The Devil She Knows

by Diane Whiteside

  “Let’s just say others frequently employ tact to ease newlyweds’ relationship.” Gareth stepped outside for an instant and returned with several flagons, which he placed near the long divan.

  “But we”—He shot her a reproving glance, swift as an eraser over a blackboard—“I am behaving differently from those stranger brides. Therefore, Kerem Ali Pasha’s family is happy to encourage us by granting us privacy.”

  “Exactly.” He removed the tray from her hand and set it down on the low table near the flagons. “Come eat.”

  “European food?” She approached the delicious smells eagerly.

  “No, these are some dishes from their own meal. What you would call hors d’oeuvres, or finger food.”

  She sat down on the divan and sniffed happily.

  He nodded, his thick lashes veiling his thoughts. Like her, he’d changed into lighter weight clothing, notably a linen suit instead of tropical weight wool, and had even taken off his jacket. He had to be wearing a sleeveless undershirt since she could see the muscles in his arms through his shirt every time he moved.

  She tore her gaze away and tried to forget what he’d felt like that morning under her hands—desperate, iron hard, straining against her, and the hard thrust 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?”

  She tasted the wine’s residue on her fingertip and glanced at him. His pupils were very dark and completely fixed on her mouth.

  Instinctively, her tongue flicked over her lower lip.

  His adam’s apple bobbed in his throat before he could speak. “Yes, of course.”

  He set his plate down awkwardly, as if it no longer belonged to him, and his fingers clumsily worked at his necktie.

  “Where did you learn French?” Portia inquired, trying to adopt enough savoir faire to carry off a casual conversation while a man undressed before her.

  “I never heard anything about what you did, except that you were well,” she added.

  “No, I asked William and Viola not to speak of me to you unless you asked. After that disastrous confrontation at the wedding, I didn’t think you’d want any reminders of me.”

  His voice held the bitter calm of long acceptance. How could she tell him she’d both hoped and feared for news?

  She shrugged away either agreement or denial and waved at him to continue.

  “I’ve always found it easy to pick up languages—”

  “And any skill you needed,” Portia inserted, still far too fiercely proud of him for her own good. Leaving him would be painful.

  He glanced up at her, from where he’d just laid his folded vest and necktie, his expression startled. An instant later, his countenance smoothed into a more pleasant mask. She could have cried over the lost intimacy.

  “Most skills,” he temporized. “In any event, you know how I always grow tired of seeing the same places.”

  She frowned and drew herself back into a corner of the divan, closer to where the seabirds sang through the slatted windows. “Go on.”

  “I asked William to send me abroad so I could enjoy some new sights,” he said lightly.

  “Europe?” she guessed, hoping against hope, judging by the hard grooves settling into his cheeks.

  “China first, in 1880.”

  “You must have left immediately after my wedding,” she guessed, “to have arrived there before year’s end.”

  He sh
ot her a glare which would have flattened a symphony’s brass section. “You know Donovan & Sons’ motto.”

  “High risk freight to high risk places,” she said impatiently. “But you didn’t learn to speak French in China.”

  “No. I visited Shanghai, Hong Kong, and finally landed in Indochina, to bring in spare railroad parts. A monsoon season there left me with a working knowledge of French.”

  “And malaria, too?” Good Lord, was he condemned to burn at unpredictable dates for the rest of his life, thanks to a hellish fever?

  “No malaria, honey.” For the first time, his familiar crooked smile flashed at her. “I’ll admit I was damn lucky but I visited Viola’s quinine powder more religiously than any preacher’s altar call.”

  “Thank God.” She’d attended church as seldom as possible after her wedding to St. Arles. But Gareth’s safety might deserve some special prayers. “Is that all?”

  “No, I headed for drier climates after that.” He lounged back on his elbows, like a big, lazy cat ready to either purr or show its claws. “I’ve crossed Arabia’s Empty Quarter to the pearling fisheries in the Persian Sea. I worked with the French archaeologists in Egypt, who wanted to sell their finds to American millionaires.”

  “You have more scars than that.” The whisper came from Portia’s heart, not her throat. Even so, Gareth heard.

  “Egypt doesn’t offer everyone perfumed luxury, honey. There are flies and dust, gunshots and knives in the dark.”

  “There are knives at diplomatic banquets, too. But only the verbal ones cut your throat or are left in your back,” she retorted.

  “Sorry, honey.” He caught her hand and kissed it, his silver eyes glinting like winter rain. “I forgot not every scar can be seen.”

  She twisted her fingers to clasp his, silently sharing her own nightmares of times when she too had been the target.

  “Algeria, mostly, and here in Constantinople,” he added after both their grips relaxed. “French notions of how to colonize are brutal. But I can stomach the work to be done in hauling goods between these parts, France, and back to the States.”

  Portia frowned, teasing out the violence and savagery which underlay French stories of conquering their new territories in North Africa from the original Muslim holders. How much had Gareth seen of that? He’d always treated Indians more than fairly and had even had very close Indian friends. He could not have enjoyed watching the local tribesmen being torn apart to make room for Frenchmen, no matter what rights and wrongs dwelt on either side.

  Why had he stayed away from home, from Arizona, from Uncle William and Aunt Viola for so long?

  He seemed 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 him. Her breasts flattened against his chest and his ribs lifted air into her lungs, as fast as his lips claimed hers.

  She moaned happily, eager to taste more of what he’d given her earlier.

  He kissed her thoroughly, sweetly. His hands roamed her back freely, sweeping from her shoulders to her waist, over her hips and curving to fond
le her derriere. She wiggled closer, enjoying the warm pulse rocking between his mouth and her breast every time he kissed her, the lazy sparks of lust drifting through her veins.

  She sank her fingers into his shoulders but his shirt’s crisp starch rejected her. She made a disconsolate little sound and pressed closer, seeking more contact with the warm male flesh under her mouth.

  “Portia?” He nuzzled her cheek, barely moving his head away from her. “What do you want, honey?”

  She needed a moment to recover her dazed wits. “I’d like to touch you, not your clothes.”

  “Are you certain? Matters may—probably will—go further than they did this morning.” He considered her, sprawled across the silk rug in the late afternoon sunlight like a sultan.

  “I think I want them to.” She nibbled on her fingertip and watched him hopefully. Her breasts ached so much for his touch and his shaft was so very large inside his trousers.

  Yet she could never be sure he wouldn’t do exactly what he pleased, which might not suit her at all. All she knew was that he’d never hurt her.

  “Please, Gareth?” she added.

  “Very well.” He looked as if he was leashing himself, although not a muscle moved. “Do you know what steps you’d like to take next?”

  His voice deepened and slowed until it wrapped around her bones, luring her forward.

  She dragged her teeth across her lips, a move he watched with fascination.

  “You’re wearing too many clothes,” she whispered.

  “Take them off,” he countered.

  Every bit of her skin suddenly flushed with warmth and the desperate need to do exactly what he said.

  “I, uh, I—you mean it.” She stammered to a stop, heat crackling into sparks between them under his heavy-lidded eyes.

  “Of course. We’ve always told each other the truth.”

  She closed her gaping mouth, acutely aware of how taut her breasts suddenly were. He stroked her waist but didn’t move his hands any higher.

  She’d have to prove her willingness to him before he’d know she was ready to step out of St. Arles’ shadow.