Rough Surrender (13 page)

He was leaving? Faith found her heart accelerating.

Breakfast arrived as Jeremy pushed out his chair and she managed to disguise her agitation. All too soon it was only her and Mr. Meisner at the table.

“Perhaps you could sit at the other side of the table now, Mr. Meisner? I do think you’re going to give me a crick in the neck if I have to keep looking sideways to talk to you.”

His chair creaked and she felt a stir of air at her neck. Startled, she jerked her head around. Not so close, but even so, Mr. Meisner a foot and a half away was unsettling. His brown eyes regarded her.

“I think I’ll stay where I am, Faith. I like seeing you in profile.”

“You do?” She crinkled her brow. “Do you specialize in annoying women?”

Now that rewarded her with a wide smile. “No. Only you.” He lowered his voice so that it wouldn’t carry. “Are you wet, Faith? I’d take odds of a million to one that you are.”

“Mr. Meisner!” Mortified, she took up knife and fork and sliced into her crepe. The metal screeched across the porcelain. “Perhaps you should leave.”

“No one heard me. You said you liked adventure. Think of this as one. We’ve been as intimate as a man and woman can be...well, almost as...and I don’t plan on ignoring it.”

All she heard for several minutes was the sound of him eating his meal. She didn’t say anything more, for fear he’d make another rude comment. In the bedroom she could handle almost anything, but here, in the midst of members of the upper crust of society, she’d die if anyone overheard.

She surreptitiously watched everything–sausages, eggs, bread rolls–vanish into his mouth in large bites, his jaw muscles rolling as he chewed. Like most men, he finished his own much-bigger meal long before her. Watching him eat, heavens, watching him do
anything
at all, only reminded her of their time spent in the bedroom.

Yet here she was rejecting him because she was afraid of embarrassment. He’d not done anything awful, not really, only whispered something no one else could hear. She placed her cutlery on her plate.

“I’m sorry.” She shifted on her chair to face him and took a deep breath. “Could we start anew?”

After a pause, he nodded, got out of his chair, went around and sat where Jeremy had been. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Faith Evard.” The morning light shone around him and gleamed off his head. His blunt-fingered hand hovered in mid table, palm up.

“
Hmm
.” Cautiously she gave him her hand. He kissed it once then released her.

“I agree. Let us start anew. I am not used to talking to the women I’ve”–she knew her eyes had widened in alarm, and he leaned forward to speak quietly–“played with.”

The blush still caught her. Heat spread across her face. “Um. I see. Well then, you’ll just have to get used to it.” She eyed him steadily. If flying a hundred feet up in a canvas-and-timber contraption was possible, she could handle Mr. Meisner. Maybe she could teach
him
something. And, truth be told, she would rather die than lose sight of him for longer than she had to on this stay in Cairo. He excited her and,
my word
, he could teach her all about sex.

“I will.” He sat back. “I want to show you the city, the pyramids, even this aerodrome where the Aviation Week fly-in is to be held, if I you want me to.”

“Why, thank you, sir.” She faltered at the word. Oh, no. His mouth twitched as he recognized her distress, but she couldn’t avoid saying that word, could she? “Ahem. Sir, I would be delighted. However I must make sure my airplane is built and I also have to find out where the missing engine is.”

“Your engine?” He frowned as if taken aback then waved his hand. “Done. I’ll take care of the construction if you’ll point out the best men for it. There must be someone at this aviation meeting?”

What?
“Wait. Stop, Mr. Meisner. I don’t need your assistance on this. I’m quite capable of organizing the construction myself. A man called Jimmy Whitrod came out on the steamer. He knows the plane back to front and can reassemble it if I employ a couple of others. Mr. Whitrod will be at the Orient.”

If ever a silence could be said to be stony, this was the time.

At last, he continued, “Then I will instead try to discover the whereabouts of the engine. The shipping firm may know. Being an engineer with the Heliopolis Oases Company, I’m used to equipment going missing. Leave me to sort it out. Was Helen to your liking?”

“Wait on. I really must do that–” Helen? The maid? The shift in subject matter left her floundering. Pure male assertiveness. He’d looked like that upstairs in the bedroom when she went against his orders. Unnerved, she decided to give way just this once.

“Helen was a little quiet perhaps but...she didn’t seem perturbed by your handiwork.” How she’d said that straight-faced, she had no idea.

He waggled his eyebrows. “Glad to hear it.”

“
Hmph
.” The man did have sense of humor, and that was a definite plus despite the reason for his amusement. “What a pity the ink will wear off in a few days.”

“I doubt that. It was good India ink and the canvas was very, very white. Besides, I plan to re-ink it regularly.”

“Not if I have any say in the matter.” She picked up her napkin and folded it, one crease then another.

“Ah, but you don’t.”

As if he’d turned a handle and tightened a screw, the tension between them solidified. If she kept on seeing him, and she knew she would, this seemed like they’d declared war over her bottom. She’d made the cloth napkin into a solid, triangular lump. Did she dare throw it at him?

The waiter returned and stood before the table. “Might I be of any further assistance, sir or mademoiselle?”

“No, thank you.” Mr. Meisner inclined his head. “We’ll both be going shortly.”

She nodded agreement then released the napkin. Outright war had been avoided.

Once the waiter had left, Mr. Meisner rose and came around to pull out Faith’s chair. “There’s a recital at Baron Empain’s small palace, Friday night, to which I have an invitation. I’ll be here at seven o’clock to escort you.”

“You’re very sure of yourself, sir. I might say, no.”

“You won’t.”

Oh!
He was right, though, and that he was, annoyed her even more.

He bowed his head a little. “I have to run about fixing a few things for the next few days. The company I work for requires everything tickety-boo, as the British say, before the Aviation Week begins. But, starting in three days, on Friday night, I’ll show you Cairo. In the meantime, Helen knows all the best stores. If you wish to order clothes or anything else, I’ll put a carriage at your disposal for the day.”

“Your Thomas Flyer?” She couldn’t help trying, if only to annoy him. He was trying to organize her again.

“No.” He laughed. “Not that.”

“I can drive, you know. It’s easier than flying and I can probably do a better job than you can.”

“
Hmm
. Miss Evard, you are on dangerous ground.” Hands at his back, he narrowed his eyes as he walked with her toward the hall’s entrance. “A challenge then, to find the best driver. Do you accept?”

The vast arch of the dome above them seemed far bigger than it had while she’d been seated. Faith stopped to look up and admire the architecture. This entire hotel was a multitude of arches and minarets and marvels. “A challenge, sir? Very well.” She smiled at him and walked on ahead. There. Men hated being outdone by women.

With an easy loping stride, Mr. Meisner caught up to her. “Good, and the winner gets to command the other to do anything at all...on the night of the baron’s party.”

She halted again and barely avoided colliding with a waiter bearing a tray. The man apologized, steadied his tray and continued. “That sounds a little rash, Mr. Meisner.”

“Backing out, Miss Evard?” He looked down at her and the height difference made her feel as small as a field mouse with a hawk hovering overhead.

“Never, sir. You may regret this.”

When he bent to whisper, she could smell his scent mixed with exotic shaving lotion. The room tilted and she swayed. “I won’t...but you will. Don’t wear any underwear Friday night.”

Goodness
. Why ever did he think she’d obey such an outlandish instruction?

Chapter 13

For the next two days, Faith tried hard not to obsess about Mr. Meisner, her new beau, or boyfriend, as some might say–a term that made her giggle when it occurred to her. Mr. Meisner a boy? Nothing seemed less likely.

The shopping expedition for new clothes was far less scintillating than simply taking in the air of Cairo. The streets thronged with British and Europeans, as well as Egyptians going about their daily chores. Whether sitting at street-side tables arguing about the price of gourds, herding donkeys or taking their morning meals, it was all so different and, thus, interesting. The Egyptian foods such as kebabs and
kofta
and
koushari
played havoc with her taste buds and stomach due to the spices. And, though she tried, listening proved an inefficient way of learning the language.

The murder of the young woman was an undercurrent wherever she went. The Europeans she spoke to seemed to suspect a deeper, more tantalizing mystery than with most deaths–as if at the center of it all someone lurked like a spider sitting at the middle of a web waiting for prey. The police seemed no closer to catching the culprit and the speculation had slowly died down as nothing further happened to whet the appetites of the gossips. All in all, it was a sad and awful affair.

On the Thursday morning she met Jeremy and Mr. Meisner for a lunch at Groppi’s, a Belgian cafe in the center of Cairo, and was surprised to discover patisseries and tea, as well as Belgian chocolates sold in elegant lacquered boxes. Little cups of strong coffee added a brusque taste to the affair. Mr. Meisner stayed polite and restrained throughout, though now and then, she caught a smoldering look from him that turned the scene around her suddenly crisp and tight, as if some momentous event was about to happen.

The momentous event proved to be a tussle over who would pay the bill. She never argued with gentlemen over bills. It was scandalous to do so yet, when Mr. Meisner reached for his billfold, she’d made a point of paying instead.

Jeremy stared at her across the little square table and Mr. Meisner paused with his hand under his coat. The nonchalant way he raised his eyebrow at her made her even more determined.

“Madame...mademoiselle–” The waiter looked more than dumbfounded, he looked angry. “You must not pay if the gentleman wishes to.” And now she had half the cafe customers staring also. The little china plate with her coins in the center seemed to mock her.

Face burning, she shook her head. “Of course you must accept this, I’m–”

Then Mr. Meisner had stood and taken the waiter aside. That he pressed money into the man’s palm hadn’t escaped her. She refrained from saying anything more. The battle had been lost and, besides, she wasn’t exactly sure why she’d pushed the point herself.

Once in the automobile the atmosphere had slowly changed from ice-cold to tepid and she made polite conversation with Jeremy on the way back to the hotel.

The worst of it came when Mr. Meisner helped her from the Thomas Flyer. He kissed her hand then murmured, “Remember you are a woman, Miss Evard. I shall make sure to supply you with more proof tomorrow night.”

Oh, the
gall
of the man. She stood there simmering with both annoyance and a perverse longing for his touch as the automobile drove away. No doubt he knew the effect he’d had on her, but she couldn’t help herself, just as she’d been unable to stop herself from what she had done at the cafe. She was compensating for how he made her feel when they were alone. The one thing she didn’t quite understand was why.

Why...anything. The whole situation bamboozled her. Why she gave in to him when they were alone, and why she struggled not to when they were elsewhere.

The rest of that day, as the start of the air meet drew closer, her longing rose. The winged shadows of airplanes could be spotted testing the Cairo atmosphere and the winds–roaming the skies as if to taunt her.

“That’s Baroness Raymonde de Laroche,” she told Helen that afternoon while they watched from the terrace of the Heliopolis Hotel, as a Voisyn craft purred across the sky. The sun glanced startling rays of sunshine off the metal parts of the airplane. With her hand shading her eyes, she followed the flight of the box-tailed biplane until it drifted low on approach to the aerodrome.

“Tarnation. I have to do something!”

She visited the workshop for the second time. As she took the last creaking step down from the horse-drawn carriage onto the gravel, Jimmy Whitrod emerged from the open doors of the building, wiping his hands on a cloth.

“Good afternoon, miss!” He grinned in the disarming way he always used. The brown tufts of hair on his head poking up at all angles, the wood shavings sticking to his faded black trousers and the sweat dampening the neckline of his open gray shirt, all spoke of hard work.

“Afternoon, Jimmy.” She smiled back. “How is my Bleriot?” She nodded toward the doorway.

“She’s all done except for the engine. Mr. Meisner has ordered up a truck and we’ll be shifting her to the aerodrome before dusk.”