Page 31

Mr. Hayes wasrunningafter us.

He nimbly dodged donkeys and carts, skirted around people crossing the street. When he cleared a tall stack of crates, I let out an impressed whistle despite myself. The man could hustle. It seemed no obstacle stood a chance against Mr. Hayes, even willful donkeys and stray dogs yipping at his heels.

Miércoles.

Mr. Hayes met my gaze after a near collision with a vendor selling fruit. He shouted something at me, but I couldn’t make out the words. I blew a kiss at him and laughed when he shot me a rude gesture. The only reason I recognized it was because I had made our gardener’s son explain it to me after I sawhimusing it against someone else.

The brougham made another turn and came to an abrupt stop.

I turned my head. A long line of traffic stood idle ahead of us. “Shit, blast,shit.”

A rush of rapid Arabic reached my ears. Any moment and—

The door flew open and a panting Mr. Hayes stood at the threshold. “You are”—he huffed—“more trouble”—another breath—“than you’re worth!”

“So I have been told,” I said. “No, don’t come in—”

Mr. Hayes climbed inside and sat on the bench opposite from me.Sweat glistened across his brow. “I had a word with your driver. He’s taking the both of us back to the hotel—”

“How dare you!”

“—for your own damned good!”

He glared at me, and I matched the ferocity of his expression with one of my own. I folded my arms tight across my chest, resentful that his brawn took up so much space in the cramped interior. “Remove yourself. It isn’t proper for an unwed lady—”

His jaw locked with an audible snap. “Do you see a lady present? If my sister comported herself as you have done, my mother would—”

“My mother isn’t here!”

Mr. Hayes fell silent, the color leaching from his face. “I didn’t mean…”

“I’m not your problem,” I continued as if he hadn’t spoken.

“For thehundredthtime, your uncle made youmyproblem.”

Our transport pushed forward at a slow crawl. I swiftly glanced at the door, considered my options, and then rose from the seat.

“Don’t you get out of a moving carriage,” Mr. Hayes snarled. “Sit down.”

I pushed the door open, managing to take a hold of my purse, and scrambled out, tripping over my skirts, my arms windmilling to keep balance on the dirt road.

Behind me, Mr. Hayes said, “Bloodyhell.”

I heard, rather than saw, Mr. Hayes jump out, landing neatly by me. A strong, tanned hand steadied me before I toppled sideways on my accursedly long skirt. He held on to my arm as I rearranged my dress, dusting the hem to rid it of any dirt that had blown onto it from my near scrape. My carriage, I noted, continued its trek away from us, carrying my parasol with it.

“Better run if you mean to catch it,” I said.

“Not without you,” Mr. Hayes said.

I wrenched myself free and waited a beat to see what Mr. Hayes would do. He stayed close but didn’t touch me. Instead, he gestured for me to walk onto the path lining the road. I allowed it because it was safer not to block traffic.

Once there, I stood my ground. “I’m not going back to the hotel.”

“Have a care for your reputation,” he said, towering over me.

“As if you care about mine,” I snapped. “I’m just a job to you.”

Mr. Hayes didn’t bat an eyelash. He might have been made of stone.