The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,36

She’d always refused them, telling herself and them it was because St. Arles would never tolerate a cuckoo in the nest. He’d have known in a minute if another man had sired his heir and heaven knows, the son of a bitch kept hauling himself back to her bed to breed one.

She hadn’t realized until now it was because no other man made her bones shiver, even when her skin hadn’t been touched.

“We need to talk,” she said more than a little desperately.

“Of course. But not here—and not in the carriage.”

Oh dear Lord, she’d have to be truly private with him.

Jumping off the pier would have been easier than boarding the carriage but she did it nonetheless.

Chapter Sixteen

The carriage lurched and jolted forward again up the steep hill overlooking the great city.

Portia swayed beside Gareth and gracefully adjusted to its ungainly gait yet again. Her maid sat in the opposite seat with her eyes shut, her fingers busy with her rosary.

Unfortunately for him, Portia was even lovelier now than the day she’d married that English prig or in any of the newsprint photos since. Wisps of golden hair teased her face from under her high-brimmed hat with its mass of blue feathers, until she seemed a lightly ensnared bird.

She deserved a better introduction to Constantinople than she’d received. With any luck, she’d be on tomorrow’s train for Paris—and away from the idiotic lump in his throat when he looked at her.

Her hand crept across the carriage seat toward him. Tentatively, as if the slightest rebuff would send her running, she linked her fingers with his, the same way they had during their escapades.

His chest tightened.

He held hands with her and told himself it was only to comfort her for the nastiness she’d endured. He didn’t need any such warmth.

Gareth’s eyes swept the hotel lobby once again, suspicious as if he stood in a crowded saloon full of cowboys using their Colts for wagers.

Yet nothing could have been more civilized than his surroundings: the tall black marble columns which divided the great space, the gold-paneled walls bordered in black fretwork and which offered pastel hymns to Constantinople’s glories, the high ceilings etched in more gold to reflect the enormous French chandeliers, and the white and gray marble floors floating like a winter sea from the front door up the stairs to main lobby and hence to the rippling main staircase, which led to the suites.

Liveried attendants lined the walls or glided across the floor, eager to fulfill a guest’s slightest wish—whether a speedy check-in, directions, or a cup of English tea. Anything and everything was available here for its very well-heeled European patrons. Discreetly, of course, especially the heavy security.

So why the hell were his fingers twitching for the gun he never carried in Constantinople?

Maybe it was because this was the first place men openly looked at Portia.

Yes, that had to be it. They’d journeyed through the Old City, primarily among Moslem men who’d never let their glances linger on a woman, especially if she was accompanied by a man. But here the fellows were European and they felt free to show their appreciation of her beauty.

No matter how politely they did so—however glinting the smile, quirky the lift of an eyebrow, or jaunty the tip of the hat—their reaction was unmistakable.

Just like Gareth’s automatic response to them: tuck her hand more closely into the crook of his arm and glare. He might look a fool but she didn’t need to be bothered with them, not when she’d just gone through that bitter divorce.

And so what if any whiff of her scent made his breath catch in his throat? He wasn’t accustomed to smelling a polite European lady’s perfume. And if that made his chest tighten and his loins ache—well, some reactions were simply instinct that a fellow had no control over, especially when he hadn’t had a woman for a few weeks.

He’d have to take care of that tonight, though, or put Portia on the first train out of town. Otherwise, he might look a fool in front of her if he spent a full day with her tomorrow.

“You’ll take me to evening prayers at the Hagia Sophia then?” Portia asked. She turned to face him on the main staircase, placing the gilded wrought iron between them like a harem’s screen.

A driving need inside Gareth roared an objection to any distance from her, startling him by the presence of something whose birth he hadn’t quite noticed. It had to be