I thought of this when a familiar figure appeared against the backdrop of the looming Great Pyramid. He had appeared in London and Paris and the French Riviera; of course we should not have been surprised that he would magically appear like a djinn in Cairo, too, with his charming smiles and magnetic green eyes.
A stiffening of Tilly’s shoulders in the midst of a discussion with Charley regarding the afternoon refreshments served on silver trays by the traditionally liveried, red tarbush-wearing Mena House waiters alerted Charley to something being amiss. She slowly turned around.
“Miss Bernhardt. Miss Fairchild.” James Dorsey’s charming smile swept over us. There was an edge of frustrated irritation to it when it alighted on Charley. “Miss Masterson.”
Charley smiled serenely back. “My,
