The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,54
when he found his own climax without ever hurting her.
He needed to cough to catch her attention before he could serve the first item.
She blushed scarlet and stared down at the plate, rather than his face. “What is this? It doesn’t look like anything I’ve seen before.”
“It’s called dolma—or stuffed food. These are stuffed grape leaves.” He sat down beside her on the floor, as comfortably cross-legged as if he was still in Arizona.
“Grape leaves?” She considered the small cylinder even more dubiously.
“The Turks include raisins in theirs.” He took a bite, with the same insouciant air he’d once used to dare her onto three-storey high roofs.
She shoved the morsel into her mouth, chewed—and her taste buds applauded. “It’s delicious.”
He chuckled and poured her a glass of red wine from one of the flagons.
“Italian?” she asked.
“No, local. The Greeks have been making wine here since before Jason and the Argonauts sailed past.”
She sipped cautiously, eyeing him over the rim. The Gareth Lowell she’d first met at age twelve couldn’t have discussed wine. Even the man who’d so arrogantly cleaned up problems for Uncle William in Arizona didn’t talk about fine wine, although he knew how to handle the morass of silver knives and forks on a fancy dinner table, plus the crystal goblets to match.
But his mature version raised an eyebrow at her and her heart skipped a beat, no doubt because of the very smooth wine flowing down her throat.
“I like it,” she approved. Of the beverage, of course—and held out her plate for more food. Heaven help her if her senses started swimming, because of either alcohol or her husband.
“St. Arles didn’t leave a message, while we were gone,” she commented a little later.
“No, it’s probably too soon. He only arrived in town this morning.” Gareth tore off a piece of bread and dipped it into sauce, rather as if he wanted to shred St. Arles.
“How do you know that?” Portia firmly commanded her fingers to snatch another fresh fig, not throttle her husband for keeping secrets.
“I hired men to keep watch on all arriving tourists, especially those on the Orient Express.”
“All arrivals? Wasn’t that difficult to do?”
“No. If the train didn’t bring him, I was betting he’d stay at the same hotel you did.”
“Why?”
“Honey, that bastard requires his creature comforts and they’ll only be coughed up for him there.”
Portia blinked, as much in surprise at his profanity, as in agreement with its cause.
“Even if he decided to rough it, I’ve put in a solid bribe at the Almabayn where all the spy reports come in. That nest of snakes will know within a day when he shows up and exactly where he lays his head.”
“And they’d tell you?”
“For enough money, they’ll send me a copy after the Sultan and all his folks know.” Gareth ripped up several more inoffensive bits of bread. “If I was trying to avoid attention, I’d play the game exactly the way St. Arles has: Arrive looking exactly like the world’s biggest tourist and check into the hotel offering the poshest digs.”
“The same one I’d been at.” Portia wiped her hands. If only she could rid herself of memories as easily.
“Yup. By tomorrow, or maybe the day after, if he behaves himself, only routine spy reports should be filed on him.”
“If not?”
Hope must have been too loud in her voice because Gareth slanted a quick glance at her.
“If the authorities get suspicious, they’ll have a covey of spies following him. He’d never be rid of them and he’d be a fool to try, since they’d only add more or boot him out of the country as a nuisance. No, St. Arles’ best bet is to lie low until he’s sure he’s not being watched—and then start causing trouble.”
“Drat.” Portia gazed into her wineglass’s depths then poured the liquid down her throat, its only sure use.
“Honey.” Gareth gently wrapped his fingers around her wrist. “He’s just giving us time to figure out how to stop him.”
“I wish he’d do something more helpful, like leave town or drop dead,” she muttered and held out her glass for more wine.
“A pleasant thought but unlikely. Let’s try talking about something more common.” He filled the fragile crystal to the halfway mark, rather than higher. “The weather perhaps?”
“Now you sound like a diplomat, always sticking to the safe topic.” She traced the rim with her fingertip. “But since it’s so hot, why don’t you get a little more comfortable? Maybe take off your vest and necktie?”