An image of his massive bookshelves in the study flashed in her mind. She fingered her journal but didn’t open it. Sharing her work was just so intimate.
She peered up at him. “I must have your word you’ll not laugh at my storytelling attempts or have me committed to Littlemore.”
He snorted. “It would be a crime to lock up your keen mind in an asylum, and I vow I shall not laugh.” He slapped his hand to his heart.
She paused a beat more, then gave in to the sincerity in his eyes. “Very well.” She flipped through the pages until she found the spot where she’d picked up the story earlier that evening.
“As the first blush of dawn kissed the sands of ancient Egypt, a solitary figure stood at the Nile’s edge. Lotusblossoms perfumed the air, but Amun took no notice, for his gaze fixed on the horizon where the ruins of a once-glorious temple rose from the earth like a phoenix reborn. Each weathered stone of Seti-Ama whispered to him from the past, like a lover long gone yet unwilling to let go.”
Edmund arched a brow. “Thisispoetic! I had no idea you—”
She held up her hand, thoroughly embarrassed. “Either I read this all at once, or I don’t read it at all, Mr. Price.”
He pressed his lips tight, and for a moment, she reveled in her power.
Then she went back to reading.
“Amun splashed across the river with long strides, the water cool against his skin. If he didn’t reach the ancient shrine before the sun fully embraced the sky, it would vanish—and wouldn’t reappear for another hundred years. Or so it was said. He wouldn’t live long enough to get another chance at snatching the healing balm from inside the temple.
And Safiyeh wouldn’t live the week if he failed.
His heart quickened with each step. Lungs heaving. Thighs burning. Onward he pressed, taking the temple stairs by two. He tore past the entrance pillars, the acrid scent of sacrifices wafting across the centuries. Blinking in the sudden shadows, he pressed ahead to the altar and grabbed hold of the sacred urn. He had it! In his hands. The famed healing balm of Ko-tesh!
But then the earth trembled. The walls shook. Stones crumbled like the desert sands. Amun tore off like a whirlwind, clutching the urn beneath his arm.
He had barely descended the last stair when a mighty force shoved him face first to the desert floor. Spitting out grit, panting for air, he pushed to his feet, clutching the urn to his chest. Slowly, he turned. Nothing but an endless desert lay barren where once a mighty temple stood.A triumphant grin stretched across his lips as he crushed the urn to his chest in a strong embrace.
‘For you, my sister,’ he whispered. ‘Only for you.’”
Ami closed her journal, fearing to see what sort of reaction played on Mr. Price’s face.
“I had no idea you were such a storyteller, Miss Dalton.” Mr. Price’s crooked finger lifted her chin, forcing her to look into his eyes. “That was beautiful.”
Her heart raced. He’d always looked kindly upon her, but this time something more sparked in his eyes, almost as if he were seeing her in a completely different light—not just as a hireling but as a woman worth cherishing.
Her pulse galloped in her ears.
His gaze flicked to her lips, and her breath hitched. Could it be he wished to kiss her? The idea thrilled—and terrified—for she’d never been kissed before. Never had she time for such triflings. And yet now she leaned closer, drawn by his spicy curry scent.
But just as she was about to end the distance between them, a pang of self-doubt stabbed her chest. She was a bookish miss. He a sought-after bachelor of wealth and power. He couldn’t possibly be interested in her—the person inside her, that is. He had likely pulled this same charismatic trick on countless other women. Used them and tossed them aside, for that was the way of businessmen, was it not?
Pulling away, she set her journal on the stack of papers. “Thank you, Mr. Price. I am happy you enjoyed the story.”
“I did.” He smiled warmly. “Very much.”
Once again her pulse took off. Bosh! As much as she’d like to, she couldn’t deny the attraction of his intelligence, his wit, his rugged charm. But it was more than unwise to pursue a romantic relationship with him. Quite frankly, it would be a train wreck. They were from vastly different worlds. She wouldn’t know how to carry on inane conversation for hours on end at formal affairs, and he wouldn’t have a clue how to read hieroglyphicsif his life depended upon it. Besides, she wouldn’t want to risk losing his friendship if the relationship didn’t work out.
She cleared her throat, promptly changing the subject. “Now, about my day,” she said, hoping to sound nonchalant.
“Indeed.” He picked up his mug, finishing off his drink. “What was it that drove you to such distraction?”
“Several things.” She sighed. “First there was the whole business of the missing coins with Mr. Fletcher, though to his credit, he did return them and explained the situation. Then there was this.”
She beckoned him to the end of the long table to a broken mummy mask. “See here?” She pointed to a jagged edge on one kohl-blackened eye. “The cartonnage has been chipped, either from hasty grave robbers or during transport. Hard to say which. And down farther”—she slid her finger to the chin—“there is excessive discoloration, likely from light exposure, though it could be from moisture as well.”
Mr. Price frowned. “Some missing coins and a damaged item are hardly worth ruining your day.”
“That was just the beginning. When I opened a crate of papyrus scrolls, I found several of them badly torn and stained, one of them beyond repair or deciphering. But most troubling is this.” She waggled her finger as she led him to the door, where a sobering jackal-headed Anubis stood watch.
