Heather Graham by Arabian Nights

I at least gave you time to get out of the bathtub! And you were so damned sure you knew all about the desert! Well, you don’t know all about the desert—not here, anyway, Doctor! There is a hell of a lot worse that could have happened to you.”
    She started raving again, as best she could with a clamped mouth.
    Dan sighed patiently, deciding to try another tack. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were Jim’s daughter in your first letter? Don’t you realize it was because of your father that I didn’t want to be bothered? I was too worried about Jim to consider anything else.”
    Alex finally quieted. He sounded sincere. He was worried about her father. And wasn’t that what all this was about? She still wanted to kill him—he had thoroughly enjoyed every minute of taunting her. But he was right; she simply wasn’t going to be able to do anything to him at the moment. He would be wise, however, to watch his back when she was in the vicinity.
    “Besides which,” he added quietly, “if you want to meet Ali, you had better calm down. He isn’t especially fond of American women. He married one right after college, and she took him for enough to feed a whole tribe for a decade.”
    Alex remained still, staring into the dark eyes that held hers in their searing gaze. Slowly, very slowly, he removed his hand from her mouth. When she remained quiet, merely gasping slightly to gulp more air, he rolled his weight off her, sitting cross-legged beside her as he continued to watch her warily. Feeling as if she had just been through an electric blender, Alex pulled herself to a sitting position, watching him every bit as warily as he watched her.
    It was he who spoke first. “Alex … Alexis?”
    She shook her head. “Think, D’Alesio,” she said disdainfully. “My father is an Egyptologist. Alexandria.”
    “Then why don’t you sign your damn letters ‘Alexandria’? And why do you go by the name Randall?”
    Alex broke the hold of his eyes and sighed as she gingerly rubbed her wrists. “Randall is my married name. It never occurred to me that you could possibly be so rude as to ignore an urgent letter!”
    “I didn’t ignore it!” Dan snapped.
    Alex shrugged.
    “Where the hell is Mr. Randall?”
    “I—I’m divorced,” Alex muttered. “And there isn’t a Mr. Randall anywhere—there’s another Dr. Randall. I—I’ve never used my father’s name because we’re in the same field.”
    “You are an Egyptologist?”
    “Of course!” Alex said with irritation.
    “Just checking. You don’t look like one.”
    “Oh, really?” she murmured coolly. “I never realized Egyptologists ‘looked’ like anything.”
    He stood, ignoring her caustic remark. With a small grimace he tore the “hook”—expertly applied putty—from his nose. He rubbed his face ruefully, and Alex saw how easily the dark makeup rubbed off.
    How could I have fallen for it? she asked herself incredulously. She had the immediate, bitter answer to her own question. Because D’Alesio was good—as good at disguise as he was at journalism. She hated to grant him either fact, but it was always best to acknowledge the strengths of one’s enemy.
    As she silently watched him, he picked up a clean towel and dipped it into a porcelain washbasin near the bed and studiously scrubbed his face. Still idly holding the towel, he wandered back to her and sat on the carpet, pouring himself another cup of the aromatic coffee. He stared at her again as he sipped his coffee, his face once more familiar. He shook his head slightly as if in disbelief. “Jim’s daughter.” His brows knit in bafflement. “How old are you?”
    “Twenty-six,” Alex said, anticipating his raised-brow reaction. “I know—my father is only forty-four.” She shrugged. “I was the result of a high school romance. My parents married before my father even began in Egyptology.” She hesitated a moment, then shrugged again. “My mother walked out on my father and me