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“You’ve found her,” I replied back in English. His breath smelled faintly of hard liquor. I wrinkled my nose.
“Thank God,” he said. “You’re the fourth woman I’ve asked.” His attention dropped to my trunks and he let out a low whistle. “I sincerely hope you remembered everything.”
He didn’t sound remotely sincere.
I narrowed my gaze. “And who are you, exactly?”
“I work for your uncle.”
I glanced behind him, hoping to catch sight of my mysterious relative. No one resembling my uncle stood anywhere near us. “I expected him to meet me here.”
He shook his head. “Afraid not.”
It took a moment for the words to sink in. Realization dawned and my blood rushed to my cheeks. Tío Ricardo hadn’t bothered to show up himself. His only niece who had traveled forweeksand survived the repeated offenses of seasickness. He had sent astrangerto welcome me.
A stranger who waslate.
And, as his accent registered,British.
I gestured to the crumbled buildings, the piles of jagged stone, the builders trying to put the port back together after what Britain had done. “The work of your countrymen. I suppose you’re proud of their triumph,” I added bitterly.
He blinked. “Pardon?”
“You’re English,” I said flatly.
He quirked a brow.
“The accent,” I explained.
“Correct,” he said, the lines at the corner of his mouth deepening. “Do you always presume to know the mind and sentiments of a total stranger?”
“Why isn’t my uncle here?” I countered.
The young man shrugged. “He had a meeting with an antiquities officer. Couldn’t be delayed, but he did send his regrets.”
I tried to keep the sarcasm from staining my words but failed. “Oh, well as long as he sent hisregrets. Though, he might have had the decency to send them on time.”
The man’s lips twitched. His hand glided through his thick hair, once again pushing the tousled mess off his forehead. The gesture made him look boyish, but only for a fleeting moment. His shoulders were too broad, his hands too calloused and rough to detract from his ruffian appearance. He seemed like the sort to survive a bar fight.
“Well, not all is lost,” he said, gesturing toward my belongings. “You now have me at your service.”
“Kind of you,” I said begrudgingly, not quite over the disappointment of my uncle’s absence. Didn’t he want to see me?
“I am nothing of the sort,” he said lazily. “Shall we be off? I have a carriage waiting.”
“Will we be heading straight to the hotel? Shepheard’s, isn’t it? That’s where they”—my voice cracked—“always stayed.”
The stranger’s expression adjusted to something more carefully neutral. I noticed his eyes were a trifle red-rimmed, but heavily lashed. “Actually, it’s justmereturning to Cairo. I’ve bookedyoua return passage home on the steamship you just vacated.”
I blinked, sure I’d misheard. “¿Perdón?”
“That’s why I was late. There was a beastly line at the ticket office.” At my blank stare he hurriedly pressed on. “I’m here to see you off,” he said, and he sounded almost kind. Or he would have if healsowasn’t trying to appear stern. “And to make sure you’re on board before departure.”
Each word landed between us in unforgiving thuds. I couldn’t fathom the meaning of them. Perhaps I had seawater in my ears. “No te entiendo.”
“Your uncle,” he began slowly, as if I were five years old, “would like for you to return to Argentina. I have a ticket with your name on it.”
But I’d only just arrived. How could he send me away so soon? My confusion simmered until it boiled over into anger. “Miércoles.”
