Captive of Kadar. Trish Morey
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floor his apartment was on.
So it was a surprise to her when the small lift clunked to a stop on the top level, the door that greeted them leading to a spacious and light-filled apartment decorated in rich colours with floor-to-ceiling windows.
‘Oh, my God,’ she said as she tugged off her scarf, drawn inexorably to those windows and a view of Istanbul the likes of which she’d never seen. At ground level they’d been surrounded by the streetscape, buildings and trees and traffic. Five levels higher and the streetscape was far below and it was the ship-dotted deep blue Sea of Marmara that was laid out before them.
‘Please,’ he said, unlatching and sliding open the glass door. ‘Be my guest.’
She stepped out onto the wide terrace, and saw that it wrapped around the apartment. Before her and to her right lay the busy shipping lanes, while the view to her left gave a sweeping panorama over the old city and across the Golden Horn. A panorama of red-tiled roofs and minarets and sea and sky. From far below came the sounds of the street, the beeping horns of taxis and the rumble of vans and buses along the narrow streets. And as she watched, the setting sun bathed everything in a rose-coloured glow, turning minarets and clouds alike pink, and when the call to prayer came, the birds rose, they too turning pink as they wheeled and soared in the westering sun.
‘Wow,’ she said, knowing it was totally inadequate, but unable to find any other words to do the view and the poetry and the sheer wonder of it all justice.
And she sensed rather than heard Kadar behind her.
‘Some people say Paris is the most beautiful city in the world.’
His voice was low and rich and she felt his words in the movement of air and the vibration in her bones. She felt them in the sway of hair at the nape of her neck and every part of her tingled.
She felt it all, even though he did not touch her, and the absence of his touch made her more conscious of him than ever, like an ache that needed to be massaged.
She sucked in air.
In all her twenty-five years, Amber had never considered herself bold. As far as she was concerned, she had been born risk averse.
Sensible.
Boring.
But today, with this man and in this place, and in the shadow of a woman who had been brave enough to venture here a century and a half before, she wasn’t going to wait. She turned and lifted her chin and met his dark, impenetrable gaze head-on.
‘What do you say?’ she asked as if there were any doubt, her voice a bare whisper.
‘There is no question,’ he said as he tucked a stray wisp of her hair behind her ear and let his fingers linger on her cheek, his touch electric. And his eyes were dark like Turkish coffee, rich and strong, as they searched her features, her eyes, her mouth, only pausing when they found her lips.
‘Istanbul,’ he said, his voice like a rumble as his fingers trailed down over her jaw and curved behind her neck. ‘Istanbul is the most beautiful city on earth.’
His own mouth was beautiful. A wide cupid’s bow made masculine. She could watch his mouth form his words for ever. She could listen to his deep voice and play the game of trying to pick where he was from for ever.
He was like the city itself. Exotic. Exciting. Full of mystery and adventure and all of the world mixed together, and he was hers for the night.
Her breath caught, her lips parted as he drew her closer. ‘I believe it,’ she said, her eyes on his mouth, bare inches away from hers, because there was nowhere in the world she’d rather be right now, than right here, with him.
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