There was someone else who could do that for me. Slowly, I pulled out Mr. Sterling’s card and looked at it, contemplating my options. Whit would not want me to contact him. But if I gave Mr. Sterling the means to find my mother, then I created a real chance for Whit and me to get out of this horrible, messy situation alive. I would do anything to not go another day wondering if Whit would live to see tomorrow.
But the idea of turning to Mr. Sterling for help disgusted me.
My whole life, I worked to earn my parents’ love and approval. I contorted myself into who they wanted me to be, sure that if they saw the real me, they’d try to change me. It was exhausting constantly pretending, constantly biting back my words, silencing my opinions. When I came to Egypt, I had made my own decisions, and sometimes they had been disastrous, but they weremymistakes.
But I fell into the same pattern I always did. I blamed myself for what my mother had done with those artifacts. No grace, no quarter, no understanding. I was done trying to be perfect, done trying to be someone I wasn’t. I had instincts that I needed to learn how to trust. And if I took a wrong turn, I was smart enough to look for a better way to go.
Which brought me back to this annoying crossroad. I still didn’t know how to save everyone I loved in my life.
“Excuse me,” one of the hotel workers said. “Your husband is asking for you.”
I looked to the hotel entrance, gripping the card. Then I deliberately tore it in half.
With a shaky breath, I stood and gave the employee the torn halves. “Will you throw this away for me?”
“Of course,” he said.
Then I turned my feet in the direction of where Whit waited, and I began to walk.
Whit was sitting up on the bed in clean sheets, drinking coffee, hair damp from his quick bath. When I closed the door behind me, his hands tightened on the handle of the cup almost imperceptibly. He seemed nervous. My watery eyes blurred as Whit patted the space next to him. I went to him, sinking onto the bed, and then leaned against his shoulder. Whit used his sleeve to wipe my face, murmuring soft words, somehow tugging me closer so that I sat across his lap. He smoothed the hair from off my face and leaned down to brush his lips against mine.
Need flared between us.
“Come here,” he said, voice hoarse with want.
I glanced at our position, my legs draped over his thighs. “How can I be any closer?”
Whit leveled me with a demanding, impatient look.
That look shot fiery sparks to every corner of my body. It felt like it had been so long since our first time together. That night, he’d taken off his jacket and his boots, laid his gun on the nightstand, and removed his hidden knife. He’d made a handsome armory. This time, he wore only his trousers and a shirt already mostly unbuttoned. There were no weapons between us.
I missed every moment with him more than I had wanted to admit when I’d been so angry at him.
I raised my hand and wrapped it around his neck as he deftly lifted me so that I could straddle him. His mouth moved against mine, kissing me deeply, hungrily, as if he wanted to show me that he really was all right, that he had truly escaped death. I sank my fingers into his hair while his hands drifted down my back until he cupped my bottom and moved me closer. He pressed hot, open-mouthed kisses up and down my neck, and I shivered.
“I love you,” he whispered against my skin.
I leaned backward, far enough so that I could stare into his eyes but close enough to still be in the circle of his arms. His hand slid to my thigh, and he tugged my skirt over my knee. Slowly, I unbuttoned the tiny row of buttons on my shirt. Whit fixated on every inch I revealed. He leaned forward and pressed soft kisses on my skin while his fingers drifted higher and higher. A gasp worked itself out of my mouth as my forehead dropped onto his shoulder. I reached for his trousers, and he helped me shift clothing aside before positioning me right where he wanted.
He lifted his head, a silent question in the depths of his blue gaze, and I nodded, breathless. Our wedding night felt like forever ago; I had been nervous, on a mission to outwit my uncle. But tonight was about me and Whit, and the rest of our lives, or however long we had left. I was safe, I was loved. He cupped my cheek and brought my face close to his, kissing me with a tenderness that felt raw and vulnerable. I sank onto him, and his lips moved to brush the shell of my ear as he whispered, “Good girl.” Then we were moving together, that last bit of distance between us gone forever.
Whit was my husband, my best friend.
He murmured soothing words against my hair, his hands drifting once again behind me, rocking me slowly. “Inez,” he said, and my name was a whispered prayer in his mouth. He kissed me deeply, feverishly.
I forgave him, again and again.
He splayed his hands tight against my lower back, and every thought skittered out of reach. I only knew the tender way he stared up at me, the way he kept me close, and the inescapable feeling of losing control as my body took over. I let it, giving in to him freely.
Nothing else mattered except this moment.
I wanted a million more, and I would doanythingto have them.
We gave ourselves one day together.
One day for Whit to recover fully, for his wound to heal as much as possible, for me to grapple with Isadora’s death, and what it meant. Wespent most of the day in bed, sleeping and sometimes not sleeping, and somewhere in between, making plans for what came next.
The next morning, the sharp sunlight illuminating our room woke me. I blinked, my cheek pressed against Whit’s bare chest, which was rising and falling steadily. He was still resting. Carefully, I shifted away from him so I could look at his wound. It was puckered, the skin less irritated, less of an angry shade of red. The magic had worked, aided by a full day of rest. His soft snoring diverted my attention from his chest and up to his face. Auburn eyelashes fluttered above high cheekbones. His mouth was soft, his wavy hair tumbling across his forehead.
