What the River Knows (Secrets of the Nile #1)

by Isabel Ibañez

He cupped my face in his hands and gently pulled my head forward until our mouths met. Neither of us closed our eyes, and the contact rippled outward, an electrical current I felt in every corner of my body. Bubbles of air passed through his lips and into mine. The pressure in my chest decreased and I turned away, not wanting to take more from him. We waited for three more beats, our fingers interlocked, and then Mr. Hayes kicked off the sandy ground and we shot straight upward, his legs brushing against my own as he propelled us to the light.

He pulled me into the circle of his arms. His words came out in a half shout. “Are you all right?”

His light blue shirt matched his eyes and outlined his muscular shoulders.

“What the hell are you doing?” Mr. Hayes said, stepping in front of me. “This is Ricardo’s niece, you bloody idiot. Put the gun down.”

“Put the fucking gun down,” Mr. Hayes said quietly. He didn’t disguise the menace in his voice. “Are you vouching for her?” “I am.”

almost didn’t hear it, my gaze locked on the wet fabric clinging to the sharp lines of muscle delineating the flat plane of his stomach. The wet cotton of his trousers clung to his muscled thighs. He might as well have been naked.

I forced my gaze away, my head oddly swimming. “Did you lose something?” “My brother’s flask. He was very fond of it.” Another crocodile most likely had it now. “Probably for the best.”

He dipped his chin, focused on the knot, his face inches from mine. His blue eyes were lined with dark lashes, spiky with wet. A warm flush danced across my skin and I shivered. Mr. Hayes paused, raised his eyes to meet mine. It annoyed me that I found him handsome when I couldn’t trust him. I bit my lip, and he tracked the movement, his eyelids lowering to half-mast.

“My other one didn’t go with my outfit,” I said. “I had to have a practical disguise.” “My God, it was you,” he said in a marveling tone. “Serving us dinner. I thought I smelled vanilla.” “What?” “Your soap,” he said, imperturbably. “I ought to have known. But I thought it impossible…”

“Good girl,” he murmured, releasing me.

But Whit had helped save my life.

“We had an encounter with the aforementioned crocodile,” Whit said.

I blinked in confusion—did he want me to … no, he’d spoken to Whit, who remained motionless against the wall, his hands tucked deep into his pockets. He might have been posing for a photograph. “Let her stay,” Whit said. “I think she’s earned the right to be on the team.”

“Come now,” Tío Ricardo said. “I’ve seen the way you look at her.”

Whit regarded me in amusement, hands tucked into his pockets, an easy and familiar smile on his lips. He leaned against the doorframe, his chin dipped down, his face hovering so close to mine.

He peered over my shoulder. “Settling in, darling?”

“Now, if I were to call a lady by her Christian name that would be an entirely different story.” I stilled, the ground I stood on shifting under my feet. “Care to elaborate?” “Not really.” I lifted my eyes and met his blue ones. “You called me by my Christian name.” He narrowed his gaze. “When?” “When I was in mortal peril.”

“I’m glad I made it to you in time,” he said softly. “Me too.” He straightened away from the door, a wry smile tugging at his mouth. “Good night, darling.”

“Up all night?” I asked. The corners of his lips twitched, and he arched a brow. There was a wicked gleam lurking in the depth of his eyes, and I knew he was barely restraining himself from saying something inappropriate. But he wouldn’t, not in present company. “I slept fine,” he said in a husky voice.

“A little of everything,” my uncle said vaguely. “He’s an enterprising fellow.” “Thank you,” Whit said in mock seriousness.

Whit gave me the grand tour around the table. “The pastries are called feteer, and it’s delicious slathered in honey. But you can pair it with eggs and salty white cheese.” He pointed to a bowl that held round-shaped food, packed tightly into medium-sized balls. “These are called falafels, my personal favorite. Made of fava beans, and quite savory. Have you tried feta cheese? It’s also delicious with honey.” He paused, throwing me a rueful look. “If you’re thinking that I adore honey, you’d be correct.

Mr. Hayes laughed under his breath. He’d eaten every bite on his plate and was now helping himself to my pastry. As if there weren’t other ones to choose from at the center of the table. Really, his manners were atrocious.

I gathered the front of his shirt in one hand. “Whit.” He looked down, lips parted in surprise. The full force of his blue gaze met mine. He brought his hand up to my cheek, hesitant and slow, almost touching.

Farida lifted it off the table and snapped a photo, and for the next half hour, we took pictures of my uncle and Abdullah, of a laughing Whit as he struck silly poses, and of the glimmering Nile River curling around the rocky bluff.

We ate a delicious meal of falafel, hummus, and a creamy tahini dip, and drank hibiscus tea loaded with sugar. Whit had been right, I adored it.

I turned away from the railing and found him resting on one of the deck loungers. I only had a view of his profile, his eyelashes casting a shadow against his angled cheekbones. He was a handsome young man.

Whit poked his head in. “Well?” I glanced over my shoulder. “I have an idea.” He eyed me warily. “Have I told you how much I live in terror of your ideas?”

Whit stood next to me, and for the first time, I noticed the smallest freckle above his lips. A long shadow scored the line of his jaw. I might draw blood if I let my finger trail it. His blue gaze shifted to mine, as if sensing how keenly I studied every curve of his face.

“Do you remember when she shrank your spectacles?” Whit asked, laughing. “She placed them on your notebook, and you thought they were a spider?” “Oh no,” I said, smiling despite the ache in my heart. “What happened?” “What normally happens to spiders around Ricardo,” Whit said. “He screams at them for existing and then they are subject to the heel of his boot.”

Whit walking ahead. Usually, he matched his pace to mine. Not today, evidently. He had a strong curve to his back, a proud line to his shoulders. I remembered the moment when he’d breathed into my mouth, saving my life in the deep of the Nile River. My stomach flipped as my mind revisited the kiss in Cairo, the slight brush of his lips against my skin. How he’d lingered for one long beat, hovering close, his warm scent enveloping me, faintly smelling like our library back home, old books and whiskey and leather.

Sometimes, I caught him staring when he thought I wasn’t looking.

Whit sat beside me, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles, his back against a low screening wall. He watched my progress as I worked.

“I wouldn’t know, I’ve never danced it.” “I’d rather have the steak. You can trust my word.” That brought me up short. “No, I can’t.” He lowered his lashes and gave me an inscrutable look. “Smart girl.”

The air between us caught, as if on an electrical current that zipped between our breaths. His eyes lowered to my mouth. Warmth spread to my cheeks. I was seized with a desire to tip my chin upward, my lips closer to his.

He lifted his gaze from my work in order to meet mine. “And you? Do you have a beau courting you?” “Not really, but I suppose there is someone if I want there to be.” Whit stiffened, and his lips pinched slightly. An interesting reaction that both thrilled and terrified me. His voice was nonchalant, but I didn’t believe it. “Oh?”

He was next to me in an instant. “I knew you’d find it,” he said, grinning.

I scrambled forward, onto my hands and knees, and crawled toward him. He remained motionless, alert and wary. Our faces were inches apart.

Slowly, I brushed my mouth against his, and I felt him soften imperceptibly. A subtle shift in his weight, his lips relaxing under mine, moving with infinite care against my mouth for one single breath. His tongue touched mine, gentle.

Surrounding us were untold treasures that had been hidden away two thousand years earlier.

Whit tugged me close to his side, the pair of us laughing like idiots. His powerful frame engulfed mine, the long line of his body pressed against my slighter one. Tears streamed down my face, and I blinked them away, not wanting to miss even a moment. Cleopatra’s essence swirled around me, and I understood that there were more objects tied to her, matching the spell caught up in the golden ring.

They cast the chamber in a soft golden glow, touching countless objects decorating the space. They were organized by likeness and size. A large chest stood pressed against the left side of the room, and on the opposite was what looked to be a wooden chariot.

The walls were covered in gorgeous paintings, faded from the long years since the original painters brushed color over stone. Scenes of Cleopatra dining at an elaborate table with golden plates, of her in a long procession surrounded by attendants. A gorgeous couch sat in the middle of the room, sculpted in bronze and inlaid with ivory and mother-of-pearl. The entire room shimmered from turquoise tiles lining the walls, glinting in the candlelight. Plush rugs, rolled up tightly, were propped in both corners, and even from where I stood, I saw the intricate weaving of roses. My fingers itched to draw every detail.

The next chamber was smaller, and at first sight I thought painted entirely in gold.

My eyes were assaulted by the stately beauty. Thousands of objects sparkled back at me: golden shrines topped with statuettes of deities, models of boats and barges, and several chariots.

“The battle of Actium,” Whit said. Abdullah clapped a hand on Whit’s shoulder. “So you do pay attention when I talk. You’re correct. This is when Cleopatra lost everything—family, rank, her throne, lover, and life.”

“When they lost the fight for Alexandria to Octavian, Marcus’s ward and Caesar’s heir,” Tío Ricardo explained, “Marcus Antonius fell on his sword, and Cleopatra followed days later.” Abdullah pointed to the wall. “They are both portrayed here, side by side, along with their children: the twins Cleopatra Selene and Alexander Helios, and then their youngest, Ptolemy Philadelphus. Selene was married off, her twin murdered, and their younger brother was never heard about again, consigned to obscurity.”

“The evil that men do lives after them. The good is oft interred with their bones,” he quoted.

“They are symbols of rebirth and regeneration and serve to protect those who have gone on to the afterlife,” Tío Ricardo answered. “Beetles are also associated with the Egyptian sun god, who, of course, died and was reborn again every day.

With a deep inhale, I walked into the tomb.

“Come, thou mortal wretch / With thy sharp teeth this knot intrinsicate / Of life at once untie: poor venomous fool / Be angry, and dispatch,”