“Yes.”
“Light one for me.”
Her plique-a-jour Faberge
cigarette case with her own brand of Egyptian cigarettes was
resting beside her reticule on the coffee table next to where he
was standing but he didn’t have the energy to argue. When he passed
her a lighted cigarette she was spraying on French perfume from an
atomizer on the dressing table. “What are you doing now?”
“Spraying on some perfume.”
“Yes,” he managed to articulate
through gritted teeth as he passed her the lighted cigarette, “I
can see that but the man in the corridor doesn’t care whether you
smell like French lilies and if it’s for my benefit you can stop
right there.”
“Muguet.”
“What?”
“It’s lily of the valley, not
lilies.”
He was tempted to tell her men
didn’t care about distinctions like that, especially when it was
the wrong side of midnight. “Look, it’s not that I don’t find you
desirable but I’ve been averaging two hours sleep for the last
week, I’m spent, plus I’ve still got a few things to take care of
before I hit the sack.”
She took a soignee puff of the
cigarette and handed it back to him. “Here, this is for you.”
He heaved a weighty breath.
“You’re the one who asked for a cigarette, remember?”
“Yes, but it was for you that I
asked. A lover sneaking out of the bedroom of a lady in the middle
of the night needs to look as if he is floating on a cloud of
post-coital bliss. How can you do that if you are not smoking?” She
passed him the cigarette, mussed up his hair and undid his bow-tie.
“That’s better. Now let’s step into the corridor clinging
passionately to each other. You can kiss me goodnight. And try to
look as if you are ecstatically exhausted rather than merely
spent.”
This was the sort of undercover
work he liked best. He unlocked the door, swept her off her feet
and delivered the sort of post-coital bliss most women could only
dream about.
As he swung her round and round
in heady, giddy, breathless circles, the Nubian leaning against the
wall, half-asleep, quickly roused himself and darted for cover.
7
Sekhmet
“Mistress of Dread. Lady of
Slaughter. She who Mauls. One who is Powerful. One before whom Evil
Trembles.”
Professor Mallisham was
entertaining the passengers with an impromptu lecture on the
goddess Sekhmet during lunch which was served on the aft deck under
a striped canopy beneath an unchanging stretch of cerulean
blue.
“Her breath created the
desert,” added Miss Lee, hanging off his every word.
The professor smiled
indulgently, as one does at an adoring acolyte or a precocious
child eager to impress. “Quite right, Hypatia.”
Everyone noted that he used
Miss Lee’s first name. The cattle king scowled at the familiarity
and the liberties the louche seemed to be taking since they boarded
the river steamer. He was starting to regret this birthday trip and
dreaded what might happen once he returned to Texas and left his
only daughter to the designs of the sandgrubber. He was considering
offering Mr Longshanks a generous stipend to ditch the employ of Mr
Cassel and work for him instead. The English chap could keep an eye
on his daughter, act as private body-guard, and thwart the
intentions of the gold-digger.
Miss Clooney seemed to have
undergone a change of personality since they boarded too; she had
come out of her shell. Instead of hiding away in her cabin, she
mingled with everyone on the promenade deck. The cool breezes
blowing off the water probably agreed with her. “Sekhmet wears a
red tunic – that’s unusual isn’t it, professor? In the drawings, I
mean friezes that I’ve seen painted on the walls and in books,
well, most of the figures are wearing white.”
“Quite right, Daisy, well
observed.” Praise caused the wallflower to turn pink. “Sekhmet
wears a red tunic to symbolize the blood-red waters of the Nile
during the time of the annual flood when silt from the upper
reaches pours over the delta.
“Light one for me.”
Her plique-a-jour Faberge
cigarette case with her own brand of Egyptian cigarettes was
resting beside her reticule on the coffee table next to where he
was standing but he didn’t have the energy to argue. When he passed
her a lighted cigarette she was spraying on French perfume from an
atomizer on the dressing table. “What are you doing now?”
“Spraying on some perfume.”
“Yes,” he managed to articulate
through gritted teeth as he passed her the lighted cigarette, “I
can see that but the man in the corridor doesn’t care whether you
smell like French lilies and if it’s for my benefit you can stop
right there.”
“Muguet.”
“What?”
“It’s lily of the valley, not
lilies.”
He was tempted to tell her men
didn’t care about distinctions like that, especially when it was
the wrong side of midnight. “Look, it’s not that I don’t find you
desirable but I’ve been averaging two hours sleep for the last
week, I’m spent, plus I’ve still got a few things to take care of
before I hit the sack.”
She took a soignee puff of the
cigarette and handed it back to him. “Here, this is for you.”
He heaved a weighty breath.
“You’re the one who asked for a cigarette, remember?”
“Yes, but it was for you that I
asked. A lover sneaking out of the bedroom of a lady in the middle
of the night needs to look as if he is floating on a cloud of
post-coital bliss. How can you do that if you are not smoking?” She
passed him the cigarette, mussed up his hair and undid his bow-tie.
“That’s better. Now let’s step into the corridor clinging
passionately to each other. You can kiss me goodnight. And try to
look as if you are ecstatically exhausted rather than merely
spent.”
This was the sort of undercover
work he liked best. He unlocked the door, swept her off her feet
and delivered the sort of post-coital bliss most women could only
dream about.
As he swung her round and round
in heady, giddy, breathless circles, the Nubian leaning against the
wall, half-asleep, quickly roused himself and darted for cover.
7
Sekhmet
“Mistress of Dread. Lady of
Slaughter. She who Mauls. One who is Powerful. One before whom Evil
Trembles.”
Professor Mallisham was
entertaining the passengers with an impromptu lecture on the
goddess Sekhmet during lunch which was served on the aft deck under
a striped canopy beneath an unchanging stretch of cerulean
blue.
“Her breath created the
desert,” added Miss Lee, hanging off his every word.
The professor smiled
indulgently, as one does at an adoring acolyte or a precocious
child eager to impress. “Quite right, Hypatia.”
Everyone noted that he used
Miss Lee’s first name. The cattle king scowled at the familiarity
and the liberties the louche seemed to be taking since they boarded
the river steamer. He was starting to regret this birthday trip and
dreaded what might happen once he returned to Texas and left his
only daughter to the designs of the sandgrubber. He was considering
offering Mr Longshanks a generous stipend to ditch the employ of Mr
Cassel and work for him instead. The English chap could keep an eye
on his daughter, act as private body-guard, and thwart the
intentions of the gold-digger.
Miss Clooney seemed to have
undergone a change of personality since they boarded too; she had
come out of her shell. Instead of hiding away in her cabin, she
mingled with everyone on the promenade deck. The cool breezes
blowing off the water probably agreed with her. “Sekhmet wears a
red tunic – that’s unusual isn’t it, professor? In the drawings, I
mean friezes that I’ve seen painted on the walls and in books,
well, most of the figures are wearing white.”
“Quite right, Daisy, well
observed.” Praise caused the wallflower to turn pink. “Sekhmet
wears a red tunic to symbolize the blood-red waters of the Nile
during the time of the annual flood when silt from the upper
reaches pours over the delta.
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