The Wedding Party And Holiday Escapes Ultimate Collection. Кейт Хьюит
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he’d cut his hands off before hurting her.
Enough with the fixation on his hands.
They boarded the plane and found their seats. Trig stowed their bags and watched her settle tentatively into the wide and comfy seat. Ten seconds later he dangled a little pillow in front of her nose. Lena took it and set it at the small of her back.
Better.
‘You got a plan for when we get to Istanbul?’ Trig gave her another pillow and she contemplated swatting him with it, but tucked it down the side of the seat instead. She could always smother him with it later.
‘I have a plan,’ she said. ‘And a meeting with Amos Carter in two days’ time.’
‘Please tell me you’re not basing this entire journey on Carter being able to tell you where Jared is,’ said Trig. ‘Because I’ve already shaken that tree. He thought he saw him in Bodrum but he didn’t get close enough for a positive ID. That was six weeks ago.’
‘I know that. And if Amos has nothing more to add I’m heading for Bodrum to play tourist and see what I can see. My eyes are better than his. I know Jared’s habits. If he’s there I’ll find him. If he’s been there, I’ll find out where he’s gone.’
She eyed Trig speculatively, trying to figure the best way to fit him into her plan. ‘We could pretend to be holidaying together. We could be on our honeymoon. Good cover.’
Trig looked startled. And then he looked wary. ‘Not necessarily. Bodrum’s a tourist mecca. Boats. Parties. Outdoor nightclubs. Vice. We’re probably going to be exploring that vice. I don’t think pretending to be married would help at all.’
‘You’re absolutely right,’ said Lena, perfectly willing to improve on her current plan. ‘I could be your pimp instead. You could be Igor The Masterful. There could be leather involved.’
‘Yeah, let’s not go there either.’
Lena smiled at the flight hostess standing right behind him. To the hostie’s credit she didn’t bat an eyelash at the wayward conversation, just took her tongs and handed Trig a steaming flannel. She handed one to Lena too. Lena thanked her sweetly and shook it out and wiped hands and arms all the way to the elbows.
Trig sat down and draped his over his face.
‘I’m still here,’ said Lena.
‘Don’t remind me.’
‘At least it’s not the belly of a Hercules,’ she said. ‘And your legs actually fit in the space they’ve been given. It’s all win.’
‘I’m over winning.’ She could still make out the words, muffled as they were beneath the face cloth. ‘These days I’m all about risk analysis and minimising collateral damage.’
Well, hell. ‘When did you grow up?’
‘Twenty-second of April, twenty eleven.’
The day she’d been shot.
Twenty-six hours later Trig collected their bags and herded Lena out of Ataturk airport space and into a rusty, pale blue taxi. No fuss, no big deal made about Lena’s slow and steady walking pace, and she was grateful for that. Grateful too that Trig had chosen to accompany her.
‘Where to?’ asked the driver in perfectly serviceable English as he opened the boot and swung their luggage into it, smoothly cataloguing them as foreigners and English-speaking ones at that. The street kids here could do much the same. Pick a German out of a crowd. An American. The English. Apparently it had something to do with shoes.
‘The Best Southern Presidential Hotel near the Grand Bazaar,’ Lena told the driver. ‘And can you do something else for us? Can you take us past the Blue Mosque on the way there?’
‘Madam, it would be my uttermost pleasure to do that for you,’ announced the beaming driver. ‘This is your first visit to our magnificent city, no? You and your husband must also journey to Topkapi Sarayi and Ayasofya. And the Bazaar of course. My cousin sells silk carpets there. I shall inform him of your imminent arrival and he shall treat you like family. Here.’ The driver turned towards them, waving a small cardboard square. ‘My cousin’s business card. His shop is situated along Sahaflar Caddesi. It is a street of many sharks. Many sharks, but not my cousin. Tell him Yasar Sahin sent you. This is me. I have written it on the card for you already.’
Trig took the card from the driver in silence, probably in the hope that the driver would turn around and drive. Lena grinned. Trig had a weakness for carpets and rugs and wall hangings and tapestries. She had no idea why.
‘You know you want one,’ she murmured.
‘Don’t you dare mention jewellery,’ he murmured back, but Yasar Sahin heard him.
‘Are you looking for gold?’ Another card appeared in the driver’s nimble fingers. ‘Silver? This man is my brother and his jewellery will make your wife weep.’
‘I don’t want her to weep,’ said Trig but he took that card too. He didn’t mention that Lena wasn’t his wife.
‘Are you hungry?’ asked the driver. ‘On this road is my favourite kebab stand. Best in the city.’
‘Another brother?’ asked Lena.
‘Twin,’ said the driver and Lena laughed.
They didn’t get the kebabs, they saw the Blue Mosque at dusk and they arrived at the hotel without mishap.
Trig tipped well because Lena was still smiling. He got Yasar’s personal business card for his trouble. ‘Because I am also a tour guide and fixer,’ said Yasar.
‘Fixer?’
‘Problem solver.’
Of course he was.
The hotel Lena had chosen to stay in was mid-range and well located. She’d told the check-in clerk that Trig was her husband, who’d joined her on the trip unexpectedly, and the clerk had added Trig’s details to the booking without so much as a murmur.
‘You sure about this?’ he murmured as the clerk went to fetch their door cards.
‘Why? You want another room?’
He didn’t know.
‘It’s a twin room. Two beds.’
Still one room though.
And boy were quarters snug.
Trig eyed the short distance between the two beds with misgivings. They’d weathered plenty, he and Lena. Sharing a hotel room was not on the list.
He put her bag on the rack at the end of the bed farthest away from the door. Lena inspected the bathroom and proclaimed it satisfactory, because she’d wanted one with a spa bath and got it. Next thing he knew, the bath taps were on and Lena was rummaging through her belongings for fresh clothes.
‘You want to shower while the bath is running?’ she asked him. ‘Because—fair warning—when I get in the bath I am not going to want to get out.’
‘You’re sore?’
‘I just want to work the kinks out.’
‘Right.’ Trig cleared his throat and opened his bag, staring down at the mess of clothes he hadn’t bothered to fold, and tried not to think about Lena, naked in a bath not ten feet away from him. ‘So...okay, yeah. I can shower now.’ He grabbed at a faded pair of jeans and an equally well-worn T-shirt and then paused. ‘Where do you want to go for dinner?’ This could, conceivably, affect his choice of T-shirt.
‘I’m all in favour of room service, provided the menu looks good. And it’s not because I don’t want to walk anywhere,’ she added defensively. ‘Room