Turkish Delights 0.50 - 4.00 Series Bundle

by Liz Crowe

  “Yes, my darling. Yes. I do think he does.” His eyes met Elle’s over their daughter’s head. “He does.”

  Chapter Five

  Andreas hauled their luggage off the belt and turned to find Lale staring out the window, her foot tapping, her entire body tense and unhappy. He sighed. This might be harder than he thought. But then again, he knew how much it meant. He put an arm around her waist and pressed his lips to her temple. God, he loved the smell, feel, and taste of her. He didn’t regret for a millisecond buying that ring that cost him a fuck load more than the suggested three month’s salary. He’d been savvy with his pro football money. There was enough for it and four more like it if he put his mind to it. “Relax, would you? You’re making me nervous.”

  She frowned up at him; then her face relaxed into a grin at the pretend fear on his face. He cringed in mock horror as she made as if to punch him. “Yeah, you’ll put my eye out with that thing.” He pointed to her left hand.

  She rolled her eyes and grabbed her bag. “I can carry my own, thanks, Greek.”

  He bowed and indicated she should lead the way, running a hand over her luscious ass as she passed him. “Mine.” He whispered in her ear.

  She glanced back, a wicked smile on her lovely face. “Yep.”

  He flinched as she pressed her hand to his crotch but grinned at her words. “Mine back.”

  The distance between luggage retrieval and where her sister-in-law was to meet them was long enough that he was able to talk her down off the nervous ledge where she’d been perched since landing. As he spoke, he calmed his own pounding heart. Never in his life had he given two shits about what people thought about him. Until that moment. But he settled his face into neutral lines, pulled her to him for a kiss before heading out the door into the main terminal.

  The whoosh of fresher air stirred the hair around Lale’s face as she craned her neck for signs of the American woman who’d married her brother. He waited, content to let her lead. He wouldn’t know Elle if she stepped on him anyway. By the time nearly five minutes had passed, Lale slumped against his arm. She reached into her purse for her phone, shoved a stick of gum into her mouth, and pushed her hair off her forehead. He put a hand on the small of her back. She radiated heat and stress. He spoke to her using a tone he knew she’d recognize. “It’s okay. She’s here somewhere.”

  When Lale glared at her phone’s screen, his tension level ramped up at the sight of her now pale face. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. “What?” He gripped her arm and pried the phone out of her hand. She stumbled backwards and nearly fell over her suitcase. People started giving them a wide berth. He was used to it. He still got requests for his autograph if Miami fans were around. He ignored everything and glared at the screen. The words made no sense. Then he realized they were in Turkish. “What is it?” He demanded. Color flooded her face—not a good one either. She looked as if she was about to—Andreas grabbed both suitcases and her arm and tugged her to the side, shoving her into the ladies room. He leaned on the wall, wondering what the fuck had happened.

  “Um, excuse me?” He turned to find a petite, pretty woman standing in front of him. Blue jeans and a T-shirt did nothing to hide the fact she was used to being in charge. Her dark blond hair was scraped back in a ponytail, her green eyes bloodshot. “Was that, Lale?” She indicated the restroom door. Andreas stood up straight and nodded, at a loss for words. She ducked into the restroom before he could form a coherent sentence. Shit. Not an auspicious start. Not at all. He ran a hand through his hair and resumed his waiting game.

  Lale sat on the floor of the stall, staring at the feet coming and going. Her head pounded. The light caught the diamond she’d worn for a grand total of two hours. It mesmerized her. Made her forget the need to continue retching into the toilet. Her eyes stayed dry. She honestly didn’t believe she had a single tear left in her. Not after, “oh… shit.” She went up on her knees and dry heaved a few more minutes.

  “Lale? Honey?” The sound of Elle’s voice loosened the tightness in her chest enough for her to find the missing tears.

  “Here.” Her voice sounded breathy, weak to her ears. Lale pulled the door open and stood, looking at Emre’s wife. The woman chewed on her lower lip, held out her arms. But Lale stumbled past her to the sink and splashed water on her face trying to process the latest news.

  “Um, did you see?” She pointed to the door.

  “That huge, hunk of man out there? Yeah. He’s ah, large, isn’t he?”

  Lale smiled in spite of the fact her slowly healing heart was getting shredded all over again. She and her father had their fair share of difficulty but she loved him and the thought of him actually dying made her weak in the knees all over again. She needed Andreas’s presence so badly at that moment she ached. “C’mon. Let’s go make some introductions. Then we have to find a flight home, no?”

  Elle put an arm around her shoulder. “Yes, we will. Emre is already working on it. Caleb already has his.” Lale stared at her as they walked out into the crowded terminal, unsure why Caleb would need to rush back, too.

  “Elle, I’d like you to meet Andreas. Andreas Michos. He is my fiancé.”

  Elle shook his hand and stared at Lale. “Really? Wow. Okay. Well, welcome to the…ah…family!” She smiled and gave him a hug. She held out an arm to include Lale in the embrace, which brought on a fresh bout of tears for them both. Andreas held on, let them cry it out, and then handed them both fresh handkerchiefs. Elle sniffled, gave him a weak smile. “You certainly are going to be a surprise.”

  Lale groaned. “I don’t care anymore.” She let Andreas fold her back into his arms. “He’s here. He’s mine. Let’s deal with this fresh hell now shall we, instead of worrying about who was born where?”

  “Agreed, sister. Agreed.”

  “So, my father, he’s….” Elle gaped at her, a puzzled look in her eyes interrupting her train of thought.

  Elle gulped and answered. “Um, yeah, he fell, broke his leg and while they did surgery found irreparable damage to his heart.” Lale slumped against Andreas. It figured. Her life was one fucked up drama after another. “But, did you, I mean…ah….”

  Lale pulled away from Andreas, feeling a sudden chill up and down her spine.

  Elle stammered, very unlike her. “I m-m-mean, who told you?”

  “Emre texted me.” Lale stopped dead in the middle of the crowd.

  “Oh.”

  Lale put a hand on Elle’s arm. “What’s really wrong? I mean, my father is dying. But something tells me that’s not all.”

  “Oh, um, well, let’s get home and we can talk about it there.” Elle tried to grab Lale’s bag and power through all the travelers. But Lale stayed put, forcing the flow of people around her and Andreas. She kept a death grip on his arm. Something else was wrong. Massively, horribly wrong. As if sensing her inability to put words to her terror, Andreas called out to Elle, held her close. When her sister-in-law turned back to them, tears streamed down her face.

  “I think we should know the whole story now,” he said, not moving from his spot in spite of the dirty looks they were getting from the travelers having to maneuver around them. “What is it, Elle?” His deep voice vibrated against her as she stood there. Lale watched her sister-in-law’s lips move, form words—words her brain refused to process. She froze. The loud, busy LAX terminal became suddenly, strangely silent. Andreas’s grip on her arm released, leaving her alone, again, to face a horror beyond anything she could imagine.

  “No.” With one word the entire world of noise whooshed into her ears, making her dizzy all over again. She turned and stomped away from them, from the evil lies that had spilled from Elle’s mouth. What utter bullshit. Tarkan was not alive, had not been held hostage for the last two years. She would have known. Sensed it. The empty space in her soul would not have existed. Not if he had been alive. “No. No. No. No. No. No.” She kept shaking her head, repeating the mantra as she blindly fought her way back through the
crowd. Andreas yelled out for her, but this was one thing he couldn’t muscle or dominate his way out of. This was her life. He’d best get the fuck out of it now. Before it got any worse.

  By the time she’d made her way back to the main, glass-enclosed space of the state of the art airport and its stern warnings not to re-enter, her heart was exploding. And she knew it was true. Tarkan. He’d been alive. Tortured. “No!” She shrieked, startling everyone around her and bringing the security guards running as she collapsed to her knees when Andreas and Elle reached her. “Don’t touch me!” Her voice sounded high, screechy, scary. Andreas spoke with the guards in a low voice. But they still hovered. Elle tried to touch her shoulders. “No! Go away! Leave me alone! You…you’re a liar! He’s not! Oh God….” Andreas knelt in front of her. She tried to resist but was compelled to lift her face up, to meet his gaze. “Oh God….” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Please, make it stop.”

  He took a breath, kept his hands to himself. “I can’t make it stop, my love. But I will be here. With you. Now, let’s get up from the floor. We need to go. We must talk with your brother.” He held out a hand, and they rose together. Lale’s knees threatened not to support her, but her man kept a tight grip and guided her. Elle took her hand, and together they walked out into the night to face their new reality.

  Chapter Six

  The pain was his one constant. That and the heat coursing through his body, making him shiver so hard his teeth rattled in his head.

  And the guilt

  He’d left her. She with the soft eyes and lovely heart and the lifeless body after…. Dear Christ, the pain…and the blessed blackness.

  Soft muttering in Arabic made his eyes fly open. Tarkan scrambled to sitting, kicking his legs, trying to get away from it, from them. Gentle looking female eyes observed him from above their face coverings. He opened his mouth to beg, to plead for no more pain. But they held no tubes, metal probes, or headphones, but a glass of water, a bowl with a washcloth, food. His stomach clenched which made the pain in this thigh flare in response. “Ow. Shit.” He muttered and pulled blood-stained fabric from his leg. He’d been shot. Yes. The gun. He’d used it. Used it on them.

  He fell back against the wall, propped by what felt like tons of pillows, a blessed change from the moldy straw that had served that purpose for so long. He stared at the women, still lined up like birds on a wire, motionless. Images tumbled through his numb brain. He couldn’t block them. God knows he’d had years of practice blocking images, memories, of those he loved. But the sounds, smells, sights of his escape were too fresh. The women moved closer as he groaned, pulling his legs to this chest. Tried to squeeze the pain of recent memory out.

  He’d gotten as far as the end of the long, dirty corridor of the empty warehouse after getting his fill of water. His heart had pounded, his starved body trying to fuel him with an adrenaline rush. He kept the gun in one hand, pointed straight ahead. When the first sound and shadow had crossed in front of him, he took aim and shot, the silencer she’d brought at his request giving him satisfaction. A soft grunt and thump told him he hadn’t lost his sniper training.

  Swallowing hard, eyes blurry with pain and sweat, he tiptoed forward, stepped over the body of one of his torturers and pressed against the wall, trying to gauge how many of them were gathered around the corner. He heard them. Their guttural Kurdish enough like his own language to figure out that this father hadn’t responded to them. He’d apparently not even acknowledged the email or text of ransom demands. Tarkan had taken a deep breath and tried to figure out how he could reach an empty space where a window once resided directly across the hall without walking right in front of them.

  His empty stomach kept cramping. His head pounded with dehydration. He shut his eyes, but opened them when all he saw was the tall blond man he’d left behind. Clenching his jaw against the vivid memories of his loved ones, he slowed his breathing. Listened to the assholes around the corner mumble, grumble, fart and burp. He waited. Finally there was a shout from the opposite end of the hallway. From his empty cell. Shit. Now or never. He took two long steps across the hall then leapt at the opening as the first gunshot rang out. He’d shot in the direction where the group had been, heard a curse, and chairs falling backwards.

  A distinctly female scream halted him, made him turn as he was clambering out the opening. They had her. His beloved. They were harming her. He roared and jumped back into the fray, shooting straight ahead, at the men who had their filthy hands on her. One of them shoved her aside and pointed a semi-automatic straight at him. Tarkan dropped him with a single shot between the eyes. Then the other terrorist yanked his beloved up by her hair, and drew a huge knife across her neck. A red ribbon seemed to stretch out, dangle from her body.

  “No!” He yelled so loud his throat caught. “No!” He shot once more, taking down the man with the knife. He’d caught her before she hit the ground. Her blood covered everything, all over him, his hands, his clothes. He couldn’t stop it. He had sobbed, his thin chest heaving with the effort. Her beautiful face had remained calm. She put a shaking hand on his face. “Wait. Please. Don’t leave me.” His voice broke as he begged, his throat ripped to shreds from rubber tubes, fear and lack of hydration.

  “I must, my beloved. I go. Now please save yourself. Do it. Do it for me. For us.” Voices yelled from behind him. He sensed the danger on his neck instinctively as he’d been trained to do. She drew his hand to her body. He felt it then. The hard bump under her robe. “For us. Please.” Her eyes closed. There was a fluttering movement under his hand as if butterflies were beating their wings against her skin, and his.

  Oh dear God. No.

  He’d kissed her cooling lips, keeping his hand on her until she stilled, and spoke no more. He had no idea how long he sat huddled over her. But eventually he pulled her scarf off, tucked it into the waistband of his makeshift trousers, grabbed the gun, and turned, prepared to massacre every last one of the men headed his way. The rest was a blur of rage, of pain and sheer terror as he blasted his way out of the compound and pounded sand as fast as he could. He collapsed at the edge of a narrow road. And then woke up here.

  Tarkan let the women clean his wound and pour water into his mouth. He no longer cared about anything. All there was anymore was pain, and heat, and her. He heard someone moaning; then realized it was him as he passed into more blessed darkness.

  Chapter Seven

  The pollution-clogged ride from Ataturk International Airport was intolerably long. Caleb had forgotten the drawbacks of living in a second-world country. As he tried to fight the nausea from stress and gasoline fumes, the taxi made its perilous way along the highway at the usual breakneck, aggressive speeds he’d also forgotten. He white-knuckled it and clenched his jaw, sweat pouring off him in buckets. Tarkan. The name beat a tattooed rhythm in his brain.

  Caleb took a deep breath. He’d not spoken to Adem since the bomb had detonated in his world with one phone call from his dead lover’s mother.

  No. Not dead.

  Kidnapped. Tortured. Escaped. Killed everyone on his way out. But still gone. Missing, and presumed dead—this time for real.

  Caleb continued to stare out the window at the once familiar, once beloved, now despised Istanbul landscape. First the outer ring, with its slums, factories, flat expanses of nothing. Next, the edges of the city proper, larger mosques, the bend in the Bosporus that signaled the start of Galata, Pera, and the old city came into view. Then the glorious moment when the Blue Mosque, Aya Sofia and the entire golden crescent was laid out in front of him. He bit his already ragged lip at the sight of it, at the memories of the nearly six years of happiness it had afforded him. Then the memory of other visits: Emre and Elle’s wedding when he’d been introduced to the family for what he was—Tarkan’s lover. The last time he and Tarkan were here together, after the Blue Cruise, and that final departure to Ankara. And the horrific funeral. When they’d buried…what? Nothing. Why? Because tradition demanded it. He
clenched his fists and held down the nearly irresistible urge to punch a hole in the window.

  He’d talked to Emre, Elle, and finally Lale, whose breathy exhalations scared the shit out of him. The girl was not as tough as she seemed. Caleb knew that—Tarkan had known that. Elle had whispered to him that her sister-in-law was sporting a world-class diamond on her finger and toting a gigantic former football player from Las Vegas, apparently the result of her 1Night Stand. A guy with the last name Michos.

  “Andreas Michos? No shit.” He’d put a hand over his eyes then, as he waited for his flight to board. Wasn’t that just the cherry on the fucking cake of his day? His adopted little sister was engaged to one of his favorite football players of all time. Who was first-generation Athenian. Hello? Irony? Thy name is love.

  His phone buzzed. After registering that it was nearly eleven a.m. in his world but that Adem was still in France, four hours behind, he realized they had not communicated in nearly a day, longer than they ever went. He sighed and let the buzzing continue. What the hell could he possibly say to the man?

  He’d talked once more with Emre, confirming plans for him to start the ball rolling on the search and rescue immediately. The one the military seemed reluctant to launch until they spoke with a male family member directly. Levent had been in and out of a drug-induced coma for the last two days. So it fell to him, Caleb, lover of the man in question, to force their hand.

  “Caleb,” Emre had said at one point in the practical conversation that helped him focus, kept him from spinning apart into the atmosphere out of sheer anger and frustration at the turn this whole thing had taken.