The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,56
to have avoided civilization as if it was almost literally a plague.
She kissed his hand, offering what comfort she could. Tears touched her eyes but she blinked them back, refusing to show weakness lest she remind him of too much.
Chapter Twenty-three
“What about Constantinople?” Portia asked when she thought she could form words. As unhappy with the results as with his memories, she tried again. “What brought you here?”
“The Turks are hungry for learning and to build whatever they can afford. Mostly they buy from the British and the Germans but occasionally they trade with Americans.”
He selected a green plum from the tempting array on the table, clearly willing to change the subject.
“Is that how you met Kerem Ali Pasha?” She studied him, glad to discuss a happier topic.
He shook his head and mopped his mouth with a napkin, unabashedly enjoying the succulent fruit.
“Adem and I were both guests of the Paris gendarmes after a—” He paused.
“Brawl?” She proposed the most succinct explanation.
“Thank you for describing me so well.” His eyes twinkled at her. “After I got us out without needing to call upon his embassy’s influence, he introduced me to his father.”
“Who was very grateful.” She rewarded herself with a delicious strawberry for stating the obvious.
“Extremely. He’s helped Donovan & Sons bring mining supplies into the country, including dynamite. The Sultan considers simply possessing the stuff indication of an attack on him so it’s extremely hard to get.”
“You’re joking.” Several pieces of fruit dangled unnoticed from her fingers.
“Not when there’s so much money to be had, simply for providing the basics.” A baffled, angry look crossed his face. “Kerem Ali Pasha also helped us escort American professors here, when they come to take up teaching posts.”
“As private tutors? It’s obvious why well-behaved folk would want assistance coming here.” She’d have given half her inheritance to watch Gareth’s icy protection of Abdul Hammid, if he’d been there from the beginning at the customs post. “But wouldn’t that be paying rather much for a child’s education?”
He shook his head vigorously and finished his last plum.
“Universities?” she asked.
“The Turks give them a fancy name, taken from their religion. But, yes, they’re building universities. And they’re starting to educate their girls, too.”
“Heavens.” She slid out of the divan and onto the floor facing him. “Here, in a Moslem country?”
“Yup.” He grinned at her, looking a little more like the young man she’d so adored. “The Ottoman Empire has its problems. What country doesn’t? Plus, the weather here is better than Saigon.”
“What wouldn’t be?” she asked tartly, tears drying on her cheeks.
“Sea breezes here are more pleasant than the Algerian desert winds,” he added, full of spurious innocence.
She grabbed a pillow from the divan and swung it at his head.
“Sweetheart, you’ll knock over the yoghurt,” he protested and snatched at the tufted silk.
“You’d deserve it for such a saccharine platitude,” she shot back and launched herself at him. “Working in a place solely because of its weather is asinine!”
She dug an elbow into his chest and he let out a startled yelp. Well pleased, she fought even more strongly for the cushion.
Gareth wrestled Portia down to the floor, until she lay on top of him, their arms trapped between them, linked by the silken upholstery.
She lifted her head and glared at him triumphantly.
“I won,” she announced and tossed her hair back over her shoulders. Her loose upsweep had somehow come loose, sending masses of curls tumbling down her back. “I’ve got the pillow.”
“So do I,” he pointed out, “and I’m holding onto the button.”
“But I have the bigger button.” She tried to smirk. She was suddenly acutely aware of her legs straddling his hips—and the very large, hot bar rubbing against her.
“Portia,” he warned, “my fingers are longer than yours.”
She flushed, remembering just how well he’d used those digits that morning.
“Portia?” His voice deepened to a darker, more intimate note.
If she released the pillow, she might be able to feel his chest again. But they were both dressed, no matter how lightly.
Would he want to?
Nothing ventured, nothing gained.
She took a single hand away from the cushion. But where should she put it? Behind her back or on his arm, his thigh, his—?
He slipped his fingers through hers and guided them to his shoulder.
Her lips rounded in surprise.
He pulled the pillow out from between them, threw it across the room, and slid his hand up behind her neck.
Of course, he’d know exactly what to do.
She leaned forward into his kiss, letting all of herself rest on