He abruptly walked out of the room, saying over his shoulder, “I just did.”
With an indignant squawk, I rushed to follow him, only to encounter an empty sitting room. He’d made a mess without my noticing. Subtly moving things around; the throw pillows on the sofa no longer sat in the corner, but the middle; and the corner of the rug had been curled back. Deliberately toed aside. I made a sound of annoyance at the back of my throat.
He was already halfway down the long corridor.
“Oh, and Mr. Hayes?” I called out.
He elegantly swung around, and without checking his stride, walked backward. “What is it?”
I strode after him. “I’d like to know what it was that you were searching for, please.”
Mr. Hayes stilled. “What makes you think I was looking for something?”
His tone was a little too nonchalant. His easy familiarity felt a touch too practiced, his manners the mark of someone who knew just how handsome he was. He was handling me, and trying not to show it. Suspicion pressed close.
“The rug was overturned, the pillows moved.”
“So?”
I stayed silent, his lie hovering between us, creating a palpable tension in the air.
I raised my eyebrow and waited.
He made no comment but regarded me thoughtfully. When it was clear that he wouldn’t give me an answer, I let out a long, frustrated sigh. “Can you wait a moment?” I asked. “I must change.”
He eyed my dress in amusement. “I don’t recall you waiting when I asked,” he said with a grin. Then he winked at me before resuming his long-legged stride down the corridor. That was the smile I didn’t trust—I just knew it came with consequences. He was the kind of person who could charm someone while robbing them blind.
I turned around and dragged my luggage into the room—a man of courtesy would have helped me—and quickly rummaged through several gown options. From everything I remember about Shepheard’s, their dining room became the central hubbub of society at night. Well-to-do travelers, tourists all the way from America and the metropolitan cities of Europe would be mingling in the grand foyer. For this first meeting with my uncle, I had to look the part. Respectable and capable.
Maybe, then, he’d change his mind about sending me away.
I selected a long-sleeved navy and cream striped dress with a cinched waist and corresponding necktie. On my feet were slim leather boots that crept up mid-calf, their only ornament a row of tiny brass buttons. I had no time to fix my hair or even splash my face with water, and for that, I quietly cursed the annoying Mr. Hayes. I locked the door behind me and raced down the corridor, careful not to trip over my voluminous skirt. By the time I made it to the foot of the stairs, my breath was coming out in embarrassing loud huffs.
There I stopped. I had absolutely no idea where to go to next. The hotel covered nearly a city block, and from where I stood in the lobby, there were a number of corridors leading to who knew where. I might end up in the gardens or in their laundry room.
I looked around, searching for Sallam, but found no trace of him. My gaze caught on the foppish American I’d seen earlier. He was sitting in an alcove, engrossed in his paper. I walked over. He didn’t notice my presence until I was foot away from him.
He looked up, blinking. He glanced to the left and then to the right, unsure. “Hello?”
“Buenas tardes,” I returned in Spanish. “I’m looking for the dining room. Would you mind telling me where it is?”
His brow cleared. He folded the paper and stood, and gallantly offered me his arm. “I would be happy to assist you!”
I took his arm, and he proceeded to lead me down one of the corridors. He was tall, but he kept his shoulders hunched, his lean form lanky. He appeared to be in his early thirties, judging by his unlined face and thinning blond hair.
“I’m Thomas Burton,” he said, looking at me from the corner of his eyes. A deep blush bloomed in his cheeks. “You have a charming accent. Might I ask for your name?”
I was surprised to again hear myself say, “Elvira Montenegro.” I cleared my throat, discomfited. “You’re from America, I think?”
He nodded. “New York. Have you had the pleasure of visiting?”
I shook my head. “Not yet.”
He smiled shyly. “Perhaps I’ll see you there one day.”
I returned his smile, somehow knowing that had he come calling at the estate, my aunt would have welcomed him with open arms. So would my mother, come to think of it. He was unassuming and friendly, with kind brown eyes. His clothing told a story of wealth and success.
We reached the entrance of the dining room. He dropped his arm and gazed at me. I shifted on my feet, dismay fluttering in my belly. I recognized that look.
“Would you . . . would you like to join me for dinner, Miss Montenegro?”
“Thank you, but no. I’m meeting family.” I kept the smile on my face to soften the rejection. “Thank you for the escort.”
I walked inside the dining room before he could reply. It was decorated from top to bottom in the Renaissance style. Arched windows allowed a generous stream of moonlight to touch every wooden table, covered in snowy cloth. The ceiling, painted in a creamy white, displayed a Greco pattern lining the four corners while the walls were adorned in oak panels and sculpted garlands.
Nearly every table held guests and patrons, all chattering amongst themselves, sipping wine and enjoying their entrees. Like the lobby, the room teemed with people of all nationalities. French tourists marveling over the wine offerings. Pashas and beys in Western clothing paired with the cylinder-shaped tarbooshes atop their heads, speaking in Egyptian Arabic. English soldiers in uniform, their brass buttons gleaming in the soft candlelight.
I took a few hesitant steps inside and the general chatter dropped to a hush. A few people looked me over curiously, no doubt noticing my messy hair and tired eyes. I tucked a few strands behind my ears. Straightening my shoulders, I took a few more steps, my gaze flickering from one table to the next, searching for my uncle.
I found Mr. Hayes instead. He sat near one of the immense windows. I had an easy view of his profile, the hard line of his squared jaw, and rigid chin. His hair looked more red than brown in the soft lighting. Four people sat at the table, and while I didn’t recognize the two gentlemen visible to me, there was something familiar in the shape of the man who sat at Mr. Hayes’s left.
My feet propelled me toward them as if by their own accord. I skirted around the sea of dining tables and hotel guests dressed in their expensive evening gowns and suits. The journey felt like miles, every step a steep climb up to an unknown summit. Worry dug deep in my belly, taking root. Tío Ricardo might refuse to speak with me. He might send me away in front of all these people—in front of Mr. Hayes who clearly belonged when I didn’t.
I kept moving.