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I’d never felt anything like it before, and yet it was brutally familiar to me.

Mr. Hayes watched me closely. “Are you all right?”

“Estoy bien.”

His blue eyes were skeptical. “You really want to buy this dirty thing?”

“Sí,” I insisted, “and the pretty anklet. Por favor.”

Mr. Hayes shrugged and found out the price. After paying the merchant, I followed him down the narrow avenue, hardly looking up from studying my purchase. The scarred wooden box looked to have displayed a charming miniature painting, long since scratched off. It fit in the palm of my hand, and when I turned it on its side, I noticed a long seam running lengthwise from one end to the other. Gently, I tucked both items into my purse, the magic swirling under my skin.

Eventually we emerged from within the narrow streets of the bazaar and when my stomach grumbled loudly, he gave me a pointed look. “We are going back to the hotel for lunch.”

The sun’s position told me it was near noon. No wonder my stomach growled. “We are doing nothing of the sort. I’m going to Groppi.”

“They serve tea and cakes at the hotel, too, you know.”

My parents had raved about the establishment, a favorite among Cairo society. And I intended to try it for myself. “But do they have chocolate-covered dates?”

Mr. Hayes smiled, slow, as if he were charmed despite himself. “Your uncle would never forgive me should anything happen to you.”

“What’s he going to do?” I asked. “Send me home?”

Then I turned away, intent on finding a brougham to take me to Groppi. But Mr. Hayes let out a long, high-pitched whistle, and a second later, transportation was secured. He helped me into the open carriage, and I lifted a brow, waiting to see what location he’d give to the driver.

Mr. Hayes’s gaze dropped to my hand clutching the doorknob, making my intentions clear. I would jump out of a moving carriage if he didn’t take me where I wanted to go.

“Groppi,” he said with a resigned air.

I leaned back against the cushion and smiled, triumphant.

Mr. Hayes studied me from across the carriage. “You don’t do that often.”

“What?”

“Smile.”

I shrugged. “Most of yours are fake, so I guess it makes us even.”

“Fake?”

“You heard me, Mr. Hayes.”

“Oh, this is about your theory of my being cynical.”

The man didn’t even have the decency to look in my direction while I rolled my eyes at him. “It’s not a theory.”

“Why don’t you just sit there and look pretty and admire the surroundings?”

I waited a beat, heart fluttering in my chest like a wayward butterfly. “You think I look pretty?”

Mr. Hayes regarded me lazily, his eyes hooded. “You know you do, Señorita Olivera.”

He said it so breezily, a compliment for all women everywhere. I wondered how he’d feel if someone gave it back to him. “Well, you quite turn my head. You’re so handsome.”

His expression turned to one of profound wariness, as if I were a coiled snake about to pounce. “Thank you.”

“Truly,” I said, fluttering my hand in front of my face. “I have heart palpitations.”