped. Being buried felt much like drowning. Not that she’d ever drowned, but she had survived a tsunami and was an excellent diver.

The grave had not been deep. Buried three feet under? This should be a piece of cake.

Cake sounded good right now. And what the hell was she thinking? Now was no time for dessert.

An inhale sucked dirt up her nose. She snorted and choked.

Stop panicking, she coached inwardly.

If her breathing accelerated, she’d use all her air. She had recently read about a man buried in thick mud who’d survived two hours through meditation, and a small pocket of air trapped in his hard plastic safety helmet.

No helmet here. And what little air that might have been trapped in her jacket had been crushed out on impact.

To release her next breath slowly, and concentrate on the careful movement of her fingers as they worked through the earth, brought sudden calm. Almost Zen, she stretched out a finger and curled it.

Could she do this? Mediate her way out?

Sound was muffled, yet her heartbeat pounded in her ears. And it was that frantic pace that made her realize meditation was for monks.

Her next intake didn’t enter her burning lungs. Stretching an arm, she thought she felt the dirt loosen. And then she felt…nothing. She’d broken through. The sheer joy of feeling the cold air on her palm ratcheted her anxiety and Annja choked, gasping for air.

When a hand slapped into hers and formed a tight grip, she was too happy to be fearful. She’d hug the bastard and then give him a taste of three feet of battle steel.

Pulled from an early grave, the dirt sucked at her limbs, wanting to pull her back, but relenting. When she was able, Annja toed the grave’s edge and stepped up. The hand released her.

She wobbled and her muscles gave way. Dropping, she landed a graceless, but sitting, sprawl.

Slapping away the dirt from her clothing, she sensed she’d find dirt in strange places later when showering. Almost as an afterthought, she looked up at her rescuer. She cursed.

14

Garin Braden stood six-feet-wow, with broad shoulders and a long black leather duster coat. A fine trimmed moustache edged his mouth and connected to a dark goatee. The snow didn’t touch him, seeming to fear landing on a surface that may be harder and colder than it.

Looking like some kind of devil’s bounty hunter, he grinned slyly at her.

Slapping a hand on her dirt-dusted shoulder, Garin said in his deep, raspy voice, “Annja Creed, I do believe you are in over your head this time. Quite literally, it would appear.”

She shoved his hand from her shoulder. “Yeah?” She shook the dirt from her hair. “When have I notbeen in over my head? It’s what I do. Why should this time be any different?”

Okay, that wasn’t exactly true. It wasn’t what she did. She was an archaeologist with a TV show. She wasn’t an avenger, a heroine who saved the world.

And yet, she’d begun to buy into the superheroine thing. So maybe it waswhat she did. Why did the guy have a problem with that? It wasn’t as though he hadn’t joined her on a few of her adventures. Hell, the man had the most irritating way of showing up at all the wrong times, and even some of the right ones. Like now.

Reaching back, Annja shook out the dirt from her jacket hood. She winced and squirmed when dirt sifted down her back.