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Half-frantic, I thought of something to say that might buy me more time. “After our day together in Cairo, I thought we’d become friends.”
“I don’t have those anymore,” Mr. Hayes said matter-of-factly. “Why on earth would you think so?”
A deep flush burned my cheeks. “You’ve just saved my life. We’ve dined together. You kissed me goodbye?”
“It was your mistake to read into my behavior. I treat everyone the same. And if you thought we werefriends,you might have not lied to me, pretending to be someone else on this damn boat.”
Red-hot embarrassment flowed under my skin. I recalled staring stupidly after him as he vanished inside of the hotel, touching the skin his lips had grazed. “So, you kiss every person you meet.”
The corners of his mouth deepened. “Is that a question, Olivera?”
“Well, why did you?”
“Why not?” He lifted an indolent shoulder. “Not everything has to mean something. It was just a kiss.”
“Be careful. Your cynicism is showing.”
“No sense in hiding something you’ve seen from the beginning.” He sighed. Without disturbing his seemingly casual pose, his hand shot forward, ensnaring my wrist in a tight hold. He grinned at my astonishment. “Let’s get this over with. Am I dragging you to him, or will you walk with me?”
I lifted my chin, my jaw set, and I fought to ignore how the warmth of his fingers was wreaking havoc on my heartbeat. “Have it your way, then.”
“Good girl,” he murmured, releasing me.
We strode side by side, Mr. Hayes somehow leading me to the saloon, without actually stepping in front of me or touching me again. He had that kind of presence that commanded obedience. But for some reason, I got the impression that he pushed any form of leadership away with both hands.
He glanced down at me.
I swallowed hard and grimly stared ahead, not wanting to show any of the inner turmoil I felt. Sweat gathered in my palms. I had to make my case to stay.
Mr. Hayes stepped aside at the entrance of the saloon.
I leaned in close, close enough to see every faint line across his brow, the subtle narrowing of his gaze. “If my uncle does decide to turn us around and take me back, then I want you to know something.”
He watched me warily. “What is it?”
I knew just how to unbalance him. “Thank you for saving my life. And regardless of what you might think, I do consider you a friend,Whit.”
He blinked with a quick inhale that was so quiet, I might have missed it had I not been standing less than a pace away from him. The words were true. He’d jumped in after me, just like a friend would have. I didn’t trust him, or his involvement with my uncle’s schemes.
But Whit had helped save my life.
I strode past him, my heart clamoring against my ribs. My uncle sat at the round table, poring over documents, a cup of black coffee at his elbow. His pen scratched in his journal, and he muttered something to himself in Spanish. He heard our approach but didn’t look up.
“What the hell was all the commotion, Whitford? Mr. Fincastle make good on his threat to shoot crocodiles?”
“That he did,” I said.
My uncle turned to stone.
I felt, rather than saw, Whit’s presence. He stood behind me, lounging against the wall, his ankles crossed. Absolute silence stretched, thickening with tension. Tío Ricardo’s fingers flexed around his pen, and then relaxed. Slowly, he lifted his head, his mouth hammered into a thin, pale slash. He regarded me in stunned horror, his attention drifting to the long tunic enshrouding my slight frame, dripping water onto the saloon’s carpet.
“Why are you both wet?”
“We had an encounter with the aforementioned crocodile,” Whit said.
“Jesucristo.” My uncle shut his eyes and then opened them, hazel ones so like mine. “You disobeyed me,” he said in marveling tones. “Do you have any idea of what you’ve done?”
“No, because you won’t—”
