Free Sands of Time (Out of Time #6) by Monique Martin

bait dangle in the air.
    “Cairo Museum?” Whiteside said. “I have an appointment there tomorrow, but it won’t take long.” He ignored the look his daughter shot him at that remark and pushed on. “Perhaps, you’d join me? I’d be more than pleased to stand in for Mason, as it were.”
    “That’s very kind of you, Professor Whiteside,” Simon said.
    “Arthur,” Whiteside said. “Any friend of George’s and all that.”
    Simon felt the familiar warmth of Elizabeth’s hand as she slipped it into his under the table and gave it a “well done” squeeze.
    Jack sighed. “Museums.” He held up his hand in apology. “No offense, Professor. I was kind of hoping to see a little of the city. Poke around a little.”
    “We can meet up later,” Simon said and then added with a conspiratorial whisper in Whiteside’s direction. “He’s not the academic type.”
    Whiteside smiled in understanding.
    “Speaking of, is that Budge?” Simon asked, nodding down at Whiteside’s book.
    “Yes!” he said, pleased and obviously not realizing Simon could read the author’s name at the top of the page. “It’s quite good. Really quite good. Have you read his Legends of the Gods?”
    “No,” Simon said. “I—”
    “Fascinating!” Whiteside said as he ran his finger over the text and read with dramatic flair. “The legend of Heru-Behutet begins with Horus holding the hippopotamus-fiend with a chain and spear! Behind him stand—”
    “Father,” Christina admonished. “Not at dinner. Remember the rules?”
    It took Whiteside a moment to stop the freight train of his enthusiasm, but when he finally did, his face filled with chagrin. “You’re right, of course, my dear. Forgive me?”
    She smiled kindly at him. The shy child was gone, and a lovely, compassionate young woman appeared.
    Whiteside put his hand over his daughter’s. “Her mother, God rest her soul, made me promise not to bring my work to the table. Said the sand got into everything.” He smiled and laughed lightly, but it was clear to everyone that the thought of his late wife still grieved him deeply. Simon did not blame him for that. He cast a quick glance at Elizabeth. He did not blame him at all.
    Dinner was surprisingly good. The food wasn’t quite up to the level one would find in the finest French restaurants in Europe and New York, but it was still excellent. Both Whiteside and his daughter were pleasant enough company and, as far as Simon could tell, genuine. There was always the risk that anyone they might meet could be an agent of the mysterious Shadow Council Travers had mentioned. However, Simon found that highly unlikely in the Whiteside’s case.
    They spoke openly and freely of their lives in England where the Professor had retired from teaching and his position as curator for the Ashmolean, a venerable and well-respected museum at Oxford. Representatives from every major museum in the world were in Egypt for the season, all vying for the best artifacts to send back home.
    “A nest of vipers,” Whiteside called them. “Don’t let Winlock’s winsome good looks fool you,” he added with a nod toward the excavator from New York’s Metropolitan Museum, who was anything but handsome. “Beneath that broad smile and broader mustache lies the heart of a brigand. Mata Hari in tweed.”
    Whiteside’s eyes flashed with humor and he couldn’t contain his smile.
    “Oh, father,” Christina chided him gently.
    “In all seriousness, it is nasty business—acquisitions. There’s a great deal of money at stake.”
    “And no small measure of pride,” Christina added with a sly smile.
    His eyes glittered. “It is quite the dangerous game.”
    “Don’t believe everything my father says. He’s prone to exaggeration.”
    He might have been overstating things a bit, Simon admitted, but considering the money involved in antiquities, he might not be far off. Had that been why Mason befriended Whiteside? Was the watch mixed in with other