by Liz Crowe
She backed up against the smooth side of the ancient building. Her heart pounded in her ears, but she couldn’t stop smiling. As far as she was concerned, this was living. Sitting around and reading Jane Eyre and doing crochet like her mother expected was simply maddening.
He called out, yelling at the three dogs that had them cornered. Vivian leapt from her leaning pallet tower over to a balcony that jutted out into the dirty alleyway. There were some empty iron chairs up there, in a tangle of rusty metal. She heaved one over the side, distracting the dogs long enough so her friend could scramble up the wooden pile out of immediate danger. He stared at her, his chest heaving. She smiled, unable to stop herself, as he laughed at her. If she had a brother, she’d want one like him. But suddenly his blue gaze took on an intensity she didn’t understand, although it made her tingle. She looked away.
By the time the dogs wandered away, she realized they had been sitting for nearly an hour as it got dangerously close to dark. They’d passed the time seeing who could hit the opposite wall with pebbles, talking in a mish mash of English and Turkish about what tomorrow might bring. She heaved herself over the side of the balcony and dropped down, surprised when he caught her. Vivian gulped. His strong arms felt so good, holding her close. She was late and could face all sorts of trouble, but his hands were so warm, his arms so strong. They made her feel safe.
He let her go and dashed away. Within minutes, the dogs were on their heels again but time was short, they couldn’t hide anymore. Their feet pounded the cobblestones, she in front, so he could reach back every now and then and smack the lead dog’s nose with a stick to delay them. As Vivian took the final long jump over the dirty canal that separated the diplomatic neighborhoods from the rest of Etiler, she heard a cry of anger and pain. She wheeled around and didn’t see Levent. Breathless, she doubled back and found him, crouched against a rusting pipe that jutted out from the street, his hands on his face. Blood covered his neck and shirt.
“Oh no, Levent, did the dog bite you?” She tried to touch his hands, but he jerked out of her reach and walked away. “Let me see!”
He headed for her father’s compound. Blood dripped on the cobblestones as she followed, pleading with him to let her help. He ignored her and moved toward the house.
Chapter Two
“Merciful Virgin child where have you been?” The girl’s mother stood at the kitchen door, her hands clutched together so tight Levent couldn’t make out where one ended and the other began. He watched Vivian try to smooth her hair, but the blatant dirt splotches on her once-white school shirt and maroon skirt were impossible to deny. So she simply stood, staring as he ducked behind the tall, elegant woman and into the dim front hall.
He winced at the sight of his own mother, as she walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands on a towel. Her reaction came close to what he expected. Calling for the kitchen maid, she shoved him down onto a bench and pulled his hands away from his face. Blood ran down his neck, covered his shirt, made crimson puddles on the clean floor. She railed at him, smacked his head once or twice, yelled for his father. But went about the business of cleaning up the gash at the corner of his upper lip.
“This is your reward for stealing away with the little girl. You must stop now. Her parents know. It is inappropriate for her. She must stay here. And you must go. We are sending you to academy. You can get started on that military career you want so badly.” Another clout to the back of the head signaled that his father had arrived. Levent felt his chest tighten. Never see her again? How could that be?
“No,” he claimed. “I…I want to work. The academy is too expensive. We can’t afford it.”
Whack. That one from his mother’s hand again. His head spun. “How do you know what your father can and cannot afford, you cur?” She shook her head and pressed yet another fresh towel to his dirty, bloodied face. “Insolent spawn.” She muttered all manner of Turkish curses on his hide as she cleaned his face and put a bandage over his upper lip. His father’s heavy hand fell onto his shoulder once his mother was finished.
“Son, I found you a job you can take for a couple of years, if you like. I know you love building things so an uncle has offered to take you on as a tradesman. Starting tomorrow.” His father’s voice was low. “I want you to learn, do you hear me? Get all the knowledge you can then spend your two years defending our beloved Republic, then I will have money for you to start your business. No son of mine will serve another like I have done.”
Levent frowned. “You are noble, father. I am proud to be your son.” His father stared hard at him. “But, I don’t want to leave…here.”
His parents exchanged a significant look. His mother moved into the kitchen presumably to fetch bandages, mumbling about “ungrateful sons” and “inappropriate friends.” A stone dropped in his gut when he looked back into his father’s dark eyes.
“You must, my son. It is for the best. For everyone.” For the first time in his nearly fifteen years, Levent let his temper loose to a beloved parent. He stood, aware his shirt was stiffening with his own blood and his upper lip hurt like the devil had it in a vise. But he was not leaving. Not leaving her.
“No. I won’t. I don’t care what you think. She is my friend and I….” His shoulders sagged. He’d given away his position, betrayed how he truly felt about the daughter of the diplomat his parents served. The look in the older man’s eyes told him it wasn’t a huge news flash. His father stood, his six foot six frame taking up most of the room in the small kitchen alcove.
“You will go, Levent. This girl is not your friend. She is your superior. Don’t ever forget it.” He put a meaty hand on the boy’s shoulder. The weight of the world seemed to settle over him. His childhood—running the streets, laughing and joking, getting into and out of trouble, watching her lips curve into a smile, and listening to her voice as she spoke—was over. His father was right. He swallowed, nodded his head, and moved into the kitchen to receive first aid. Bitter unshed tears made his throat ache. He sent a silent good bye to the girl, hoping she wouldn’t be angry when she woke up tomorrow, and he was long gone.
The shouting, curses, and general craziness of a large construction site were familiar to Levent. Truthfully, it was his favorite place. He sighed and put his boot-clad feet up on the desk. The office was still bustling with workmen, but as the day came to a close, the place was emptying out. He’d placated an entire battalion of electricians today, and the general contractor was across the room singing his praises to a frazzled secretary so she could type a letter for his file. Levent smiled at her. He’d maneuvered her into a dark corner a few weeks ago, stolen a few kisses. As he recalled the fairly forgettable moment, his fingers gripped the folded paper Vivian had stuffed into his pocket earlier that day.
His heart pounded. He’d let the chaos of the afternoon’s work push the images of Vivian out of his head. Which somehow forced it all back, nearly bowling him over. Memories of those deep brown eyes made him clench his jaw. He’d tried to sneak past her, writing a mental note to transfer out of that class. But she’d grabbed his arm. His entire body had zinged in pleasure at that one touch. She hadn’t spoken. Had merely handed him a piece of paper. Because he wasn’t able to trust his voice, and besides had no idea what he’d say to her anyway, he’d nodded and rushed out.
He caressed the paper between his hands. Then opened it, found a few simple words: 101 Cannakkale Place Dungeon ten p.m. He frowned. That was a bad part of town slowly being rehabbed. He had no idea why she would be there at ten p.m., well past the time nice American diplomatic daughters should be tucked up with hot chocolate and a book. His father’s words filled his head. “She is your superior.” He groaned. The almost fourteen years since he’d laid eyes on the girl felt like fourteen minutes right now. He’d missed her so much but had buried himself in work, then two years on the Syrian/Turkish border in the military. He never wanted for female company. But he was getting tired of the string of endless opportunity with women he felt
nothing for beyond what their bodies provided.
“Deniz!” The electric foreman stomped into the temporary office. “Let me take you to tea, my son. You are a wise man beyond your tender years. I want to celebrate the deal you have made for us with the surly dog of a subcontractor.”
Levent stood. He towered over most men, having reached his father’s height of nearly six foot six inches. The older man clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, boy, I know a place where the tea is hot and the conversation hotter.”
“I appreciate that, but I have a prior date to keep.” He winced at the lie. But another moment in the gasbag’s company would send him over the edge. The sight of Vivian, so amazingly beautiful as he remembered when she was a girl, but obviously all woman now had made him antsy, like he’d consumed too much caffeine. He felt a headache on his horizon, too, and the only way to avoid a monster migraine was to go home, get a hot shower and lie down. But his mind kept jumping around. He touched the scar on his lip, which stung at that moment as if he’d re-injured it.
“Ah, yes, youth. You enjoy that ‘date,’ young man. Big strapping lad like yourself, must have plenty of those, eh?” The older man elbowed Levent. He clenched his fists but pasted on a smile and smothered the impulse to punch the man’s pudgy red face. He shook his head at himself. An even temperament had always been part of his makeup. Why in the world would simply seeing an old friend set him off like this?
He wiped a hand across his face. He must be tired. Between schoolwork and this job, he averaged five hours of sleep. Trying to complete a Master’s level degree in business while running his own made for long exhausting days, but since he never had valued “down time,” he had no real complaints. Until now. He shook his head to dispel her. It didn’t work. After giving his goodbyes, Levent stomped down the steps, anger at himself making the headache worse.
***
Vivian brushed out her hair and stared in the mirror. At nearly nine-thirty, her father had left for some function and his wife and kid were ensconced in the other wing of the residence. They generally avoided her, which worked. It left her free to roam around as she pleased. Her usual excitement at sneaking around most every night had been wearing off lately. It seemed too easy. As if trying to prove her own badness was no fun because no one ever acknowledged it.
She sighed and reached for her journal. The pencil drawing she’d made of Levent stared back at her. His strong, stubbled jaw, deep blue eyes, crooked smile, and lean frame were as familiar to her today as if she hadn’t spent the last fourteen years being angry with him for leaving. Vivian ran her finger across the picture, smudging the lines a little. The phone in her suite rang, startling her. The downstairs housekeeper’s voice crackled through the receiver.
“Madam, there is a young man here to see you. It’s Mister Harrison. From the office.”
Vivian sighed. What was he doing here? She and Ron Harrison had been shoved together by her father the moment she’d touched down in Istanbul. The arranged nature of their dates did not lead to much fun, for either of them she didn’t think. A former Marine and now a diplomatic flunkey of some sort bouncing between Istanbul and Ankara doing whatever it was diplomats did, Ron followed orders. And it seemed her father had ordered him to “escort her” around like some kind of juvenile.
“Okay, tell him I’ll be down.”
She swiped on some lipstick, buttoned up a few more buttons on her blouse, and made herself presentable. Hoping she didn’t look like she planned on sneaking out to an illicit bar, she descended the steps. The young man stood, hands behind his back, parade-rest style, and watched her. His blue eyes shone. She let him take her hand and lead her into the formal sitting area of her father’s enormous diplomatic home. Vivian studied his classically handsome face, framed by blond high-and-tight hair, and the span of his impressive shoulders currently cloaked in a dark brown suit. In other circumstances, she’d be interested. But this man had her father’s mark of approval. Therefore he could take a long walk off a short dock as far as she was concerned.
“Vivian, I’ve come to have a serious talk with you.” His low voice held the honeyed hint of an American southern accent. Her heart pounded but she leaned back on the couch and crossed her legs, accepting tea from the servant who brought it to them. “Your father and I agree that you should accompany me to Ankara next week and that we…well, I’ve asked his permission to–”
Vivian held up her hand as the tea seared her nasal passages. She coughed and sputtered and sat back up. Incredible. These two had effectively planned her marriage. To a man she barely knew and liked even less. Or had really not tried to like, might be a fairer assessment. He frowned at her, his eyes losing some of their sparkle.
“Stop right there, Ron.” She took his hand, hoping the blunt the edge of her harsh words. “You are a perfectly nice guy, but….” Her throat closed up with fury. Her father had divorced her mother, knocked up some secretary then married her, and demanded Vivian move back here after her own mother’s death. He’d done a not-so-subtle takeover of her life with that move—but this took the cake. He was sorely mistaken if he thought he could hand her over like a horse from his stable. She stood. Ron kept a grip on her hand, but she yanked it back. “I’m sorry but my father has given you the wrong impression. I am not interested in joining you in Ankara or anywhere else.” She crossed her arms, truly repentant at the way his handsome face fell. He stood and ran his hands down her arms. His touch made her want to scream and run away.
“I’m sorry, too. But I think you should talk to him. I’m not so bad, really.” He surprised her with a kiss, just a light one at first, lips barely ghosting across hers then deeper, his tongue invading her mouth, his grip on her arms tightening. She had a brief moment of regret, wondering what she’d be missing by rejecting this man. But as the “chosen one” he would never be an option. She broke the kiss, looked away, and took a step back. He put his hands in his pockets.
“I’ll call on you again tomorrow, if I may. We can…um…talk some more perhaps?” His tall muscular frame seemed somehow diminished by the massive room. Vivian gulped. If she had met him on her own, hadn’t had him shoved down her throat by her father, things might be different. But they could both take a flying leap right now.
“Do whatever you like. But I’m telling you I’m not…not marrying you.”
He smiled at her. “You say that now….”
In spite of herself, she grinned back. “And I will tomorrow and the next day and the next. I suggest you keep looking. Thanks for stopping by.” She kept herself from touching him, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. There was no way she was changing her mind. Her father and this man could find someone else’s life to arrange.
Vivian leaned against the large wooden front door after he left. She touched her cheek where he’d grazed it with a knuckle. Yes, he could be quite the fine specimen, but he was not what she wanted. Nothing her father wanted for her would ever be acceptable. Ever. She checked her watch. Ten fifteen. Time to go. She hoped Levent would be there. They had a lot of catching up to do.
***
Levent resisted the temptation of Vivian’s invitation as long as he could. He ran for ten miles, dodging through well-known streets and alleys in the in-between neighborhood where he lived in a two room apartment. The familiar sidewalk-less and cobblestoned streets pounded up through his legs, easing the headache but not the twitchiness in his nerve endings. Why should he even care to see her again? He’d shut the door on that friendship years ago when he didn’t say good-bye.
Sweat poured off his body by the time he circled back around to his nondescript building. His legs were on fire. He did an hour of sit ups and push-ups, the nervous energy in his soul pushing him further than he’d gone physically since he’d left the military. His body screamed at him to stop, but his brain made him continue, anything to exorcise those brown eyes from searing his brain like they’d done since that morning.
Finally, he sat, leaned against the couch,
his breath coming in short gasps, arms propped on his knees. The clock over the stove indicated he had twenty minutes if he were going to meet her. Suddenly freezing, Levent dragged a blanket down and covered himself, stretching his aching legs out. He groaned as the semi hard-on he had nursed all damn day got real, making him shift on the floor so he could reach in and handle it.
Dear God, how in the world had he come face to face with the girl again after all this time, in a city of nearly five million people? If he were the type, he’d call it pre-destined. But he wasn’t. He increased his rhythm, felt the orgasm gathering energy at the base of his spine. He laid his head back on the couch, gave into it. Temporary relief surged through him but he called her name at the last minute and imagined her in his arms.
Oh hell. I should not go there. I should transfer out of that class and avoid her. She is my superior. But he showered, dressed carefully and seemingly on autopilot, started walking the ten blocks to 101 Cannakale Street, to the Dungeon. To meet the woman who’d haunted his every waking moment for years.
Chapter Three
“Viv! Over here! Where have you been?” The pretty blonde woman waved at her from the other side of the dimly lit room. British rock music poured out of small speakers. The extremely thin young local, who owned the place and sported an amazing number of tattoos and horn rimmed glasses on his beakish nose, doubled as bartender and DJ. He nodded hello to her. Here she wasn’t a diplomat’s daughter, merely another young woman chafing at the boundaries of the culture where she lived. He’d learned how to make some lira out of types like her, and the occasional tourists who got wind of his place.