her bones. Another day of sightseeing suddenly became a highlight.
She dug into her purse, the eye-catching movement which every guide cautioned visitors against. More than one person turned to look.
“There!” Cynthia Oates’ voice rang with triumph. She caught up with Portia, an enormous parasol shading her petite figure. “She is smiling.”
Portia sniffed loudly at her dear friend’s teasing, even while laughter still lurked in her toes. Few of her British or American friends—no, acquaintances—had continued to speak to her after the divorce. Cynthia’s warmth and the ability to return it were an ongoing delight.
“Are you certain, my dear?” asked Sir Graham Oates, neatly unfurling his large frame from their small carriage. “Perhaps the bright sunshine has addled your brain and we should take you inside.”
“This was the third time today.” Cynthia tapped her husband on the chest in mock dudgeon.
Portia tossed a few coins at the little mimic. Somehow the tiny fortune vanished like wisps of smoke between his fingers.
She giggled, hiding her mouth behind her hand.
He bowed to her as if he were a mighty wizard, all flourishes and twinkling eyes, then scampered away one step ahead of his jealous brethren.
Portia applauded him readily. She could celebrate a day if it brought sight of a success like his, which few did. Her own life was filled with silent, echoing spaces, albeit blessedly free of newspapermen’s howling questions.
“There you see! I was perfectly correct!” Cynthia chortled.
Portia shook her head and paused on the hotel stairs to wait for her friends. Ever since they’d left London, Cynthia had made it a private crusade to make Portia relax, preferably by smiling. How could one be angry at a friend like that?
“Of course you were, my dear: all we needed to do was take Lady St. Arles far enough from London and she’d remember how to laugh,” Sir Graham agreed, smothering what sounded suspiciously like a guffaw.
Portia raised her eyebrow at him as if wielding a lorgnette. He countered by inclining his head before shooting her a wink. The three of them dissolved into soft laughter, the same gentle friendship that had kept them together on the long journey from London.
Sir Graham offered each lady an arm and they turned for Shepheard’s Hotel, the ne plus ultra of Cairo lodging. Originally a harem, fifty years of catering to the very wealthy had adapted its stone bulk into a palace which promised comfort and privacy, rather than flaunting vulgar ostentation.
Cynthia leaned a little closer to her husband, their steps falling into harmony with the ease of long practice.
Bittersweet joy, too painful to be called envy, twisted Portia’s mouth.
What would it be like to have someone who adored you so much it showed in something as simple as your walk?
But the past was better left behind, with the dreams’ dust it contained.
The hotel’s wide terrace spread before them, scattered with tables and palm trees. Red-jacketed waiters, topped by crisp red fezes and anchored by billowing white trousers, flowed between patrons like silent magicians, capable of any gift.
A man rose out of the shadows like a spitting cobra emerging from a basket.
Portia stopped, her feet immovably fixed to the stone paving and her blood spinning into Arctic realms.
“Mrs. Vanneck.” His pitch-black eyes ran over her and her friends, noting every wrinkle on a once immaculate sleeve, lock of hair sagging from the heat, and trickle of sweat slinking down a flushed face.
The so-called gentleman looked exactly the way he had the last time she’d seen him in that London courtroom, flaunting the gaudy cleanliness of a man who hired others to do his dirty work.
“St. Arles,” Portia acknowledged. The dust of ancient pharaohs would have tasted better than those words on her tongue.
What the devil was he doing here? The London Times had announced his marriage to That Woman months ago, within days of the divorce becoming final. He should be in England, breeding the heir who’d block his cousin from ruling St. Arles Castle.
A cup smashed down into a saucer only a few feet away, followed by hisses of surprise and the screech of chair legs being pushed rapidly backward. Clearly their reunion had acquired an audience.
Portia ignored them, something she’d learned far too well how to do, and instead scrutinized the man whose bed she’d once shared. In Arizona, she could have listened to her instincts and gone armed, however subtly.
Like him, she offered no gesture of greeting, neither handshake nor nod. If he collapsed before the whispering crowd on this busy Cairo street