by Trish Morey
Except that she did.
‘I’m surprised you’d risk being seen with me, given my propensity to commit random acts of stupidity.’
He actually had the nerve to laugh. ‘Oh, I know there’s no chance of that.’
It was the laughter more than the certainty that got her hackles up, though the certainty ran a very close second. ‘How can you be so sure? You hardly know me. You have no idea of what I might try next.’
‘It’s the reason you got out of the police station with just a warning.’
Her head snapped around. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’
‘I heard them talking—there’s been a surge in reports of coin sellers and the police are planning a crackdown. There was talk of making an example of you to deter other tourists from trying the same thing. A pretty young tourist charged with trafficking in antiquities—that would get the attention of the world press.’
She gasped. She’d felt she’d come close, but she’d been blissfully ignorant of by just how much. ‘So why didn’t they?’
‘Because I told them that until your departure on your tour tomorrow, I would guarantee your good behaviour. I promised that they would have no more trouble with you while you were my responsibility.’
His responsibility? She stopped dead in her tracks. ‘You told them that? Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t need someone to be responsible for me. I don’t need some kind of babysitter, least of all some man I’ve barely just met!’
He didn’t look remorseful. But then she suspected this man was incapable of doing remorse. ‘You would have preferred, I take it, to have been charged and to be languishing right now in a Turkish prison cell?’
Well, no. There was that. But still...
‘No, I thought not,’ he said, reading her answer in her expression. ‘Come,’ he said, taking her arm in his before she could protest—before she could do anything, really—urging her forward once more along the busy street.
She hated him then for his arrogance. For his supreme confidence that what he was doing was right.
And she hated even more that he was holding her too close.
Much too close.
She could feel him all the way down from her shoulders to her hips, every step they took creating a friction that became more delicious by the second—more evocative—every brush of their clothes giving her another burst of the heat that came from being in close contact with him.
Arousal warred with outrage, and she cursed him for his ability to both infuriate her and excite her. How could it be that his touch wanted to make her lean into this man’s strong body, the very man who’d not only insulted her, but quite clearly doubted her integrity and imagined himself some kind of babysitter?
What kind of fool was she?
‘So this is actually duty for you, then, taking me to lunch.’
This time it was he who stopped, jerking her to a standstill and snapping her to face him on the side of the pavement this time, so they weren’t blocking everyone’s way. ‘I take my responsibilities seriously. I said I would ensure you wouldn’t get into trouble while you were in Istanbul before you join your tour group tomorrow morning, and I will do what I promised,’ he whispered, the note in his voice dangerous, his dark eyes intent and focused hard upon hers, before he paused and lifted a hand to her cheek and ran the barest trace of his fingertips down the side of her face, a touch as gentle as it was electric. ‘But who said duty has to come at the expense of pleasure? Because I suspect our time together could be quite pleasurable, if you would allow it to be so.’
The shudder started at her cheekbone where his fingers grazed her skin and reverberated down her body until it rolled out of her curling toes, its scorching trail leaving her in no doubt what he was offering.
And then he shrugged and dropped his hand away. ‘But if you want me to stop at duty, then just say the word. If you decide it is not pleasure you wish for, then I will keep my undertaking to the polis and ensure you do not get into any more trouble before you join your tour. But I will not pursue you. I am not in the habit of pursuing unwilling women.’
A tram rattled past, pedestrians walked by spouting words in a dozen different languages, and Amber blinked at the unfamiliarity of it all. She could scarcely believe she was standing in the oldest part of Istanbul, her cheek still tingling from his touch, let alone having this conversation with this man.
‘So,’ he prompted, ‘what’s it to be, Amber Jones? Duty or pleasure?’
All her life Amber had done the right thing, making sensible choices, playing it safe, never taking risks. All her life she’d been responsible.
Sensible.
And just look where that had got her.
With an equally safe choice of boyfriend who clearly hadn’t valued her and who hadn’t turned out to be a safe choice at all.
Her blood fizzed with the possibilities this man was offering. As, if she was honest, it had been fizzing ever since she’d seen him watching her in the Spice Market.
God, she was in Istanbul, exotic, colourful Istanbul, and she might as well have been a million miles from her old life. And maybe it was foolhardy to agree to spend a night with a stranger in a faraway country. Maybe it was reckless.
But maybe it was time to be a bit reckless. Time to pay heed to the excitement in her blood and take a step on the wild side, as her great-great-great-grandmother had been brave enough to do more than one hundred and fifty years earlier.
She looked up at this man, with his golden skin and dark-as-a-hot-desert-night eyes, her heartbeat thumping loud in her chest at just being close to him, and knew that if she played it safe, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.
And her answer came as clearly as the calls of the seabirds wheeling in the sky above.
‘Pleasure.’
His dark eyes flared with heat, his lips turned up in approval as he enclosed her hand in his. ‘Then pleasure, it shall be.’
* * *
He smiled to himself as he led her towards a nearby restaurant that had windows overlooking the park, the glass frontage, he knew, would be filled with colourful dishes, from stuffed eggplants and peppers, casseroles of chicken and chickpeas and lamb, and rice, spiced and fragrant, alongside which lamb and chicken roasted on vertical spits.
So his meek little rabbit had turned out to be less timid than she’d first appeared? She’d fled from him in the Spice Market, and he’d been prepared to let her go.
But there was spirit there, under that nervous exterior, even if he’d had to dig to find it. But it was there, and given the choice again she’d chosen pleasure. At least the time spent babysitting her wouldn’t be completely wasted.
Not that he trusted her, despite all her innocent claims of not knowing the laws—after all, what else did foreigners claim when they were caught red-handed but tried to plead ignorance?—but then, he didn’t have to trust her. All he had to do was keep her out of harm’s way until he got her on that tour bus and sent her on her way and his job would be done.
Keeping her out of the way of illegal street vendors would be no problem given what he had in mind.
Blond tendrils of her hair bounced enticingly on the breeze as they walked, the leather of her jacket brushing against his coat sleeve, and as he turned his head towards her he caught a hint of her perfume, floral and light. He had never been a fan of such scents. He preferred his women dressed in musk and spice and preferably not a lot more, but on her the scent seemed to make sense. Innocent, with a hint of sensuality. A hint of promise.
He liked the fit.
He liked the promise even more.
He smiled. If only his three friends could see him now, they’d laugh. They’d tell him to be careful, that he was tempting fate. He remembered the last time they’d been together at Bahir’s wedding. He remembe
red the taunts of the two newly married desert brothers. Who would be next? Zoltan and Bahir had laughed. Which of Kadar and Rashid would be next to fall into marriage?
And Kadar and Rashid had both pointed at the other and laughed.
Of course, the very idea that the two remaining friends would soon follow was ridiculous. Zoltan had married Princess Aisha in order to secure his kingdom of Al-Jirad and Bahir had been reunited with Aisha’s sister and his former lover, Marina, along the way. Both marriages had been bound to happen, even if the idea that two of the desert brothers would be married in short order had been unimaginable once.
Well, it had been a good three years since Bahir’s wedding and he didn’t know about Rashid, but he was no closer to marriage than he’d ever been. And why should he be?
The four men were as good as brothers, bound together by more than blood. They had met while they were at university in the States and, apart from Mehmet, they were all the family he’d ever needed.
And now, while their bond was still strong, he didn’t feel any desperate need to follow his friends into the state of matrimony. Marriage was for people who were whole. People who wanted family. But he’d been alone since he was six years old and he was doing just fine. He couldn’t see that changing any time soon, especially not when every woman he’d ever met was only too pleased to move right along. So his friends could think what they liked, but if anyone was to marry next, it wouldn’t be him.
He wasn’t planning on marrying anyone, let alone a woman he’d saved from the clutches of the polis.
So he was hardly tempting fate merely spending a night with her.
She was nothing but a pretty tourist.
A short-term visitor to Istanbul.
Temporary.
Perfect.
CHAPTER THREE
THE SCENT OF roasting meat and two dozen delicious-looking dishes wafted out of the open door to tempt Amber, and for a moment she almost forgot that she’d just committed herself to a night dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh. But right now she had more important things on her mind. ‘I think I’m starving.’
He ushered her inside. ‘You can choose from here or there is a menu if none of these dishes appeal?’
For a woman whose most recent meals had been airline food, fast food or no food at all, she didn’t have to think about it. ‘No,’ she said, mouth watering, in no desire to wait for an order to be prepared when there was such an array before her to choose from, ‘this is perfect.’
They made their selections and were shown to a table near a window upstairs while their order was prepared. And then, once again, she was awed—by their vantage point, offering a glimpse of the domed roof of Hagia Sophia with its dancing fountain to one side of the window, and the minarets of the Blue Mosque to the other.
By the man sitting opposite now being greeted by a smiling waiter welcoming him back, a man larger than life with his dangerous dark looks and heated eyes. Long-lashed eyes, she realised as she took advantage of their proximity to study him in more detail. Satin black lashes and long as sin...
And by the knowledge that he’d guaranteed there would be no more trouble with the law while she was under his watch.
Where was the outrage she’d felt when he’d first revealed that little snippet? Had she shrugged it off as easily as he’d discarded his tailored black coat and handed it to the owner who was busy fawning all over him—or simply because of it? Because what lay beneath would blur the edges of any protest. A soft dove-grey knitted sweater lovingly skimmed a chest that could have been carved from stone. Nice, she thought, having to drag her eyes away in case they lingered too long, suddenly feeling warm. She unzipped her jacket, and peeled it from her arms, laying it on the chair next to her. The scarf at her neck came off next, tugged out from behind her neck and making her messy knot even messier as more ends worked free. She put a hand to her head, hoping it didn’t look as messy as it felt. And then she looked up and stilled when she saw him watching her, his expression deep and unfathomable, and she felt hot and bothered and confused and muddled all over again. ‘What’s wrong?’
Nothing was wrong. It was all going exactly the way he’d imagined it. Except she’d been the one to peel the jacket from her arms, not him. But just as he’d imagined, he liked what he saw underneath.
He liked it very much.
Her breasts filled the fitted scoop-neck top to perfection without overfilling—without under-filling, for that matter—and he ached to run his hand down the side of her while she lay naked next to him on his bed, down that delicious slope of ribcage to the sudden dip of waist and up the jut of hip to thigh. He longed to drink in her contours through the seeking palm of his hand.
As soon he would.
Their meals arrived and he raised his glass of sparkling water to her, managing a smile over the demanding pulse of need in his groin. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ he said, even liking the way that knot of hair behind her head was slowly unravelling, those ends floating free or dancing around her face and catching in the light as she moved her head. Bewitching. It would be no hardship spending the night with her.
Just one night.
It had been no selfless act to guarantee she’d stay out of harm’s way. He’d keep her so busy in his bed, she wouldn’t have time to make trouble. And then he’d wave her goodbye on her tour, turn his back and walk away. And if she chose to get into trouble again, if she chose to mess with Turkish law by taking home a souvenir or two, it wouldn’t be on his watch. She would be the tour guide’s problem then.
Perfect.
‘In fact,’ he added, pulling out a smile from his arsenal that he knew from experience women couldn’t resist, ‘I could not be happier with the way things are turning out.’
Ripples of warmth spread through her at his words, at the heat in his eyes and the slow, sexy smile that spoke of the pleasures of the flesh, reaching places and stirring sensations that made her muscles clamp under the table.
And she so wanted to be bold and brave and confident, like the Amber of old she’d promised herself she’d be, but she was breathless and dizzy and way out of her depth.
His smile grew wider, sexier. His eyes grew dark and burned with intent. ‘All I hope,’ he added, ‘is that you have a good appetite.’
He wasn’t talking about lunch. She swallowed. It was disarming. Unnerving. Because she wasn’t out of her depth at all. She was drowning in the shallows. Merely trying to hold a conversation with this man was like being tossed by a wave and having to fight foam and sand and salt to work out which way was up and grab a lungful of air for an instant of respite before the next wave rolled her over again.
‘I’m famished,’ she managed on a whisper, and suddenly she wasn’t talking about lunch either.
He gestured towards her plate. ‘Please, eat. Enjoy.’
His invitation was a welcome respite, except she’d chosen too much, she realised, for the meal before her was enormous. A glossy red capsicum stuffed fat with meat and rice nestled alongside chicken with okra and a fluffy mountain of white rice on the side. It looked amazing. It smelt amazing. And even though she would have quite happily forgotten all about her meal if he’d suggested they leave and satisfy a different and more demanding hunger, it was a very welcome second best.
As it was, she put a forkful of the rich meat and rice to her lips and closed her eyes as the flavours exploded on her tongue and was in heaven.
‘Good?’ he asked, and she opened them to see him watching her, his eyes spiced with heat, reminding her all over again of that moment when their eyes had connected and held in the Spice Market.
‘Better than good,’ she said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘Was it that obvious?’
‘Don’t be embarrassed. I like the way you enjoy what you eat. I like what it says about you.’
Her thr
oat went dry. She took a sip of water, relishing the cool slide of it down her throat, while his eyes didn’t leave hers, before asking the question uppermost in her mind. ‘What does it say about me?’
‘That you are a passionate woman. That you take pleasure in the senses and are not afraid to show it. I like that.’
Sensation careened down her spine. Nobody had ever talked to her as this man talked. Nobody had ever told her that she was a passionate woman. Not even Cameron—thinking back, she wasn’t sure passionate was a word he’d possessed in his vocabulary.
But while she was unschooled in knowing how to respond, she knew exactly what the man opposite was doing. He was seducing her, as good as stroking her body with his words, stoking her need with every loaded syllable. ‘Who are you?’ she said, putting her fork down, thinking the only way she could keep herself anywhere near the surface and oxygen in this mad, tumbling sea was to stop being on the defensive and to try to establish a foothold on the conversation.
‘I have told you my name.’
She nodded. ‘That may indeed be true, but I don’t think it answers my question. Because, you see, you have me at a disadvantage. You heard all my details during that police interview. You know where I live, you know my date of birth, you know everything about me. And yet I know nothing about you.’
‘Everything?’ His eyes flicked over her, lazy, almost insolent. ‘I am sure there are secrets still to be discovered.’
‘Stop doing that.’
‘What?’
‘Stroking me with your words.’
Across the table, he smiled. ‘Cats and women. I thought they were both made to be stroked.’
She kicked up her chin and smiled back. ‘True. Cats, like women, like to be stroked when it suits them, but when they’ve had enough, the claws come out.’
She’d been expecting another one of his quick comebacks. What she wasn’t expecting was laughter. A deep rich laugh that caught her unawares and shifted the boundaries of the box she’d put him in.