Turkish Delights 0.50 - 4.00 Series Bundle

by Liz Crowe

  Her brain registered that he had figured out how nervous she was about flying and introducing him to her family so he’d gone to the trouble of booking this jet. Taking her here, now, distracting her in a most pleasant fashion as she came, in a burst of erotic energy. He thrust once more and grunted, bit his lip, and stared at her as he climaxed, filling her body and soul. She yanked his face down to hers, wanting to taste him as he released inside her. She realized about twenty seconds too late this was likely the worst time of the month to go bareback.

  They’d forgone condoms after three days together. She revealed her health record—had herself tested a month before coming to the States. A lifetime ago now, the “before Andreas” state she’d existed in, angry, rebellious, willing to do anything to escape her parents and the agony of living in a world without her beloved brother Tarkan. And he showed her his clean slate from his recent checkup. But she used nothing else, and the extreme mood swings she’d had in the last couple of days did make her lie back and cradle his dark head to her breasts and count backward, in the way women had been doing for centuries, to her last period. Oh hell. Whatever. She felt so perfectly content. She’d face whatever happened now, with him. Protective, nationalistic brother and father be damned.

  He looked up at her and placed a small, light turquoise box on her chest, from the mystery gift bag. Too small to be a vibrator. She half-acknowledged what it was as she pushed him up off her. As she leaned up on her elbows and stared at it, the word “Tiffany” seared her eyeballs. “What the hell, Andreas?”

  He grinned and pulled his trousers together, the ones he never even removed while fucking her to happy oblivion. She frowned and her heart pounded again. He held out a hand and tugged her up and onto his lap, cradling her in his arms. “Well, open the thing and find out.”

  Lale bit her lower lip and slowly opened the box. Then slammed it shut and clenched her eyes closed. What was he thinking?

  “Lale, look at me.” She did and when he removed what must be a five-carat rock set in pure platinum from her shaking hands. She let him and tried not to cry. “I won’t be introduced today as ‘some guy I met on a blind date.’ Do you understand? I want to be with you forever. I know it seems early and crazy and all manner of fucked up, but.…” He took a deep breath. “I’m in this for the long haul. The till death kind of haul. And while you may kill me early with frustration, I can’t think of a better way to go.” He pushed her up to standing and went down on one knee. “Lale Deniz, my heart, my beauty, my tulip. Will you do me the honor of being my wife? At a time and date of your oh-so-kill-my-grandmother-Turkish choosing? I want nothing more than to meet your brother as your fiancé. The man you will marry.”

  He slipped the perfectly sized ring on her finger. Unable to speak, unwilling to admit how happy she was, and flabbergasted this was happening to her, she nodded, and wiped her nose with the back of the hand he wasn’t holding. The sound of his deep musical laughter made her flush as he stood and pulled her into his arms once more. “It will all be fine, my love. Your brother wants your happiness, above all. He might be shocked, but he’ll know it’s right. You’ll see.”

  She pressed her face into his shirt. “You don’t know my brother.”

  His lips touched her hair. “Well, I’m about to. Get dressed. It’s nearly time to land.”

  “Oh fuck, Andreas. I’m gonna faint.” He helped her with her clothes, held her close as the private plane came to a swift halt before taxiing towards the terminal. Her chest constricted, but the sound of his Greek endearments soothed her, and she stood and held his hand as they exited the private room. Now an engaged woman, she sailed past the jealous bitch in the uniform who stared daggers into her. The butterflies in her stomach had turned into seagulls by the time the steps were rolled up and they descended into the warm Southern California night. Andreas kept a firm grip on her.

  “I’m here, Lale. It will be fine.”

  Her eyes burned as she stared at him and nodded. And hoped like hell he was right.

  Chapter Three

  Vivian sipped the repulsive hospital coffee and stared out the window. The vast expanse of rain and grey pollution combined to bring tears to her eyes. She burned her tongue and throat with the next gulp of noxious brew. Images tumbled around in her sleep-deprived brain—her sons, Tarkan and Emre, identical in all but temperament, inseparable as boys; Lale, her highly-strung daughter. The sort of daughter her own diplomat father must have wished upon her. Hopelessly devoted to one brother, until he was snatched from their lives by a wicked twist of fate.

  She and Levent had been through so much to be together. Defying convention and parental approval, they’d married young, and she had stayed with him in Turkey as he built his business to a multi-million dollar construction and tourist corporation. She gazed at the face of her beloved husband, the Turkish boy who’d been her friend as a child, then returned to her life when she’d needed him most, while she struggled to find her way as the unhappy daughter of an absentee American diplomat. She stood, brushed Levent’s thick grey hair off his forehead, giving him the ghost of a kiss there, unable to stop the tsunami of memories.

  They’d wanted a family right away and had gone about achieving that goal with youthful enthusiasm. But it took nearly a decade, which probably was for the best. It made them grateful for what they had. Although the “blessing” of twins had been terrifying for Levent and his mother, despite the boys’ health and successes as young men. Twins were seen as a curse—being “overly blessed” somehow. And that had born fruit. A tear slipped down her cheek. And her beautiful tulip of a daughter, so willful and difficult from infancy, now gone as well, for her own good all agreed, to the States to live with her other brother Emre and his wife Elle. But still, gone from Vivian’s life.

  A nurse touched her shoulder, making her jump a mile, turn, eyes aching with unshed tears and fatigue. The woman’s soft Turkish words were obviously meant to soothe but Vivian found them to be nothing but completely grating.

  “It is okay, missus. The doctor needs to see you in the conference room. This way, please.”

  Vivian sighed, tossed the plastic cup into the bin, and followed the young woman down the hall. Her gaze fixed on the back of the nurse’s head. If she didn’t focus, she’d completely come apart at her God-damned seams, once and for all. It was amazing what the human mind could absorb. She felt hollowed out, scraped with a spatula, a shell, all the clichés bounced around in her sleep-deprived brain as she nearly tripped down the hall behind the annoyingly chipper nurse.

  The “conference” consisted of three typical Turkish arrogant men in scrubs, condescending to her, more or less patting her head and telling her to “prepare her family” because “nothing can be done” for her husband. He was going to die. Within six months according to the best medical advice his substantial money could buy. Vivian gasped and put her head down on the ugly conference room table. What had she done to deserve this? How had she erred? Whom had she wronged?

  Her one true love, re-discovered at long last, gained through sacrifice. He was father to her beautiful children…one of whom, arguably the most beloved, ripped from her as easily as a piece of cheap notebook paper. Her other, first-born son far away, with tragedies and difficulties of his own. Her only daughter, misguided, miserable, and unreachable from the time she was small. They all danced before Vivian’s eyes again, their beauty bright and open to her—when suddenly Tarkan’s face flashed across her brain as if he had never been taken in a burst of senseless violence. His wicked smile fresh, real, heart wrenching.

  She sat up, staring at the men across from her. “Take me back to him. Now.”

  They made varying noises of disagreement, harrumphing and arguing amongst themselves as men will when confronted by a strong woman. “God damn you all. I will see my husband. I know his money built half this fucking building. So I don’t think he will look kindly upon your keeping me in this room like some kind of prisoner.” The last word she spat out. T
he Turkish came easily to her. The group appeared surprised at her competence with their language. “Fucking pigs. What part of ‘Take me to him. Now.’ Don’t you get?” The men stood as a group, frowning at her as she pointed to the door.

  ***

  Levent slowly rose to the surface of consciousness, the noises around him confusing and alarming. Where were the boys? Were they okay? And his beautiful daughter, Lale, up to no good. He’d lost control of her and had no idea how to regain it, as a good father should. Where was Vivian? Why wasn’t she with him, snuggled into the crook of his arm as usual? He struggled to sit up, knowing there were so many others who needed him. His son—his beloved Tarkan. Events of the last twenty-four hours rushed in on Levent Deniz like waves of a rogue typhoon, un-predicted and un-planned for.

  “Ahhh…no…Tarkan…” he whispered as he fell back against the stiff hospital pillows. He put a shaking hand over his eyes. What had he done? Had he sentenced his long dead son to a second demise? Dear God in Heaven, how could he have known? The bomb blast took the entire Turkish Parliament building out. There were absolutely no survivors. It had been confirmed, and he’d been handed scraps of Tarkan’s uniform to bury. He’d held his wife and daughter as they grieved, saw as Emre and his young family stood in a group, dry eyed and stoic, watched Tarkan’s lover nearly lose his tenuous grip on sanity as the empty coffin was lowered into the ground. Levent’s body tensed, as if for a fight. But after that first, odd phone call he’d had a glimmer of hope. His expensive international attorneys had immediately contacted an internal Turkish military investigation committee. They were supposed to call him, email him. Today.

  “Hey.” his voice was weak. “Someone? I need a computer.” Panic closed in. His head pounded to the beat of his pulse. His son. Tarkan. He was…alive?

  Vivian was at his side in a flash, running her cool hand over his fevered forehead. He turned, met her lovely eyes, and was calm again. Until he remembered. “Tarkan!” He gasped. “I must see a computer.”

  “Shhh.” She looked across the room to some contingent of men in scrubs. He grabbed her hand, tried to get her attention. “It’s fine, Levent. Relax, please, my love. Your heart.” Her face was drawn, but no less beautiful to him than it had been for the last four decades.

  “No.” He forced himself to focus. The various pains in his limbs, especially in his right leg that seemed encased in stone, distracted him, but he had to make her understand. He’d gotten the ransom call, and had contacted his legal counsel who put him in touch with the international contingent of intelligence-based law brains who claimed to have a direct line to the Turkish military. They promised him a quick response. Today. This morning. What day was it anyway? “Vivian. Darling. What day is it? How long have I been here?” Allah! Had he missed the opportunity to pay for his son’s release? His freedom?

  She bit her lip. “It’s Friday, my love. You fell. Your leg, it’s badly broken. They did surgery. You’ve been out for four days. But your heart.”

  He held up a shaking hand as his heart stuttered in his chest. He couldn’t catch his breath. “Vivian. Please. Come closer. I must…tell you something. I need a computer. A phone. The police. Mas Allah. I need the police!” He sat up. The vision of his own crazed face, completely grey hair askew, met him in the mirror across his hospital room. “Tarkan!”

  He tried to move his legs. The attempt to swing them down, to rip the IV’s from his arm was a brain numbing exercise in frustration—and physical agony thanks to the epidural line in his spine. The entire room erupted in chaos. Vivian stepped away, terror in her eyes as the group accosted him and held him down as he thrashed and yelled his son’s name. Someone shouted “sedative” and his world went fuzzy. He fought it. He had to save Tarkan. It was in his control again, finally, after all this time. All it took was money? He’d give every last lire in his possession to bring his son back.

  As the world started to fade to black from the edges despite his efforts to stay lucid he caught Vivian’s eye. “Call Emre. Now. Bring him here.” Then the room was gone, and he faced his long-dead son. Alone, battered, bruised, emaciated, and needing his help. But he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. He heard his own voice, yelling, crying out for help in the far distance, felt hands on his arms and legs, holding him down. Heard his wife’s sobs near his ear, reminding him that their Tarkan was long gone. To let him go. Then all was silent once more.

  Vivian dropped into the chair in the intensive care room. A nurse handed her a cup of tepid water and patted her shoulder. What was he talking about? Why was he calling their dead son’s name? Tears slipped down her cheeks. Palming her phone, she stared at it, momentarily incapacitated by the sorrow that had been so much a part of her functioning during and after the horrible reality of Tarkan’s violent death. She looked at the bed where Levent lay, his breathing labored, the cadre of doctors fussing over his computerized file. She rose and walked to him, put her hand on his forehead, brushed his thick, grey hair back. His eyes twitched, as if he were fighting whatever poison they’d pumped into him to keep him still. Vivian bit her lip. His eyes flew open, making her gasp and drawing the attention of the group. He stared at her, jaw clenched; face set in the stubborn way she knew better than her own.

  “Tarkan. My love, he is…he lives. Call Emre. He must come. I…need…my son.” The doctor jammed another syringe into her husband’s IV line as she backed up slowly, shaking her head. It wasn’t true. Levent must be delirious with pain. But her heart pounded so hard she got dizzy and had to take a seat before she fell down. Levent turned his head and stared into her very soul, the effort to stay above the tranquilizer floating through his system apparent. Vivian put her hand over her mouth to choke back a sob. “Call Emre, Vivian. Now.” His eyes fluttered, and he was still again.

  The nurse guided her out, but Vivian shook her off, reached for her phone, and hit a speed dial number, waited for the international lines to connect and leaned on the wall, watching the hospital’s world spin itself out. The ringing ended with a voice mail message. She hung up, took a deep breath and dialed the next number she knew by heart.

  ***

  Caleb stared at his computer screen, unfocused, exhausted. He took a breath and hit reply on the Skype chat, after typing a response to Adem’s recent inquiry as to his state of mind.

  “About the same really. Only worse. Because I miss you like a fucking amputated limb. When are you coming back?”

  “I finally got the location secured, on the corner I wanted, and the contractors start today on the remodel. It will take at least six months so I thought….”

  Caleb frowned. It was not like Adem to leave decisions hanging. He ran a hand down his face. He had not slept for more than three hours at a time since the other man had left. That made it, what, two weeks since he’d had a decent night’s rest? The dream kept cropping up during their last week together in California and after they’d fought, Adem had gone as promised, leaving Caleb to himself. Exactly what he did not want right now.

  “You thought what? I can’t leave here for a while. You’re a lot more flexible than I am. I’m on salary, remember?” He hit return before letting his inner self-editor soften the words.

  It was a solid five minutes before Adem replied. Caleb spent the time slugging back yet more caffeine and pondering Elle’s calendar, hoping he didn’t screw it up again like he had that morning. He’d misplaced some dates and had to tell her she was scheduled to be in Prague next week, not in September like they’d thought. Jesus. He was losing it.

  “I actually thought I’d go to Turkey day after tomorrow, spend about a week, and then head back to the States.”

  Caleb’s heart lifted somewhat. Thank God. He hadn’t spoiled things with his lame-ass emotional constipation or whatever his problem was lately.

  “That sounds great. Really really (really) great.” He hit return. Then typed, “I miss you. So much.”

  “I know. I miss you, too, my love.” Caleb smiled. “Try the massage befor
e bed. Call that service. Or, if all else fails, rub one out.”

  “What the hell do you think I’ve been doing? Drinking chamomile tea?”

  “No. I guess not. I must go. Meeting with general contractor in ten.”

  “Okay. Call me later.”

  “I will. Caleb. I love you. Remember that.”

  “I know. I do. I don’t deserve you.”

  “Now that is the truth. But it’s mutual. Until later….”

  He closed the Skype window as his phone buzzed at his elbow. His heart clenched when he recognized the international number and realized who it was.

  “Vivian! So good to hear your voice!” He stood, intending to refill his coffee cup while he chatted with Emre, Tarkan, and Lale’s mother. Her next words made him release the ceramic mug to the floor, bouncing it off the cork flooring and splattering the dregs of warm liquid up one pants leg. He dropped back into his chair and put his head on the desk, listening, realizing why he’d been having the dream again, and mentally booking his flight to Istanbul.

  After ten more minutes of back and forth, he hung up, staring at the device that had somehow delivered news that he had longed to hear for years, but now only served to make him want to crawl into the corner and pull a blanket over his head. He’d promised to call Emre for her. But how to begin? Didn’t matter. It had to be done. He stood, pacing and placed the call that would blow apart everybody’s newly ordered world all over again.

  Chapter Four

  “Damn it, Elle, I told you I had to get back to Istanbul that week.” Emre kicked the elaborate Lego palace his daughter had constructed out of his way in his quest to collapse on the family room couch with a squalling baby in his arms. A glance at the clock on the DVD player indicated they had exactly three hours to get both kids cleaned up and fed and themselves ready to hit the highway to the airport.