A young man approached in long easy strides. He came to a stop in front of me, his hands deep in his khaki pockets, giving an air of someone who’d been strolling along the dock, admiring the view of the sea and probably whistling. His pale blue shirt was tucked and slightly wrinkled underneath leather-edged suspenders. The man’s boots laced up to midcalf, and I could tell they’d traversed miles, and they were dusty, the once brown leather turned gray.
The stranger met my gaze, the lines flanking his mouth drawn tight. His posture was loose, his manner carefree, but with more careful observation, I noted the tension he carried in his clenched jaw. Something bothered him, but he didn’t want anyone to see.
I catalogued the rest of his features. An aristocratic nose that sat under straight brows and blue eyes the same color as his shirt. Full lips featuring a perfect bow that stretched into a crooked smile, a counterpoint to the sharp line of his jaw. His hair was thick and tousled, walking the line between red and brown. He impatiently brushed it aside.
“Hello, are you Se?orita Olivera? The niece of Ricardo Marqués?”
“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 register. Realization dawned and my blood rushed to my cheeks. Tío Ricardo hadn’t bothered to show up himself. His only niece who had traveled for weeks and survived the repeated offenses of seasickness. He had sent a stranger to welcome me.
A stranger who was late.
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 his regrets. 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 just me returning to Cairo. I’ve booked you a 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 he also wasn’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.”
The stranger tilted his head and smiled at me in bemusement. “Doesn’t that mean Wednesday?”
I nodded. In Spanish it sounded close to mierda, a curse word I was not allowed to say. Mamá made my father use it around me.
“Well, we ought to get you all settled,” he said, rummaging around his pockets. He pulled out a creased ticket and handed it to me. “No need to pay me back.”
“No need to . . .” I began dumbly, shaking my head to clear my thoughts. “You never told me your name.” Another realization dawned. “You understand Spanish.”
“I said I worked for your uncle, didn’t I?” His smile returned, charmingly boyish and at odds with his brawny frame. He looked like he could murder me with a spoon.
I was decidedly not charmed.
“Well then,” I said in Spanish. “You’ll understand when I tell you that I won’t be leaving Egypt. If we’re going to be traveling together, I ought to know your name.”
“You’re getting back onto the boat in the next ten minutes. A formal introduction hardly seems worth it?”
“Ah,” I said coldly. “It looks like you don’t understand Spanish after all. I’m not getting on that boat.”
The stranger never dropped his grin, baring his teeth. “Please don’t make me force you.”
My blood froze. “You wouldn’t.”
“Oh, you don’t think so? With my feelings of triumph and all,” he said, voice dripping in disdain. He took a step forward and reached for me, his fingers managing to brush against my jacket before I twisted out of reach.
“Touch me again and I’ll scream. They’ll hear me in Europe, I swear.”
“I believe you.” He pivoted away from me and walked off, heading to an area where a dozen empty carts waited to be used. He rolled one of them back, and then proceeded to stack my trunks—without my say-so. For a man who’d clearly been drinking, he moved with a lazy grace that reminded me of an indolent cat. He handled my luggage as if they were empty and not filled with a dozen sketch pads, several blank journals, and brand new paints. Not to mention clothing and shoes to last me several weeks.
Tourists dressed in feathered hats and expensive leather shoes surrounded us, regarding us curiously. It occurred to me that they might have observed the tension between myself and this annoying stranger.
He glanced back at me, arching an auburn brow.