“It’ll cost something to track her down.”
Whit shrugged. “You only need to find the right people.” He rubbed his thumb across my lower lip. “What about afterward?”
There was something that I hadn’t yet put into words. A feeling that stuck close whenever I walked the streets of Egypt. It was telling me to pay attention to my sense of wonder, the stimulating challenge in slowly learning a new language, the warmth and hospitality of the people here. Egypt had sunk deep into my bones, and I knew I’d miss her always. But what if… I called her home? What ifwecalled her home? Working alongside my uncle and Abdullah had brought me joy. To work as a team and support what they were doing had given me purpose. A sense of rightness. I pushed my thoughts out into the open for the first time. “I want to stay in Egypt and fund Abdullah’s excavations. Perhaps purchase a home in Cairo.”
“You’d want to live here?” Whit asked, each word drawn out slowly, as if to make sure he had understood me fully. A tentative smile tiptoed across his face.
“I can’t picture calling anywhere else home,” I admitted. “What about you?”
“I was always supposed to return to England, so I didn’t let myself hope or expect anything different. Much like I hadn’t expected to be married to you.”
“Married,” I whispered. “Tengo un esposo.”
“Yes, you do.”
I’d forgotten he could understand me when I spoke my first language. A pleasant thrill sparked across my skin. This was how it would be between us. Slow early mornings and whispered conversation. He made me laugh, and he was loyal. I trusted him. “How good is your Spanish?”
Whit rose above me, guiding me onto my back. My pulse quickened, stirring my blood. His hair fell in soft waves across his brow, a tangled mess. The broad expanse of his shoulders blocked everything else. Sleepy blue eyes gazed at me, awake but not alert. A lazy smile deepened the corners of his mouth. He bent down, his soft lips gently parting mine, sinking into the kiss with a quiet ferocity, nibbling and tasting.
It was still dark in the room, and it felt like we were in a dream, until I felt his body wake up slowly, his breath coming out fast, his hand sliding down my neck and farther down still.
“Debería practicar más,” he said, his mouth moving against my collarbone.
“What?” I had no idea what he was talking about. A delightful haze had swept through my mind, and I wanted to never come out of it. I would have been fine to be lost forever. No map necessary.
Whit lifted his head, grinning, and I detected a hint of smugness. He moved against me, the long line of him cradled between my thighs, and my breath caught. His smile grew, no more hinting.
I narrowed my gaze. “You’re awfully pleased with yourself.”
“I said,” he whispered, pausing to nip my chin, and then repeated in Spanish, “that I needed to practice more.”
The words were right, but his accent needed work. “You ought to speak Spanish with Tío Ricardo.”
At the mention of my uncle’s name, we both froze. Whit dropped lower, nearly crushing me, and groaned against my neck. Then he lifted and flung himself backward against his pillow.
His voice was flat. “Ricardo.”
“We have to tell him today.”
Whit stared up at the ceiling and nodded. “This morning.”
“He’ll be furious,” I said. “He might hire a doctor; he might push for a divorce.”
Whit slowly turned his head toward mine and met my eyes. His voice was a murderous whisper. “No one is going to dictate my life, Inez.” He tugged me close, and I placed my ear over his heart. The rhythm was steady. “No one.”
I believed him.
We walked down the stairs to the second floor without touching, without speaking. With every step, Whit changed his demeanor in subtle ways, slipping on the mask he wore in front of everyone. The careless rogue whokept a flask within reach, the charming flirt who knew how to coax smiles. This version of Whit was familiar, but I missed the one I’d uncovered in the dark. That Whit held me close, and his words lost their sharp, cynical edge.
We reached a dark green painted door, etched in curls and spirals, but before I could knock, Whit reached for my pinky with his own and held it for the length of a heartbeat. And even though he held on to me with just one finger, I felt connected to him. We were in this together.
Whit released me and opened the door, stepping through first. We were greeted by a messy sitting room. Old newspapers were stacked haphazardly on the coffee table, and there were several trays of uneaten food: pita bread and hummus, bowls of fava beans stewed in tomato broth. Empty coffee mugs littered nearly every surface area.
The room smelled of stale air and male sweat.
I wrinkled my nose. I had tried to keep up with the mess, but Tío Ricardo howled at any interference. He permitted me to sit beside him for a few minutes, but then he would order me from the room to pack.
Whit knocked on the bedroom door, and my uncle’s grunt sent my nerves into a tailspin. My breath shuddered, and Whit must have heard because he pulled me back from the closed door.
