The Devil She Knows - By Diane Whiteside Page 0,94
husband’s groin.
His blood immediately answered her, as always, and Gareth cursed silently. Still, they’d be alone together again soon enough in their own private car on Donovan’s private train.
He tried for a joke to cover his response.
“Perhaps we should let him make it and then taste the results. After that, he’ll probably look for different mischief.”
“Unlike us, who found the best during childhood.” Portia drew a heart on the back of Gareth’s hand.
He caught her fingers and stared down into her eyes, eternally amazed by the miracle of her love. Surely there was time for a quick detour into the house.
“Ahem.” A man coughed softly and Gareth reluctantly looked up.
William and Viola strolled through the garden from the railroad siding to join them. Thank God Viola’s eyes twinkled with laughter over her sons’ antics. It was far better to see that than the coughing spasms which could attack her when she was anxious.
“How long do you think it will be until Neil rounds them up?” Portia asked, her tone light and jocular.
“Less than five minutes.”
Gareth had never dared to disbelieve William Donovan before. But such a flat statement certainly begged to be contradicted.
The Irishman glanced at him, his arm locked around his wife’s waist the same way Gareth held his lady.
“All of them know the chef has a fresh batch of raisin cookies in the oven.”
“They won’t miss those,” Gareth agreed, awed by his friend’s foresight.
“Every husband and father learns what bribes work and when to have them ready.” William winked at him. “It’s part of leading a family.”
“Thank you for the advice—and for welcoming me into your clan.”
“You always were a member of my family, from the minute you joined up in Kansas City.”
Gareth’s breath stopped in his throat, while all too many things became clear. His friend’s casual but vital teachings, the protectiveness, the willingness to let him go his own way while always making sure he had friends and resources to back him. And, most of all, the unquestioning support whenever he needed it.
William held out his hand to him and they gripped strongly, while their wives beamed.
Author’s Note
The Al-Muqattam newspaper of Cairo reported (in no. 1964, 7 September 1895) the imprisonment of a newcomer to Constantinople, whose only “crime” was having the same name as the current Sultan and staying at a hotel named similarly to the Sultan’s palace. Poignantly, that gentleman had come to take up a job in the Justice Ministry. He was insane and penniless when he was finally released.
Thanks to Steven Maffeo for clarifying details of the Immortal Memory toast at Trafalgar Day banquets in British naval etiquette, and to the Weapons-Info group at Yahoo! for providing the perfect nineteenth-century blades.
Much of this book is set in Cairo and Constantinople during the twilight years of the Ottoman Empire. As if matters weren’t complicated enough for an English-speaking author, the great Turkish leader Mustafa Kemal, known as Ataturk, led the conversion of Turkey’s writing system and its language from Ottoman (i.e., extended Arabic) script to Roman. In other words, the names for the same characters and places have frequently changed over time and have multiple possible spellings in the Roman alphabet. I have therefore followed the examples of experts on translating them, while striving to maintain clarity and consistency.
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Bo shot through the goal crease and slammed the puck into the net.
“Morning!”
That voice cut through his focus and, without breaking his stride, Bo changed direction and skated over to the rink entrance. He stopped hard, ice spraying out from his skates, and stood in front of the wolfdog.
He stared down at her and she stared up at him. She kept smiling even when he didn’t. Finally he asked, “What time did we agree on?”
“Seven,” she replied with a cheery note that put his teeth on edge.
“And what time is it?”
“Uh…” She dug into her jeans and pulled out a cell phone. The fact that she still had on that damn, useless watch made his head want to explode. How did one function—as an adult anyway—without a goddamn watch?
Grinning so that he could see all those perfectly aligned teeth, she said, “Six-forty-five!”
“And what time did we agree on?”
She blinked and her smile faded. After a moment, “Seven.”
“Is it seven?”
“No.” When he only continued to stare at her, she softly asked, “Want to meet me at the track at seven?”
He continued to stare at her until she nodded and said, “Okay.”