Edmund eyed his business partner, seeking truth. He’d trusted this man all the years he’d been in India, and never once had Gil let him down. Besides, he knew better than most the depths to which a heartless woman could drive a man. Save for the odd behaviour and the great amount of alcohol Gil had partaken of since yesterday, there were no other tangible reasons not to have confidence in him now—especially in light of his tale of womanly woe.
But that didn’t mean he must continue putting up with such boorish manners.
“Very well, Gil. If you say so. But”—he leaned back against the table, pegging Gil with a resolute stare—“I will not tolerate any more drinking or dishonesty.”
“Yes, yes! Of course.” Gil racked his stick, then grabbed him by the shoulders. “Iamtrying to change, to become better, for my sake and for those around me. Please don’t cut ties with me. I need your support now more than ever. I need that cargo sold at the earliest possible date.”
The words hit home. Sanjay needed Edmund’s half of the funds even more urgently than Gil did. Edmund rubbed the back of his neck, working out a tight knot. “Trust me, I share your sense of expediency. Your candor, however, is refreshing, though I wish you would have told me of these things as soon as you arrived.”
Gil dropped his hands. “Lesson learned. Forgive me, old man?”
“Just see that you return the coins to Miss Dalton, and all will be forgotten.”
The part about Gil pocketing the coins he could easily disregard. And it helped to know of Gil’s woman trouble and subsequent money issues, for at least that accounted for much of the change in his partner’s looks and demeanor.
And yet, despite the hope of selling the Egyptian cargo, none of this boded well for the future.
Candlelight flickered in the shadowy workroom, wind skritching branches against the windowpanes like the clawing of a beast set on breaking the glass. A night such as this was meant for letting the imagination run far and free. Ami sat on the parquet floor, back against a crate, her pencil flying across the page of her journal. The tale she’d been working on for so long was finally nearing a finish.
Pausing, she tapped the end of her pencil against her lip, rereading a few sentences. Strange. When she’d begun this saga of Egyptian adventure, she’d pictured the hero with almond-shaped eyes and a shaved head. Now, though she tried hard not to, all she could picture was the dusky blue gaze and dark wavy hair of Mr. Price.
Absently, she rolled the pencil between her fingers. The more time she spent with Mr. Price, the more she found herself navigating uncharted territory. It was now his warm laughter that echoed alongside her dream of leading a dig in Egypt, her personal and professional aspirations slowly tangling into a knot... one she wasn’t sure she’d be able to untie. Could one lead expeditions while also building a life with someone?
Her fingers froze at the sudden shift in her usual train of thinking. How could a blue-eyed man cause such a derailment from her formerly single-tracked ambition?
As if the mere thought of the man conjured him, Mr. Price stepped into the room, his presence warming her in ways she couldn’t explain.
“Miss Dalton? I’ve brought you some—” His gaze shifted between her and the chair. “Why are you on the floor? Are you all right?”
With a soft chuckle, she rose, clutching the book to her chest. “Tell me, Mr. Price, do you like to write?”
He paused, his eyes searching hers. “Sometimes, particularly at the end of a grueling day. Ah, a rough one, was it? Don’t tell me you’re penning verse?”
She shook her head, a grin tugging her lips. “I am many things, Mr. Price, but I am not a poet. I couldn’t make words rhyme for a king’s ransom. What have you got there?” She tipped her head toward the mugs.
“Since you missed dinner, I thought you could tell me of today’s discoveries over a cup of drinking chocolate. If you like, that is.”
“How lovely!” Her heart fluttered at the kindness, yet she shoved away the feeling as she brushed aside the papers on the table. Laying her journal atop them, she then grabbed the candelabra from the floor.
As Mr. Price handed her a mug, their fingers brushed, sending a shiver down her spine. So much for shoving away random feelings!
“What were you writing?” he asked as he pulled up another chair.
“Nothing of consequence. Just a little story.” But even as she spoke the words, an inconvenient truth rose up. It had been him she’d been writing of, not Amun. Her thoughts were beginning to be consumed with the man sitting across from her.And as she gazed into his eyes, she couldn’t help but wonder if he felt the same way.
Stars and lightning! What an absurd idea. What was happening to her?
She sipped her chocolate, delightedly distracted by the sweet, creamy flavor. If joy could be sold in a cup, this was surely it. “Mmm. Not only do I understand your obsession with this drink, I share it.”
“I should like to hear it, you know.” He took a sip of his own, his gaze lingering on her.
“Very well. Today I—”
“No.” He eyed her over the mug’s rim. “I mean, yes, I do want to know what made for such a rough day, but first I’d like to hear your story, if you’re willing.”
She toyed with the handle of her cup. She had no trouble whatsoever in submitting articles for archaeological journals, but this? This was far too personal. She shook her head. “I am certain you would not enjoy it.”
He reached out, stilling her hand, and once again his touch jolted through her. “You’d be surprised. I have a fondness for fiction of all sorts.”
