Amon frowned. “I think it would be best to hire some women to tend to your bathing.”
Shrugging, I picked up his hand and stroked the back of it. “Too bad. It would be fun to be waited on by my own personal sun god.”
Amon’s eyes narrowed as he gently pulled his hand from my grip. “I am not a sun god, I am a—”
“I know, I know. Would it kill you to humor me once in a while?” I sighed. “A bath does sound good but I assure you, I’m completely capable of bathing sans servants. Sorry you have to be in such close proximity to my odorous self.”
He was quiet for a moment and I thought he’d drifted off, but then, in a soft voice, he said, “The truth is, if I could bottle your water-lily scent and carry it with me as I wandered the desert, even if I was sick from the sun and dying from thirst, only to be saved by a desert sheikh who wished to barter for it, and even should the trading of it save my life, I would not part with it for all the jewels, silks, and precious riches of Egypt and all the lands surrounding it. So to say your scent is pleasant to me is an understatement most villainous.”
The emotions I sensed coming from him were confusing. Regret mixed with a deep-seated yearning was paired with frustration. I couldn’t even form a response to a statement as touching as his. Men didn’t talk like that. Not real, flesh-and-blood men, anyway.
What he’d just said to me was swashbuckling-guy-gets-the-girl, ride-off-into-the-sunset-together level of charm. I didn’t think it was possible for him to actually mean what he said.
“Where’d you get that one? Off the inside of a sarcophagus?”
Amon shrugged but wouldn’t look at me. “Those feelings are the truth,” he finally admitted.
I studied his face, but there was not even a hint of humor in his expression.
“Oh,” I said lamely. “Well, thank you.”
Amon grunted, leaning back against the seat as he closed his eyes. Before too long the driver pulled over and pointed to a nice stucco house. We got out, and Amon’s fingers clung to mine as he leaned in the window to talk with the taxi driver. Because Amon seemed to be taking his time conversing, I wriggled my fingers out of his and pried the keys from his other hand. He gave me a brief look that said Don’t wander too far and turned back to his conversation.
I walked up the short drive to the house, grateful for the trees shading the path. The large sycamores provided a respite not only from the heat but also from the glare of the sun. Osahar Hassan’s home was a small two-story, each floor with an overhang of interlocking red tiles.
Finding the right key, I unlocked the door and stepped inside. Despite the many large windows, the sun wasn’t too intense, so the house wasn’t too hot. Upon closer inspection, I saw that the windows were covered with a dark film that probably deflected the sun’s rays.
Though the outside of the home appeared clean and pristine, all boxy lines and sun-swept tile, the interior was completely different. Every surface was cluttered with Egyptian treasures, from crackling parchment covered in colorful brushstrokes to large carvings. The knickknacks and collectibles were scattered haphazardly, with no design aesthetic whatsoever, and most of them needed a serious dusting. I wasn’t able to tell if they were replicas or the real thing, but I suspected that a man given the responsibility of grand vizier over a centuries-old group of priests might have access to things others did not.
I was crouching, studying a gorgeous cat statue, when Amon came up behind me. He hadn’t made any noise, but by now I was so attuned to him, I could feel his presence. I sensed his warmth as if the sun were at my back. Amon knelt next to me and ran a hand over the head of the cat. “Cats are revered in Egypt,” he said. “Some were even trained to go on the hunt with their masters, capturing birds or fish. When a beloved feline died, the owners typically shaved their eyebrows in mourning.”