The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  Two uniformed gardeners strolling past outside, with baskets for flower cuttings, looked up in amazement.

  She shrieked, hurling her terror for Gareth into the note.

  The men yelled something in Turkish at her then ran toward the building.

  Their chief attacker glared at her then saluted both her and Gareth with his knife. An instant later, he and his band disappeared as invisibly as they’d entered.

  Only Adem, barely stirring on the floor, proved the thugs had existed.

  Plus, the sickening lurch in Portia’s stomach whenever she remembered how Gareth had terrified even those brutes.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Gareth rubbed the back of his neck and reluctantly studied the bathroom again. Logic said he had to leave Portia alone sometimes, such as now. The prospect made his gut turn itself inside out, faster than anything from the Apaches.

  Worse was the certainty that mentioning his mother’s and sisters’ deaths out loud was always followed by nightmares, not that his problems mattered tonight.

  Portia’s courage that afternoon simply made him want to cherish her more. She’d never screamed, turned hysterical, fainted—done any of the nonsensical tricks a girl had a right to pull when faced with six armed kidnappers. She’d been as brave and quick-witted as ever.

  Damn, she’d even been the one who’d defeated the brutes. Maybe someday he’d laugh when he remembered how their expressions had looked when the window shattered. For now, his hands were still shaking at how close she’d come to dying. They could never have afforded to let her live, once they had the chest.

  Christ, what the hell would he do without her?

  She’d always been important to him, but he’d spent years thinking of her as William Donovan’s niece. Now she was more important than what little soul he had left.

  Ice scuttled over his skin, faster than any poisonous scorpion.

  He passed his hand over his eyes and sank into the tub, letting the silly bubbles splash over his knees and chest. Kerem Ali Pasha’s bathroom had enough marble on the walls and floors to allow a herd of elephants to splash without harming anything.

  Maybe the hot water would relax him. It would certainly remove the reek of fear.

  Gulls sang to each other in the distance about twilight and last meals. Water splashed against the yali, in a siren call to take a boat and go somewhere, anywhere else. Europe, Algeria, Indochina, even back to Arizona where he’d ruined her life.

  He’d always run whenever anybody got too close. But he couldn’t do so now, not when St. Arles was still in town, hunting Portia.

  Somebody scratched on the door and he frowned. “Enter.”

  “Hullo.” Portia cautiously poked her head inside the room. “May I come in?”

  He started to sit up, caught a draft on his belly, and shoved his hips back under the scented water. His eager cock complained vehemently, more interested in shoving its heated length into her than in frivolities such as the air temperature.

  “Would you like some wine? It’s a good Riesling, the same vintage we always drank in Arizona.” She offered a silver ice bucket on a tray with two glasses. More importantly, he’d swear she wore nothing underneath her silk kimono.

  His heartbeat lurched into a fascinated trot.

  Her smile came and went between her small teeth nibbling on her lower lip.

  He dragged some air into his lungs and tried to regain his wits.

  “Of course I would.” He waved vaguely toward a corner or two. “Please have a seat and join me.”

  “Thank you.” She carefully set down the tray on the small rolling cart beside the tub. A moment later, she sat down beside him on a stool originally meant for servants.

  She poured the wine with the concentrated attention of someone who’d rarely done so, measuring the exact angle from the bottle’s lip to the glass as if one false move could send a fountain pouring onto the floor.

  Her frown called to him to be kissed away. He closed his eyes and recited long-forgotten multiplication tables.

  “Here you are.”

  His eyes snapped open to find the fragile crystal only inches away from his fingers. “Thank you.”

  “Did I do it right?”

  He almost dropped the delicious beverage into his bath. How the devil could she do it wrong, assuming nothing broke?

  “You did it perfectly.” He tried to fill his voice with the same robust assurance he’d give a tenderfoot just starting to learn how to drive an eighteen mule hitch.

  “You didn’t watch.”

  Her foot swung back and forth, betraying her naked calf. Good God almighty, she truly was wearing nothing underneath the kimono except possibly a chemise.

  His chest tightened as if baked in the devil’s own oven.

  How did he tell her that if he had observed her, she’d be in the tub with him right now, soaking wet and very thoroughly fucked?

  He opted for tact and discussing only her question, not his endless hungers.

  “You were just as slick as when you told the Sultan’s guards this afternoon our attackers were radical revolutionaries, determined to make an example of the old office.”

  “It was the first excuse I thought of.” She flushed and hid her face.

  “They believed you.”

  “Especially when you mentioned Adem’s valiant defense of the Ottoman crest.”

  “Which he was clever enough not to deny, thank God,” Gareth agreed. “After he finally came round, that is.”

  “Making him the true hero.” She took another sip of wine. Her kimono slipped down her sweating shoulder, revealing bare skin.

  No chemise at all.

  Most of his wits dived for his cock and started a raucous clamor to taste her.

  He gulped his wine and tried to remember when dinner would be served. Would they be interrupted?

  What would Portia think if he tried to seduce her? She certainly seemed to have enjoyed last night, although they hadn’t discussed it. Or had he behaved too much like St. Arles?

  “Of course, you were the true hero this afternoon,” she remarked. Her eyes trapped his, blue as diamonds, blue as truth, blue as hope. “Just the way you were back in Arizona, when you knocked me out to save my life.”

  He could only stare at her. His heart was caught like his breathing, somewhere between now and forever.

  “I’m sorry. I wish I’d told you that long ago, when I first realized it.”

  He managed to shake his head, refusing to step onto a new path.

  “I knew before I left on my wedding journey with St. Arles.”

  “But I didn’t stop you.” The damning words hung in the air yet again, as they’d haunted so many nightmares.

  Her eyes were soft with forgiveness. “You couldn’t save me from myself. Nobody could.”

  She planted little kisses along his forehead and the bridge of his nose, like a gardener cherishing his favorite fields in the springtime.

  Then her mouth found his, awkwardly at first.

  Shock that she’d be this generous froze him in place.

  She angled her head and shaped her lips to match his. Her breath melted into his, warm and spicy like life itself.

  He caught her by the shoulders and claimed her.

  His tongue swept deep. She gave a low moan and moved closer still, rubbing herself against him. He scooped her into his arms and held her tight against his heart. His chest was rising and falling faster than when he’d fought Victorio’s army.

  She was all hot, wet, living silk, branding him with life and femininity everywhere she touched—from her fingers threading through his hair to his scalp, to her breath sighing his name against his cheek when he turned his head to nuzzle her throat, to her breasts plumping to fill the crook of his arm.

  Dear Lord, how her kimono thinned into transparency then dived off her shoulder when wet. How could a man resist such a display of fragrant temptations, especially when they belonged to his wife?

  H
is wife, the only one he’d ever have. For the few days or weeks their marriage would last, she was his alone.

  He yanked her sash open and was fiercely grateful he hadn’t had to exert force on the supple fabric. God forbid he frighten his darling in any way.

  “Ah, Gareth.” Her fingernails scratched his shoulder until they drew a few crimson drops.

  Hunger surged deep, stampeding his blood through his veins. He rolled her out of the tub and onto the floor, landing on the mat with a splash that sent water cascading across the marble.

  Portia stared down at him, her blue eyes enormous with excitement—or fear?

  Gareth paused, still holding her by the waist. He would never use force—but, damn, how he needed her.

  Mischief teased her mouth.

  He frowned, his cock still straining to reach her.

  Both hands on his shoulders, she leisurely undulated down his front. Every movement’s friction forced open her kimono more and more until she was completely naked. Her nipples were small, fiery diamonds firing his lungs into cauldrons of lust, her supple ribs continually caressed his core, and her belly—Dear God, his cock rested against her belly in the smug assurance it would be warm inside.

  Still holding his eyes, she rocked her hips against him again, painting herself with his dripping shaft.

  He bit down on his lip hard enough to draw blood, forcing pain so he wouldn’t seize her.

  “There are condoms in the cart.” She caressed his cheek. “If you still want one.”

  She was willing to take the chance of a child?

  The habits of a lifetime sent his hand into motion long before his brain caught up.

  Her eyes flickered and she silently shifted to give him room.

  But he couldn’t read her expression, didn’t give himself time to, before he’d rolled the damn contraption on.

  She wrapped her hand around his shaft an instant after he’d tied the condom on.

  He strangled himself with his own breath.

  She pumped him a little, very gently. “Do you like that?”

  “Hell, yes!”

  She chortled softly, her eyes dark. While he’d been donning the preventative, she’d doffed the silk robe to become more enticing than ever. Her breasts were cream and rose confections, tipped with nipples perfectly formed to be suckled. Her waist was a narrow enticement above her mons’ golden curls and her legs’ long ivory lengths.

  Ah, the hours he could spend exploring new ways to tumble her into ecstasy using every inch of those delights…

  He slid his hands over her hips and allowed himself to blatantly enjoy her sweet rump’s curve.

  She arched her back and purred—then squeezed him lightly.

  Blood and seed lunged upward to meet her.

  “Portia, how long do you want me to remain polite?” Amazing that he could still speak.

  “I don’t.”

  Truth blazed in her eyes, a step behind hunger.

  He flipped her under him and she clung, warm and completely willing. Mouth met mouth once again in a mating dance older than time, truer than recriminations or apologies. None of that mattered, not anymore, not with her sweetness to keep the nightmares at bay.

  He knelt above her and she spread her legs, stroked his back, arched her hips to make his possession easier.

  His woman, his.

  He surged into her and their bodies knotted together like a lock and key.

  His blood screamed at him yet his heart told him to stay precisely here.

  Time could stand still for only so long.

  “Gareth.” Her voice was a beacon in the night.

  He began to move, slowly at first then faster and faster. She hissed at him to hurry and gripped his back in ecstasy. Lust perfumed the air and sang in the heavy music of their bodies straining against each other.

  His finger found Portia’s back entrance and she shouted in startled delight. Ecstasy seized her and her inner muscles clamped down on him, irresistibly demanding that he too tumble over the precipice.

  He gave himself willingly, spinning into an exuberant orgasm that pummeled his senses like running the rapids. He extravagantly shot his seed into Portia’s warm depths again and again.

  Afterwards, he had barely enough sense to carry her to bed and tumble in to join her. Thinking about what had happened, especially what she knew of his background, was a nightmare more distant than those her sweet loving had banished for the moment.

  God forbid those specters—of all the men he’d hunted down like animals, because that was the only way to slay his family’s killers—didn’t visit him tonight. He didn’t want to wake up screaming with a red mist clouding his eyes and crimson dripping from his fingers.

  Not here, not now, now with delicate Portia who’d already endured so much.

  He turned his face into her hair and inhaled her scent, pure and fresh, inescapably hers.

  She muttered something and her hand clutched at his hip, pulling him closer. Their lungs matched, sending air back and forth between them like the gift of life.

  Obscurely comforted, he crept into sleep as if he was pulling a blanket roll around himself—pleased to be there and praying not to be disturbed.

  Chapter Thirty

  “We simply have to tell the authorities the truth.” Portiaset her shoulder against the door from the bedroom to the salon. “Somebody around here must be reliable enough to trust.”

  “I doubt it.” Gareth tweaked his bowtie until it lay perfectly straight across his collar. When he raised his chin like that, she could see his strong jaw and chin muscles, but not the purplish bruise her teeth had left on his neck. That mark—and its brethren!—were hidden by his starched white shirt and collar.

  Need sparkled through her, fierce and bright with the urge to touch him again, despite how often she’d held him last night. He’d woken her up more than once, raging with hunger for her, then slept equally fiercely with her.

  She desperately folded her hands behind her back and fumbled for the latch. “We can ask Kerem Ali Pasha,” she proposed. “Or I can sound out his wife or daughter. Women often notice items that men do not.”

  “You can try.” He dropped his vest down his arms to where it molded itself onto his broad shoulders.

  Why did she keep imagining him without any clothing when she’d enjoyed him so well a few hours ago? Or with his vest but no shirt, to tease her all the better by glimpses of his powerful chest? None of her teenage dreams had burned quite like this. And the Church strongly encouraged a wife to seek the company of her spouse.

  Her husband who would leave in a few days or weeks.

  “Thank you.” She threw her weight against the portal’s iron restraint and burst through into the salon.

  “But not now, Portia,” he ordered in the same instant.

  Her few stumbling steps took her into the center of the great gathering place, lit by morning sunlight filtered through the garden’s graceful trees and slatted windows. It shimmered on the rose-pink silk pleated over the ceiling and the graceful silk rug in matching shades of cream, gold, and pink. The walls were painted with soft murals of village life along the Bosporus, turning them into a radiant reflection of the world outside. Velvet and silk upholstered the divans, while the low tables had been polished until their brass and carved woodwork gleamed more than the textiles. A circular candelabra hung overhead, like a wrought iron spider web hung with glass bowls at regular intervals to offer flames.

  She’d seen its loveliness before whenever she’d gone in and out of the harem. But she’d never thought much about it, except to wonder a little why so much money had been spent on a room used only to connect the men’s and women’s quarters with the outdoors.

  She jerked herself to a stop in the middle of Kerem Ali Pasha’s family gathering place. Three generations—or four, if she counted Adem’s baby son—looked back at her with varying degrees of surprise. It was the first time she’d seen the beating heart of his family.

 
; Small secretary desks and sheets of paper were scattered at every seat, accompanied by fountain pens and ink.

  Horror ran livid across Adem’s wife’s face but Kerem Ali Pasha’s mother looked as if she was studying a new chess piece.

  “I’m sorry,” Portia stammered and dropped a curtsy. She hadn’t done anything this clumsy since finishing school.

  “My wife has seen nothing.” Gareth caught her by the arm. “I swear she cannot read your writing to understand what you have said.”

  Dear heavens, he sounded almost terrified and yet these people were his old friends. The women had freely showed their unveiled faces to him before, marking him as an intimate connection to their household.

  Kerem Ali Pasha climbed slowly onto his feet, flanked by his two sons. Their faces were as stern as if they stood in an armory, surrounded by soldiers with naked blades, rather than at their home beside their wives and children.

  “I apologize for any disturbance we may have caused.” Gareth bowed formally, lowering his head almost in submission. “We will leave now and never speak of this incident.”

  What incident? Portia started to glance up at him but his fingers dug into her like talons. She dropped another, deeper curtsy to underline her complete agreement with her husband, even if she didn’t understand why they were making the bargain.

  Saril, Kerem Ali Pasha’s mother, spoke briefly and arrogantly in Turkish, without taking her eyes away from Portia.

  Kerem Ali Pasha argued vehemently but a brief spurt of words, sharp as a butcher’s knife, silenced him.

  He turned back to the two Americans, his expression an intriguing mix of anticipation and nervousness. “You are our guests. More importantly, you saved my son’s life yesterday.”

  Adem inclined his head. His countenance had settled into a soldier’s unreadable mask.

  “That makes you family—and welcome to stay as you please,” Kerem Ali Pasha finished on an emphatic note. “But as family, we ask that you keep family matters within the bosoms of your own robes.”

  “Certainly we will,” Portia agreed, her words mingling with Gareth’s assurance.