Amber could hardly tell him the reason why her lungs had squeezed so tightly in her chest. ‘I …’ she started, searching for some kind of excuse. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He inclined his head. ‘I apologise. We seem to have skipped the usual formalities. My name is Kadar Soheil Amirmoez—at your service.’

She blinked, still shaken. ‘I’m hopeless with names. I’m never going to remember that.’

He smiled a little—the first time she had witnessed him smile—and shadowed planes shifted, angles found curves and his dark eyes found a spark. And where before he’d been merely striking, with his strong dark looks, now he tipped over into truly dangerous.

Her heart gave a tiny lurch. She had reason to feel fear. And yet still she was glad he’d found her again.

‘A simple Kadar will suffice. And you are?’

‘Amber. Plain old Amber Jones.’

‘Never plain,’ he said, in that rich, deep voice.

She remembered the way he’d looked at her across the market, with eyes as dark as midnight, lit with red-hot coals, and she remembered too the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder and the promise his touch conveyed.

And maybe the new, brave Amber wasn’t so far away from her as she’d feared.

Desert Brothers

Bound by duty, undone by passion!

These sheikhs may not be brothers by blood, but they are united by the code of the desert.

Their power and determination is legendary and unchallenged—until unexpected encounters with women strong enough to equal them threaten their self-control …

Read the two concluding stories in Trish Morey’s exciting quartet of searing passion and sizzling drama!

This month meet: Kadar and Amber in Captive of Kadar

Look out for: Shackled to the Sheikh the final instalment of Trish Morey’s Desert Brothers series coming soon!

Captive of Kadar

Trish Morey

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TRISH MOREY always fancied herself a writer—so why she became a chartered accountant is anyone’s guess! But once she’d found her true calling there was no turning back. Mother of four budding heroines and wife to one true-life hero, Trish lives in an idyllic region of South Australia. Is it any wonder she believes in happy-ever-afters?

Find her at www.trishmorey.com or www.facebook.com/trish.morey

To all the wonderful readers who have written and e-mailed asking when they might see Kadar’s story.

Thank you so much and here it is.

I love this story—I hope you do too.

Rashid’s story, the finale of the Desert Brothers series, will be coming soon!

And to Carol, just because.

Trish xxx

Contents

Cover

Introduction

Desert Brothers

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

HE SAW HER in the Spice Market, just another tourist strolling through Istanbul’s ancient marketplace, famed for selling spices and dried fruits and a thousand different kinds of tea. Just another wide-eyed tourist, even if she did come complete with blond hair and blue eyes and red jeans that hugged her curves like a second skin.

Not that he was interested.

It was mere curiosity that slowed his footsteps as she lifted her camera to take a photograph of a shop hung with glass lanterns of every imaginable design and colour; nothing more than curiosity that kept him watching as the stallholder took advantage of her stillness, holding out a plate of his best Turkish delight for her to sample. She took a faltering step backwards when she realised she hadn’t gone unnoticed, murmuring apologies and shaking her head, setting the messy knot of blond hair at the back of her head and its loose tendrils dancing, but the plate followed her retreat, the eyes of the seller joining in his entreaties for her to just have one tiny taste.

Kadar’s feet faltered at the stall opposite—it wasn’t his usual but he was curious, he told himself, and this shop would do—and ordered the dates he had come to buy for Mehmet, before looking over his shoulder to see whose will was stronger, the stallholder’s or the tourist’s. The vendor had her attention now, all the time smiling, a toothy smile in a crinkled face as warm as it was persuasive while he continued to engage her, plucking countries from the air as they did here, guessing where she was from—America? England?

As if knowing when she was beaten, the woman gave in, and said something he couldn’t make out, but the owner grinned and assured her exuberantly that the Turkish people loved Australians, as she plucked a piece from the plate before her and raised it to her lips.

A long way from home, he registered vaguely, his attention diverted as he handed over a large note in exchange for his dates and was asked to wait a few moments while someone fetched his change. He didn’t mind. It was no hardship waiting. The tourist had a mouth worth watching. Her lips were lush and wide and still wearing the shadow of a smile as she popped the sweet into her mouth. A moment later her smile was back in full force, her blue eyes wide with delight and, even surrounded by bright displays of every dried fruit imaginable, every sweetly scented tea and vat of brightly coloured fragrant spice, still she lit up the vaulted marketplace like a lantern.

He felt that smile in a kick of heat that stirred his loins and turned his thoughts primal.

It was a long time since he’d had a woman.

It was a while since he’d felt himself tempted.

He was tempted now.

His eyes scanned just long enough to be sure there was no hint of a partner lurking nearby, and no sticker on her jacket to indicate a tour group nearby ready to swallow her up and spirit her away.

She was alone.

He could have her if he wanted.

The knowledge came to him with the certainty of one who had rarely been turned down by a woman who was available, and after being propositioned by plenty who were not. It wasn’t arrogance. Call it history or call it experience, the percentages were in his favour, nothing more.

She was still smiling, her face animated. She was like a burst of sunshine and colour amidst a sea of black winter coats and dark headscarves and she was ready to buy, already reaching into her bag.

He could have her...

And that same unerring certainty that told him he could take her assured him that she would be worth the taking.

Oh yes, she would be worth it.

He could picture himself lazily peeling away the layers that covered her, one by one. Slowly unzipping and stripping away the leather jacket that lovingly hugged her breasts and moulded to her waist, before peeling away those shameless red jeans from her long legs. What layers remained would be similarly discarded until she was revealed, in all her fair-skinned splendour, and then he would unwind the honey-blond hair behind her head and let it tumble down over her shoulders to curl and whisper against breasts plumped and peaked and ripe for the taking.

Her mouth would taste sweet, like the Turkish delight that she’d sampled, and her blue eyes would be dark with heat and she would smile with moistened lips and reach for him...

He could see it all.

He could have it all, and it was all within his grasp...

Then, as if she was aware she was being watched—almost as if aware of what he was thinking—her eyes fell on him—eyes not just blue, he realised in that moment, but vividly so, almost the colour of lapis lazuli itself. As he watched they darkened, like stone heated over flame, almost as if she recognised him, almost as if she was responding.

She blinked once, and then again. He watched her smile slide away then, even as her eyes turned smoky with recognition as they kept that connection across the bustling marketplace.

Until the stallholder alongside her said something that snagged her attention and she blinked again, and this time turned away. A shake of her head and wave of her hand later, and she was practically fleeing from the market, leaving the disappointed vendor wondering how his in-the-bag sale had gone so wrong.

A tap on his own shoulder saw Kadar presented with his change and an apology for making him wait.

He accepted both the same way as he accepted her vanishing act.

Philosophically.

Because he wasn’t interested.

Not really.

After all, he did have plans to visit Mehmet.

Besides, he told himself again, with maybe just a pang of regret, he wasn’t looking for a woman. Especially not one who would flee like a startled rabbit.

He left the rabbits to the boys who liked to chase.

In his world, the women came to him.

* * *

What the hell had just happened?

Amber Jones stumbled blindly through the market, past shops with their displays of dried fruits and spices and all manner of bright and beautiful souvenirs, ignoring the calls and the banter from stallholders on either side as she passed. Because everything was fuzzy. Nothing was distinct or clear, the sights and sounds of the market that she’d found so fascinating just minutes ago now all a blur. All because she’d been blindsided by a man with golden skin and whose eyes had burned bright like a brazier at midnight.

A man who’d been watching her through those heated eyes.

It had been more than any niggling prickle of awareness—it had been a compulsion that had made her turn her head to catch him staring—and she’d felt the gaze from his dark eyes like a rush of heat—a darkly heated wave that had sent a ripple of promise down her spine and collected in a hot swirling pool deep down in her belly.

Why had he been watching her?

And why had she seen sex in the dark depths of his eyes?

Hot sex.

Jet lag, she thought, searching for logic to lend explanation for the sensation. She was bone weary and operating in a time zone nine hours later than her own. In three hours her body would expect her to be tucked up for the night in her bed back in Sydney, whereas here in Istanbul it was barely time for lunch. No wonder it suddenly felt so crowded in the marketplace. No wonder it suddenly felt so hot.

Fresh air was what she needed—to feel the late winter breeze on her skin and let the sea air cool down her heated, clearly travel-weary body.

She stepped outside the entry to the marketplace, reefing off her scarf and then her jacket, breathing deep of the cool air as it stripped away her heat and soothed fractured nerves and calmed a panicked mind.

And with relief came logic and rational thought along with a little disappointment in herself.

So much for being the strong, independent woman she’d promised herself she’d be when she’d decided to venture halfway around the world to follow in her great-great-great-grandmother’s footsteps. Clearly the old Amber was still lurking, the risk-averse Amber who’d settle for second best rather than chase after what she really wanted, if she could be spooked by a look from just one man.

Because it hadn’t been jet lag at all.

It had been him, with his face drawn in slashes of the artist’s charcoal.

Him, who owned the space he occupied with such a supreme confidence, so that the air fairly shimmered around him.

She shivered, this time nothing to do with the cool January air, irrationally—insanely—missing that sudden flush of heat that had warmed her core and made her think of long nights and hot sex. How had that happened in just one moment in time? In all the two years they’d been together, Cameron had never once managed to turn her thoughts to long, hot sex with just one heated look.

But the stranger in the market had.

How could that even be possible?

And yet his eyes had drawn her, compelling and insistent and communicating to her a dark promise that her body seemed instinctively to understand—and instinctively to respond to.

A dark promise that had spawned dark thoughts of all kinds of forbidden pleasures.

No wonder she had run.

For what did Amber Jones even know of forbidden pleasures? Cameron hadn’t exactly encouraged creativity in the bedroom. Or in any other room come to think of it. And there were times when he’d fallen asleep alongside her and she’d lain there in the dark and wondered if there wasn’t more.

For surely there had to be more.

And then she’d seen more in a stranger’s eyes and she’d fled.

More fool her.

Damn.

And not for the first time, she wished she were that strong, independent woman she wanted to be; the way her great-great-great-grandmother must have been, to venture as a young woman of twenty so far from her home amongst the rolling fields of Hertfordshire, in search of adventure in the Middle East all those years ago.

So courageous.

But as she pulled her jacket back on she could see why her namesake Amber had wanted to come. Istanbul was everything she’d imagined it must be. Colourful. Historic. Exotic. She might not be half as brave, but already she could see she was going to love her time in Turkey.

Her stomach rumbled, reminding her that she’d risen and left the hostel before breakfast, sick of slamming doors and a body refusing to sleep when it knew it should be daylight. And there, just across the plaza was one of the carts she’d seen selling bread shaped like bagels and sprinkled with sesame seeds. It would do until she could find something more substantial.

She was waiting for the bread to be bagged when a hunched old man with a walking stick approached. ‘Inglis?’ he asked, with a gappy smile in a nut-brown face, with skin that looked as if it were made from leather. ‘American?’

‘Australian,’ she said, getting used to the drill, knowing she stood out as a foreigner with her colouring and dress and that she was an easy target for every street vendor going.

‘Aussie! Aussie! Aussie!’ he said and his smile became a grin, as if they now shared a common bond. She just nodded and turned her attention to the man with the cart, accepting her bread. ‘I have some coins,’ the man whispered conspiratorially, as if bestowing upon her a favour. ‘Good price. Cheap.’

She barely glanced his way. Sam had a coin collection and she’d promised to bring home her change to add to the few overseas coins her younger brother already had. But she had no wish to buy more. ‘No, thanks. I’m not interested.’

‘Ancient coins,’ he persisted, unmoved, ‘from Troy.’

That got her interest. ‘From Troy? Really?’ That would make a pretty cool souvenir to take home for Sam.

‘Very old. Very cheap.’ He drew her away from the bread cart and pulled something from his pocket, slowly unwinding his nuggety fingers so she could see the grubby coins resting on his palm. ‘For you, special price.’

He named that price as she peered at the two small discs, wondering how she could tell if they really were coins from that ancient city, wondering if Sam would care if they were fake because they looked as if they could almost be real. But they were way out of her price range anyway. ‘Too much,’ she said, almost regretfully, knowing that her meagre budget would never stretch if she started impulse buying on her first day, only for the man to immediately halve what he was asking.

‘Very special price. You buy?’

Wariness warred with temptation. Converted to Australian dollars, what he was asking for now in Turkish lire was a fraction of the spending money she’d allowed herself. She could afford them—just—if she didn’t splash out on too many other souvenirs. Still...

She flicked her eyes up to his face. ‘How do I know they’re genuine?’

His free hand crossed his chest, as if she had offended him. ‘I plough them myself from the ground. In my field.’

She could believe he had. His hands certainly looked as if they had endured a half-century or more of hard manual work, and his grizzled face seemed honest enough. But still... ‘And nobody minds if you dig up coins at an archaeological site? Especially like somewhere famous like Troy?’

He shrugged. ‘There are too many coins. Too many for the museums.’ He shoved his hand still closer, his brow more creased, and halved the price again. ‘Please, I need medicine for my wife. You buy?’

* * *

So the rabbit had been snared by a different kind of hunter.

Kadar had imagined her long gone, the way she’d all but fled from their brief encounter, but there she was, talking to an old man across the plaza, those red jeans like a flag and her blond hair gleaming even in winter’s thin sunlight, and he once again felt that familiar spike of heat to his groin. He’d bet that if she looked his way, he’d see a matching flare of heat in her blue eyes.

A shame she was so skittish.

He phoned his driver and told him he was ready, while he casually watched the interplay between the old man and the woman, the old man holding out his hand, the girl peering closely, asking questions.

He watched as the old man shook that hand and spilled whatever was in it to the ground, and he watched the way those red jeans stretched lovingly over her behind as she quickly bent over and dived down to retrieve what had fallen. Coins, he figured, frowning. In which case, she’d better be careful. She held them almost reverentially in her hand before attempting to return them to the old man.

He made no move to accept, clearly determined to finalise the sale. Kadar’s frown deepened as she shrugged and juggled coins and paper bag and dug around in her satchel for her wallet.

Foolish girl.

He spied his car weaving through the traffic towards him.

Just before he spied the two uniformed men pouncing on the old man and the girl.

CHAPTER TWO

‘HEY,’ AMBER PROTESTED as someone took her arm, only to look up and find herself staring at a younger man, this one wearing a dark blue uniform of the polis. One of two, she realised, the other officer holding the arm of the old man, who smiled thinly while his eyes were laced with fear.

Fear that leached into her bones and made her blood run cold as the coins were taken from her hand and inspected and a nod given in judgement before they disappeared into a small plastic bag.

What the hell was going on?

One officer barked out something in Turkish at the old man and he pointed at her, tripping over his words in his rush to answer.

‘Is this true?’ The officer’s head snapped around to her, his voice as stern as his expression, but at least he had figured enough to address her in English. ‘Did you ask this man where you could buy more coins like these?’

What? ‘No...’

‘Then what were you doing in possession of them?’

‘No. I wasn’t. He approached me—’

The old man cut her off. ‘She lies!’ he shouted before following with a torrent of Turkish, angry now and spluttering out his words, pointing ferociously some more at her with his free hand, that caused the polis to scowl at her again.

And even though she couldn’t understand the language, she knew enough to know it didn’t look good. ‘You have to believe me,’ she pleaded, her eyes darting from one officer to the other, conscious of the crowd that was gathering around them, and she had never felt more vulnerable. She was less than twenty-four hours in a foreign country so very far from home and where she didn’t speak the language and fear was coiling tight in her gut. She was the stranger here. What if nobody believed her? They had to believe her.

One of the officers asked to see her passport and she scrabbled around in her bag with fingers like toes and her heart thumping frantically in her chest until she managed to unzip the pocket secreting the document. ‘You do realise it is illegal to possess Turkish antiquities? It is a very serious offence,’ he stated, inspecting the passport.

Illegal.

Antiquities.

Serious offence.

The words collided and mashed in her brain. Why was he telling her this? She’d only picked them up because it was easier for her than for the old man with his walking stick. ‘But they weren’t mine.’

‘Likewise it is illegal to buy and sell them.’

Oh, God. She felt the blood drain from her face. She’d had the coins in her hand. She had been about to buy them.

I didn’t know, she wanted to say. I didn’t even know they were real. And while she struggled for the words to answer, words that might not implicate her further, a new voice emerged from the crowd and joined the fray, a deep and authoritative voice.

No, not just someone, she realised with a jolt as she looked around. Not just a voice.

Him. The man who had been watching her across the market.

He put a hand to her shoulder as he talked, and, breathless and blindsided all over again, she stood there, under the warm weight of his hand, feeling almost— insanely—as if the man had laid claim to her.

The old man interrupted at one stage, arguing with him in words she couldn’t understand, but the stranger answered back with a blistering attack of his own that had the old man visibly shrinking, eyes fearful as the polis scowled.

And even with her heart beating like a drum, even in the depths of panic, it was impossible not to notice how perfectly the stranger’s voice fitted him. She hadn’t imagined his power before. His voice was rich and deep and spoke of an authority that needed no uniform or weapon to give it weight. He wore authority as easily as he wore his black cashmere coat. And now his thumb was stroking her shoulder. Did he even realise, she wondered, as he continued to make his case, how much her skin tingled at this stranger’s touch?

Now, when she shivered, it was not from cold, but from tendrils of heat, curling and sinuous and dancing down to dark places where a pulse beat out a slow, blossoming need.

The voices around her were calming down, the crowd losing interest and filtering away, and even though she was in trouble, in danger of being charged with some kind of crime in a language she didn’t understand, somehow she felt strangely reassured by the presence of this man beside her—the very man she’d fled from minutes earlier. And whatever trouble she was in, somehow he had made it so that it was no longer fear that was uppermost in her mind, but desire.

Something was decided. An officer handed back her passport and nodded to them both before the old man was led away between the pair.

‘We must go to the station,’ he told her, removing his hand from her shoulder to retrieve his phone and make a short, sharp call as the disappointed crowd around them shrugged and wandered away, the show over, ‘so you can make a statement.’

‘What happened?’ she asked, missing the heat of his hand and the stroke of his thumb on her shoulder and that pooling heat between her thighs. ‘What did you tell them?’

He glanced around, over her head, as if he was searching for something beyond the crowd. ‘Only what I saw, that the old man approached you with the coins and let you pick them up when he dropped them.’

‘He had a walking stick,’ she explained. ‘I thought it would be easier for me.’

‘Of course. You were supposed to think that so that you could not pretend they were not yours or that you were not going to buy.’

‘But I was going to buy them,’ she said glumly. ‘I was about to when the polis arrived.’

‘I know that too,’ he said tersely, his mouth tight. He spotted a movement beyond the crowd. ‘Ah, here is my car,’ he said, taking her elbow. ‘Come.’

If his voice had sounded more an invitation than an order—if she had seen his hand coming and been warned of its approach... If either of those had happened, she might have been prepared. She might have steeled herself. But as he gave his command, and took her arm with his strong and certain fingers, it was as if he were not only claiming possession, but also taking control of her, and she knew that if she got into that car with this man her life would never be the same. Something jolted deep inside her then, a fusion of heat and desire and rebellion and fear, and the bag of bread spilled from shaking fingers onto the ground.

He must have felt that jolt move through her, even before she dropped the bread, because his feet paused, and he looked down at her. ‘Are you all right?’

She could hardly tell him the reason why her lungs had squeezed so tight in her chest. ‘I...’ she started, searching for some kind of excuse. ‘I don’t even know your name.’

He inclined his head. ‘I apologise. We seem to have skipped the usual formalities. My name is Kadar Soheil Amirmoez, at your service.’

She blinked, still shaken. ‘I’m hopeless with names. I’m never going to remember that,’ she admitted, and then wished she had never opened her mouth. He already thought her a naive tourist. Why give him reason to think even less of her?

But instead of the rebuke she was expecting, he smiled a little, the first time she had witnessed him smile, and shadowed planes shifted and angles found curves and his dark eyes found a spark, and where before he’d been merely striking with his strong dark looks, now he tipped over into truly dangerous. Her heart gave a tiny lurch.

She had reason to feel fear.

And still, she was glad he’d found her again.

‘A simple Kadar will suffice. And you are?’

‘Amber. Plain old Amber Jones.’

‘Never plain,’ he said in that rich, deep voice, taking her hand, and probably her last shred of resistance along with it. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you.’

He knelt down before her and retrieved the bread, now half spilled from its bag onto the pavement scattering sesame seeds and already being eyed by a dozen opportunistic birds. ‘You cannot eat this now,’ he declared, tossing bread and bag into a nearby rubbish bin, setting birds flapping and squawking desperately in pursuit. ‘Come. After you have made your statement, I will take you to lunch.’

And after lunch?

Would he whisk her away and make good on the promise she’d witnessed in his eyes?

Or was she so overwhelmed by all that had happened that she was spinning fantasies out of thin air?

‘You really don’t need to do that,’ she said, testing him. Because she’d seen the tightness in his expression when she’d admitted how close she’d come to buying the coins. He was duty-bound to deliver her to the police station, sure, but he might already be regretting coming to her aid. ‘I’ve taken enough of your time.’

‘I have ruined your lunch,’ he said solemnly as he ushered her to the kerbside where his car sat idling, waiting for them. He opened the back door for her to precede him inside. ‘I owe you that much at least, Amber Jones.’

The way she saw it, he owed her nothing, but she wasn’t about to argue. Neither was she planning on running again. He might have made taking her to lunch sound more like duty than pleasure, but she remembered the way he’d looked at her across the market with eyes as dark as midnight and lit with red hot coals and she remembered too the warm weight of his hand on her shoulder and the promise his touch conveyed.

And maybe the new brave Amber wasn’t so far away from her as she’d feared.

Because she wanted more.

* * *

It was more than two hours before they emerged from the police department into the crisp outside air. A shower of rain had been and gone and the air was fresh and clear after the overheated offices and because it wasn’t far to the restaurant, he’d suggested they walk.

Trams dinged and rumbled along the centre of a road forbidden to private vehicles and taxis, making room to hear the call of seabirds wheeling above, and the sound of a dozen different languages on the air around. And then, over it all came a sound she was slowly getting used to, the call of the Imam calling the faithful to prayer, and huge flocks of birds rose as one from the many-domed roof of the Blue Mosque and found comfort in each other from their shared fright, forming an endless circling ribbon of white in the sky.

And it struck Amber in that moment how lucky she was that she was free to enjoy the sight. ‘They could have charged me,’ she reflected, the shock of her narrow escape setting in as she remembered the stern expressions of the police who’d questioned her and taken her statement. She’d imagined when the police had let her travel with Kadar to the police station that completing a statement was nothing more than five minutes’ work, telling them how the old man had approached her, offering coins. A mere formality. She’d been wrong. Dealing in antiquities was clearly not a crime they took lightly in Turkey. ‘I thought they were going to charge me.’

‘You sound almost disappointed.’ He raised an eyebrow as he glanced briefly at her.

Disappointed? Not likely. She wouldn’t be here now, watching the birds swirl and wheel to the Imam’s prayers. Relieved was what she was. Not to mention a little confused. ‘I just don’t understand why at first it seemed not such a big deal and then they made such a fuss of it at the station.’

He shrugged. ‘What you did was foolish. Of course they needed to make you appreciate the severity of what you were doing.’

Foolish? The judgement stung, threatening to topple all the secret fantasies she’d been harbouring about how this day might progress. She didn’t want him to think of her as foolish.

Desirable or sexy, like the way he’d made her feel when she’d found his eyes on her across the marketplace, sure, he could think that. She wanted him to think that.

Not foolish.

‘I didn’t know there was a law against buying old coins.’

‘Surely you do research before you enter a country as a visitor? Surely, if you are any kind of responsible tourist, you find out about their customs and laws before you leave home.’

Well, yes, there was that, then again... ‘But they might just as easily have been fake!’

‘And you would have been happy exchanging good money for fakes?’

She sniffed. She hated that she sounded so defensive and she hated him because what he said was true. She had been hoping the coins were genuine and of course she would never have considered spending the money if she’d thought them no better than rubbish.

And she would have done her research. Normally. But the decision to come to Turkey hadn’t come twelve or even six months ago, and so giving her lashings of time to check out every traveller site going. The decision had been made barely two weeks ago, when she’d had to work out what to do about a cancelled holiday to Bali: stay at home or use whatever credits she could get for her cancelled flights and accommodation towards a trip somewhere she really wanted to go.

Turkey had been a no-brainer. The seed had been planted when she’d come across her great-great-great-grandmother’s diary ten years before when she’d been helping her mum sort out her gran’s old house back in England, the house her mum had grown up in before she’d moved to Australia. The diary that told of a young girl’s excitement about her upcoming trip to Constantinople and beyond, that she’d found bundled together with a pretty bracelet in an old oilskin rag and tucked away in the bottom of a long-forgotten trunk in the dusty attic. Half the pages were missing, so there was no record of her actual travels, and what was left was barely legible, but it was the words a young woman so long ago had penned in ink on the front page—follow your heart—that had lodged in Amber’s sensible brain.

And whether it was because she shared a name with her great-great-great-grandmother, or because the young Amber Braithwaite’s anticipation was infectious, that seed had grown, until she’d known that one day she wanted to experience for herself the exotic capital that had fired up her ancestor’s imagination more than a century and a half before.

Follow your heart.

Cameron had thought she was mad to even suggest it.

‘Why would you want to go there?’ he’d asked her. ‘Bali’s much closer and it’s cheaper.’

‘But nobody goes to Bali in January,’ she’d reasoned. ‘It’s so humid.’

‘Trust me,’ he’d said, and to her eternal shame she’d not only put her dreams on hold, but she’d trusted him, all right. Right up until the time she’d come home early from work and found him shagging her supposed best friend in their bed.

A supposed best friend who’d begged for forgiveness and told her it would never happen again because Cameron wasn’t even that good in the sack.

Thanks for that.

No, it was about time she followed her heart. And she didn’t have to explain any of that to this man.

‘So maybe I didn’t have time,’ she simply said, downplaying the whirlwind of emotional fallout from the double betrayal that had accompanied that time. It had taken a week before shock and the self-pity had turned to anger, and then it was a no-brainer that she would head to the one place Cameron was never likely to go.

It wasn’t until she’d buckled herself into her seat on the plane and taken a deep breath that she’d had clear air to think. So, admittedly, there hadn’t been a lot of time to brush up on the finer points of Turkish law or the hazards she might encounter along her journey.

It had been enough to know she was finally fulfilling a dream to visit the country that had bewitched her great-great-great-grandmother more than a century ago. ‘Maybe I had other things on my mind.’

‘Maybe,’ he said, in a tone that suggested he suspected she either hadn’t bothered or she didn’t give a damn what laws she might break in someone else’s country, so long as she got what she wanted.

She gritted her teeth, wondering when exactly the desire she’d witnessed in his eyes had evaporated—in the officious and overheated surrounds of the police station, or when she’d admitted she’d been intending to buy the coins? But did it matter what he thought of her? She’d probably never see him again after today—she’d probably never see him after lunch. What did she care?

Except that she did.

‘I’m surprised you’d risk being seen with me, given my propensity to commit random acts of stupidity.’

He actually had the nerve to laugh. ‘Oh, I know there’s no chance of that.’

It was the laughter more than the certainty that got her hackles up, though the certainty ran a very close second. ‘How can you be so sure? You hardly know me. You have no idea of what I might try next.’

‘It’s the reason you got out of the police station with just a warning.’

Her head snapped around. ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘I heard them talking—there’s been a surge in reports of coin sellers and the police are planning a crackdown. There was talk of making an example of you to deter other tourists from trying the same thing. A pretty young tourist charged with trafficking in antiquities—that would get the attention of the world press.’

She gasped. She’d felt she’d come close, but she’d been blissfully ignorant of by just how much. ‘So why didn’t they?’

‘Because I told them that until your departure on your tour tomorrow, I would guarantee your good behaviour. I promised that they would have no more trouble with you while you were my responsibility.’

His responsibility? She stopped dead in her tracks. ‘You told them that? Who the hell do you think you are? I don’t need someone to be responsible for me. I don’t need some kind of babysitter, least of all some man I’ve barely just met!’

He didn’t look remorseful. But then she suspected this man was incapable of doing remorse. ‘You would have preferred, I take it, to have been charged and to be languishing right now in a Turkish prison cell?’

Well, no. There was that. But still...

‘No, I thought not,’ he said, reading her answer in her expression. ‘Come,’ he said, taking her arm in his before she could protest—before she could do anything, really—urging her forward once more along the busy street.

She hated him then for his arrogance. For his supreme confidence that what he was doing was right.

And she hated even more that he was holding her too close.

Much too close.

She could feel him all the way down from her shoulders to her hips, every step they took creating a friction that became more delicious by the second—more evocative—every brush of their clothes giving her another burst of the heat that came from being in close contact with him.

Arousal warred with outrage, and she cursed him for his ability to both infuriate her and excite her. How could it be that his touch wanted to make her lean into this man’s strong body, the very man who’d not only insulted her, but quite clearly doubted her integrity and imagined himself some kind of babysitter?

What kind of fool was she?

‘So this is actually duty for you, then, taking me to lunch.’

This time it was he who stopped, jerking her to a standstill and snapping her to face him on the side of the pavement this time, so they weren’t blocking everyone’s way. ‘I take my responsibilities seriously. I said I would ensure you wouldn’t get into trouble while you were in Istanbul before you join your tour group tomorrow morning, and I will do what I promised,’ he whispered, the note in his voice dangerous, his dark eyes intent and focused hard upon hers, before he paused and lifted a hand to her cheek and ran the barest trace of his fingertips down the side of her face, a touch as gentle as it was electric. ‘But who said duty has to come at the expense of pleasure? Because I suspect our time together could be quite pleasurable, if you would allow it to be so.’

The shudder started at her cheekbone where his fingers grazed her skin and reverberated down her body until it rolled out of her curling toes, its scorching trail leaving her in no doubt what he was offering.

And then he shrugged and dropped his hand away. ‘But if you want me to stop at duty, then just say the word. If you decide it is not pleasure you wish for, then I will keep my undertaking to the polis and ensure you do not get into any more trouble before you join your tour. But I will not pursue you. I am not in the habit of pursuing unwilling women.’

A tram rattled past, pedestrians walked by spouting words in a dozen different languages, and Amber blinked at the unfamiliarity of it all. She could scarcely believe she was standing in the oldest part of Istanbul, her cheek still tingling from his touch, let alone having this conversation with this man.

‘So,’ he prompted, ‘what’s it to be, Amber Jones? Duty or pleasure?’

All her life Amber had done the right thing, making sensible choices, playing it safe, never taking risks. All her life she’d been responsible.

Sensible.

And just look where that had got her.

With an equally safe choice of boyfriend who clearly hadn’t valued her and who hadn’t turned out to be a safe choice at all.

Her blood fizzed with the possibilities this man was offering. As, if she was honest, it had been fizzing ever since she’d seen him watching her in the Spice Market.

God, she was in Istanbul, exotic, colourful Istanbul, and she might as well have been a million miles from her old life. And maybe it was foolhardy to agree to spend a night with a stranger in a faraway country. Maybe it was reckless.

But maybe it was time to be a bit reckless. Time to pay heed to the excitement in her blood and take a step on the wild side, as her great-great-great-grandmother had been brave enough to do more than one hundred and fifty years earlier.

She looked up at this man, with his golden skin and dark-as-a-hot-desert-night eyes, her heartbeat thumping loud in her chest at just being close to him, and knew that if she played it safe, she’d regret it for the rest of her life.

And her answer came as clearly as the calls of the seabirds wheeling in the sky above.

‘Pleasure.’

His dark eyes flared with heat, his lips turned up in approval as he enclosed her hand in his. ‘Then pleasure, it shall be.’

* * *

He smiled to himself as he led her towards a nearby restaurant that had windows overlooking the park, the glass frontage, he knew, would be filled with colourful dishes, from stuffed eggplants and peppers, casseroles of chicken and chickpeas and lamb, and rice, spiced and fragrant, alongside which lamb and chicken roasted on vertical spits.

So his meek little rabbit had turned out to be less timid than she’d first appeared? She’d fled from him in the Spice Market, and he’d been prepared to let her go.

But there was spirit there, under that nervous exterior, even if he’d had to dig to find it. But it was there, and given the choice again she’d chosen pleasure. At least the time spent babysitting her wouldn’t be completely wasted.

Not that he trusted her, despite all her innocent claims of not knowing the laws—after all, what else did foreigners claim when they were caught red-handed but tried to plead ignorance?—but then, he didn’t have to trust her. All he had to do was keep her out of harm’s way until he got her on that tour bus and sent her on her way and his job would be done.

Keeping her out of the way of illegal street vendors would be no problem given what he had in mind.

Blond tendrils of her hair bounced enticingly on the breeze as they walked, the leather of her jacket brushing against his coat sleeve, and as he turned his head towards her he caught a hint of her perfume, floral and light. He had never been a fan of such scents. He preferred his women dressed in musk and spice and preferably not a lot more, but on her the scent seemed to make sense. Innocent, with a hint of sensuality. A hint of promise.

He liked the fit.

He liked the promise even more.

He smiled. If only his three friends could see him now, they’d laugh. They’d tell him to be careful, that he was tempting fate. He remembered the last time they’d been together at Bahir’s wedding. He remembered the taunts of the two newly married desert brothers. Who would be next? Zoltan and Bahir had laughed. Which of Kadar and Rashid would be next to fall into marriage?

And Kadar and Rashid had both pointed at the other and laughed.

Of course, the very idea that the two remaining friends would soon follow was ridiculous. Zoltan had married Princess Aisha in order to secure his kingdom of Al-Jirad and Bahir had been reunited with Aisha’s sister and his former lover, Marina, along the way. Both marriages had been bound to happen, even if the idea that two of the desert brothers would be married in short order had been unimaginable once.

Well, it had been a good three years since Bahir’s wedding and he didn’t know about Rashid, but he was no closer to marriage than he’d ever been. And why should he be?

The four men were as good as brothers, bound together by more than blood. They had met while they were at university in the States and, apart from Mehmet, they were all the family he’d ever needed.

And now, while their bond was still strong, he didn’t feel any desperate need to follow his friends into the state of matrimony. Marriage was for people who were whole. People who wanted family. But he’d been alone since he was six years old and he was doing just fine. He couldn’t see that changing any time soon, especially not when every woman he’d ever met was only too pleased to move right along. So his friends could think what they liked, but if anyone was to marry next, it wouldn’t be him.

He wasn’t planning on marrying anyone, let alone a woman he’d saved from the clutches of the polis.

So he was hardly tempting fate merely spending a night with her.

She was nothing but a pretty tourist.

A short-term visitor to Istanbul.

Temporary.

Perfect.

CHAPTER THREE

THE SCENT OF roasting meat and two dozen delicious-looking dishes wafted out of the open door to tempt Amber, and for a moment she almost forgot that she’d just committed herself to a night dedicated to the pleasures of the flesh. But right now she had more important things on her mind. ‘I think I’m starving.’

He ushered her inside. ‘You can choose from here or there is a menu if none of these dishes appeal?’

For a woman whose most recent meals had been airline food, fast food or no food at all, she didn’t have to think about it. ‘No,’ she said, mouth watering, in no desire to wait for an order to be prepared when there was such an array before her to choose from, ‘this is perfect.’

They made their selections and were shown to a table near a window upstairs while their order was prepared. And then, once again, she was awed—by their vantage point, offering a glimpse of the domed roof of Hagia Sophia with its dancing fountain to one side of the window, and the minarets of the Blue Mosque to the other.

By the man sitting opposite now being greeted by a smiling waiter welcoming him back, a man larger than life with his dangerous dark looks and heated eyes. Long-lashed eyes, she realised as she took advantage of their proximity to study him in more detail. Satin black lashes and long as sin...

And by the knowledge that he’d guaranteed there would be no more trouble with the law while she was under his watch.

Where was the outrage she’d felt when he’d first revealed that little snippet? Had she shrugged it off as easily as he’d discarded his tailored black coat and handed it to the owner who was busy fawning all over him—or simply because of it? Because what lay beneath would blur the edges of any protest. A soft dove-grey knitted sweater lovingly skimmed a chest that could have been carved from stone. Nice, she thought, having to drag her eyes away in case they lingered too long, suddenly feeling warm. She unzipped her jacket, and peeled it from her arms, laying it on the chair next to her. The scarf at her neck came off next, tugged out from behind her neck and making her messy knot even messier as more ends worked free. She put a hand to her head, hoping it didn’t look as messy as it felt. And then she looked up and stilled when she saw him watching her, his expression deep and unfathomable, and she felt hot and bothered and confused and muddled all over again. ‘What’s wrong?’

Nothing was wrong. It was all going exactly the way he’d imagined it. Except she’d been the one to peel the jacket from her arms, not him. But just as he’d imagined, he liked what he saw underneath.

He liked it very much.

Her breasts filled the fitted scoop-neck top to perfection without overfilling—without under-filling, for that matter—and he ached to run his hand down the side of her while she lay naked next to him on his bed, down that delicious slope of ribcage to the sudden dip of waist and up the jut of hip to thigh. He longed to drink in her contours through the seeking palm of his hand.

As soon he would.

Their meals arrived and he raised his glass of sparkling water to her, managing a smile over the demanding pulse of need in his groin. ‘Nothing is wrong,’ he said, even liking the way that knot of hair behind her head was slowly unravelling, those ends floating free or dancing around her face and catching in the light as she moved her head. Bewitching. It would be no hardship spending the night with her.

Just one night.

It had been no selfless act to guarantee she’d stay out of harm’s way. He’d keep her so busy in his bed, she wouldn’t have time to make trouble. And then he’d wave her goodbye on her tour, turn his back and walk away. And if she chose to get into trouble again, if she chose to mess with Turkish law by taking home a souvenir or two, it wouldn’t be on his watch. She would be the tour guide’s problem then.

Perfect.

‘In fact,’ he added, pulling out a smile from his arsenal that he knew from experience women couldn’t resist, ‘I could not be happier with the way things are turning out.’

Ripples of warmth spread through her at his words, at the heat in his eyes and the slow, sexy smile that spoke of the pleasures of the flesh, reaching places and stirring sensations that made her muscles clamp under the table.

And she so wanted to be bold and brave and confident, like the Amber of old she’d promised herself she’d be, but she was breathless and dizzy and way out of her depth.

His smile grew wider, sexier. His eyes grew dark and burned with intent. ‘All I hope,’ he added, ‘is that you have a good appetite.’

He wasn’t talking about lunch. She swallowed. It was disarming. Unnerving. Because she wasn’t out of her depth at all. She was drowning in the shallows. Merely trying to hold a conversation with this man was like being tossed by a wave and having to fight foam and sand and salt to work out which way was up and grab a lungful of air for an instant of respite before the next wave rolled her over again.

‘I’m famished,’ she managed on a whisper, and suddenly she wasn’t talking about lunch either.

He gestured towards her plate. ‘Please, eat. Enjoy.’

His invitation was a welcome respite, except she’d chosen too much, she realised, for the meal before her was enormous. A glossy red capsicum stuffed fat with meat and rice nestled alongside chicken with okra and a fluffy mountain of white rice on the side. It looked amazing. It smelt amazing. And even though she would have quite happily forgotten all about her meal if he’d suggested they leave and satisfy a different and more demanding hunger, it was a very welcome second best.

As it was, she put a forkful of the rich meat and rice to her lips and closed her eyes as the flavours exploded on her tongue and was in heaven.

‘Good?’ he asked, and she opened them to see him watching her, his eyes spiced with heat, reminding her all over again of that moment when their eyes had connected and held in the Spice Market.

‘Better than good,’ she said, feeling suddenly self-conscious. ‘Was it that obvious?’

‘Don’t be embarrassed. I like the way you enjoy what you eat. I like what it says about you.’

Her throat went dry. She took a sip of water, relishing the cool slide of it down her throat, while his eyes didn’t leave hers, before asking the question uppermost in her mind. ‘What does it say about me?’

‘That you are a passionate woman. That you take pleasure in the senses and are not afraid to show it. I like that.’

Sensation careened down her spine. Nobody had ever talked to her as this man talked. Nobody had ever told her that she was a passionate woman. Not even Cameron—thinking back, she wasn’t sure passionate was a word he’d possessed in his vocabulary.

But while she was unschooled in knowing how to respond, she knew exactly what the man opposite was doing. He was seducing her, as good as stroking her body with his words, stoking her need with every loaded syllable. ‘Who are you?’ she said, putting her fork down, thinking the only way she could keep herself anywhere near the surface and oxygen in this mad, tumbling sea was to stop being on the defensive and to try to establish a foothold on the conversation.

‘I have told you my name.’

She nodded. ‘That may indeed be true, but I don’t think it answers my question. Because, you see, you have me at a disadvantage. You heard all my details during that police interview. You know where I live, you know my date of birth, you know everything about me. And yet I know nothing about you.’

‘Everything?’ His eyes flicked over her, lazy, almost insolent. ‘I am sure there are secrets still to be discovered.’

‘Stop doing that.’

‘What?’

‘Stroking me with your words.’

Across the table, he smiled. ‘Cats and women. I thought they were both made to be stroked.’

She kicked up her chin and smiled back. ‘True. Cats, like women, like to be stroked when it suits them, but when they’ve had enough, the claws come out.’

She’d been expecting another one of his quick comebacks. What she wasn’t expecting was laughter. A deep rich laugh that caught her unawares and shifted the boundaries of the box she’d put him in.

Arrogant and powerful and darkly magnificent, this was a man who could shrug off her arguments and pull her defences apart and set her blood to simmering, all with just a few well-chosen words or a glance from the heated furnace glowing behind his eyes.

There’d been no place for laughter in that picture.

But now there was laughter.

And she liked it.

She liked the smile he sent her even more. ‘I did not expect to enjoy this lunch quite as much. So what is it you wish to know?’

‘I want to know about you. You’re not Turkish, are you? At least, you don’t sound Turkish. You don’t look Turkish.’

He raised an eyebrow. ‘No. Not exactly.’

‘And yet the polis entrusted me to your care. Why would they do that? Why should they trust you?’

‘Perhaps because they know me by reputation.’

She frowned. ‘So who are you?’

He leaned back in his chair, his meal, like hers, forgotten for the moment. ‘A businessman. I have interests in Turkey.’

‘What kind of interests?’

‘I support some industries here, that’s all.’

‘Carpets?’

He gave a brief nod of his head. ‘Perhaps.’

‘And so you live in Turkey?’

‘Sometimes. Sometimes I live elsewhere.’

‘Where else? Do you have a wife and children stashed away somewhere? Maybe several wives? Several children?’

He laughed at that. ‘No. No wife. No children. And I am not looking for either. Are you finished with your interrogation?’

She shook her head. She was nowhere near done. ‘So where are you from, Mr Kadar, if you’re not from Turkey?’

‘Does it matter where? I am here now, with you. Surely that is all that matters.’

‘If you expect me to sleep with you,’ she said, getting frustrated by his non-answers, ‘I think I have a right to know something about you.’

His eyes gleamed dark with heat. ‘I’m sorry if I gave you the wrong impression, but I am not expecting you to sleep.’

Her spine turned molten.

No sleep.

Because they’d be...

And it was only her wrists anchored on the table that kept her upright while she coped with this latest onslaught.

She blinked and looked down at her plate. Picked up her fork. Poked at her stuffed pepper that she figured was only marginally redder than her cheeks right now, the rational part of her brain knowing she’d need the energy if she was going to keep up with this man tonight.

Did she want to keep bickering? Did she really care if he didn’t answer her questions and she didn’t know where he was from?

She’d already decided to spend the night with him so what the hell did any of that matter? It couldn’t change anything.

‘I love Turkish food,’ she said, her throat achingly tight, knowing she sounded lame and unable to do a single damned thing about it.

‘Then, please—’ he gestured ‘—don’t let me stop you from enjoying it.’

And with thoughts of seduction swirling in her mind, messing with her head and setting flesh pulsing in secret, aching places, she tried to concentrate on her meal.

Hard though, with the man-god sitting opposite her and with the promise of sex hanging heavy in the air between them. Hard when dinner table small talk was laden with double meaning and heated glances and the electric brush of fingers as they both reached for a piece of bread from the basket.

She waved away dessert so he ordered them coffee as the waiter came to collect their plates. She’d made a sizeable dent in her meal, but, as she’d expected, it had defeated her. But instead of feeling happily satisfied, she was as jumpy as a cat chasing shadows. Where to from here? she wondered.

As if sensing her nerves, he glanced at his watch. ‘Are you ready?’

A warm shiver descended her spine. Why did she get the impression he meant ready for bed? Ready for sex? But what else would he mean? Here was a man she’d found an instant connection with on eye contact alone, a man who’d come to her rescue when she’d fallen headlong into a trap set for tourists, a man whose mere touch had sent her senses and her libido into overdrive, and a man she’d agreed to spend a night of pleasure with.

Already she could see a bedroom in his words, the windows hung with curtains in rich jewel shades and a big broad bed with a coverlet spun with gold, and this man the magnet drawing her towards it.

And she wondered at a man whose words contained pictures that possessed the magic to short cut through her brain, shut down her mouth, and feed straight into her need.

Under the table her thigh muscles clenched. ‘I think so.’

‘Then we should go. It is not far to my apartment. We can pick up your things on the way.’

‘My things?’

‘It makes sense, don’t you agree, given you are leaving early in the morning?’

She licked her lips and nodded. ‘Of course, you’re right,’ she said, wondering how he still seemed capable of rational thought, while all she could think of was bedrooms and sex. But then, maybe he was used to entertaining the occasional stray who wandered inadvertently into his orbit. Maybe this wasn’t as unusual a day for him as it was for her.

The thought could have left her cold.

Would have, in ordinary circumstances.

If, that was, she’d been interested in building some kind of long-term relationship with this man. But after Cameron’s betrayal, she wasn’t interested in long term with any man. As far as she was concerned, one night was perfect. She could indulge her deepest fantasies, maybe even experience a tiny taste of what her ancestor could have experienced more than a century and a half before.

One night with a stranger would be enough.

Enough for both of them, it seemed, because he’d come right out and said he wasn’t interested in more. And whatever his reasons, she couldn’t help but admire his honesty. After the experience she’d just had, after all the lies and the deception, it made for a refreshing change.

She stood, reaching for her jacket on the seat alongside her, but he was already up and beat her to it, holding it open for her to slip her arms into. She looked over her shoulder at him as he eased it up her arms and over her shoulders, a smile on his lips, a flare of heat in his dark eyes as if he knew exactly what he was doing to her as his fingers lingered at her neck, his thumbs stroking the skin under her hair, their touch starting spot fires under her skin.

Oh, my God.

What the hell was she letting herself in for?

And why the hell couldn’t she wait to find out?

She leaned over and snatched up her scarf and wound it around her neck before she could melt into a puddle from the heat of his touch right there and then, and threw him a hasty, confident and utterly false smile. ‘Shall we go?’

CHAPTER FOUR

IT WAS BARELY a hostel, tucked as it was in the back laneways near the ancient city walls, but it was cheap, despite it being located so close to many of Istanbul’s famous and ancient sites. She saw him studying the shabby exterior and faded paintwork and knew what he must be thinking. ‘Best value in Sultanahmet,’ she said, before she held up a hand. ‘Don’t come in, I’ll be right back. It won’t take me a minute to grab my pack.’

He didn’t argue and she wasn’t surprised, knowing that someone like him would have never set foot inside such an establishment and would hardly be tempted to now for fear of contracting some communicable disease or worse.

Hurriedly she gathered the few things she’d left in her tiny shared room, and then did a quick scan of her pack’s contents, checking there was nothing missing. Travel itinerary. Toiletries. Then she went sickly cold when she couldn’t find her bracelet. It had been there this morning, she remembered thinking about wearing it, deciding against it because it would have been too bulky under her jacket, but it had been here, she had seen it, she was sure she had seen it...

She pulled stuff from the pack, unzipping zips, rummaging frantically and all the while sick with fear. And just as she was accepting that she’d have to report to Reception that someone had been in her room, she pulled out a pair of sneakers from the bottom of her pack and the bracelet rolled out from inside onto the bed. Relief washed over her as she swooped on it, holding it to her chest, remembering she’d tucked it safely away before she’d gone out early this morning.

It was a trinket, nothing more, but it held such sentimental value for her. She’d never forgive herself if she lost it.

And then, because Kadar was waiting for her outside and she’d taken much longer than she’d intended, she bundled everything back in her bag, zipped the bracelet safely into an internal zipper pocket and closed the door on the cheap hostel bedroom. At least for one night.

And what a night it promised to be.

One night with a man who with one look could make you tremble and quake and want for something you’d never known you’d missed.

Until now.

She checked out of the tiny hostel with a myriad questions running through her mind.

Had her great-great-great-grandmother Amber met with such a man? The family history whispered behind hands was that Amber had been kidnapped into white slavery, but had she chosen to stay so long by choice? Because she’d met a man like Kadar with heat in his eyes and seduction in his words?

After today, she could almost believe it possible.

Not that it explained why she had returned to England. So many questions she would never know the answer to. But at least she was here, walking the same laneways and seeing the same sights Amber must have seen one hundred and fifty years ago. How amazing those sights must have been to her then, when she’d been brought up in the rolling green fields of Hertfordshire.

Amber wasn’t staying either. She’d be gone tomorrow morning. And given the time she’d spent unpacking and repacking while panicking about losing her great-great-great-grandmother’s bracelet, it would be a wonder if Kadar and his heated eyes were still outside waiting for her.

She emerged from the hostel and looked around, heart thumping, unable to locate him anywhere on the busy street, suddenly afraid she’d taken too long and that he’d either lost interest or found some other stray to adopt for the night.

But no, he wouldn’t leave her, she remembered. Because he’d promised the polis he would watch over her until she joined her tour group. It was only then, when she’d calmed down, that she spotted him standing away to one side a little further away, in the shadow of the ancient wall, busy talking into his mobile phone.

She didn’t have to wait to let him know she was ready. He looked up almost as if he’d sensed her watching him, pocketing his phone in the next instant.

And maybe she was imagining it. Maybe she was making castles in the air, but the look he sent her across the street as he pocketed that phone was pure lust and enough to make her body hum and her throat purr.

She’d accused him during lunch of stroking her with his words. Now, as he strode a path between cars across the street, he was as good as stroking her with his eyes.

And she liked it.

Even under her leather jacket, her breasts plumped and firmed, her nipples peaked, the rub of her jacket against her flesh like a sensual caress. Under her jeans, her thighs clenched at the prospect of spending the night with this man.

For a girl who’d only ever believed she could make love to a man that she was in love with, her actions were foreign to her. Reckless, even.

She was about to have sex with a stranger and her body was already humming in expectation of it.

How did that work?

She didn’t know. She didn’t understand it. All she knew was that she wanted this night and she would have it, to take away as a souvenir of this exotic journey to the east. Maybe just a taste of what her great-great-great-grandmother Amber had experienced all those years before her.

‘All set,’ she announced a little nervously as he approached, her pack looped over one shoulder.

He unthreaded the pack from her arm and took it from her. ‘This is all you have?’

She shrugged. ‘I travel light.’

He raised an eyebrow at that. ‘Which makes you an unusual woman,’ he said, and she smiled, but it was only half a compliment he was offering, because secretly it only supported what he’d already decided about her. He was in no doubt her bag would be a good deal heavier on her return journey, and not just because she would return home with the requisite amount of cushion covers and scarves. He didn’t believe for a moment she was an innocent as she made out and there would be plenty of passing street vendors and the trinkets that were on offer to take advantage of before she went home.

Not that he was worried.

If she ventured on the side of illegal again, as he was sure she would before she was done, she’d be someone else’s problem.

They made small talk as he led her through the streets and alleyways of Sultanahmet, past tiny coloured timber houses clustered together in the narrow laneways, past stone relics and foundations of more ancient times. And he wasn’t Turkish, but he’d lived here long enough that he could provide the history of the area and the stories of Istanbul’s long and colourful past. She listened, though he wondered how much she was taking in, because he could sense her nervousness in the brightness of her eyes, and her excitement in her breathless responses.

It amused him. The little rabbit was out of her depth and trying desperately not to show it, but every time they swayed towards each other and their arms brushed, she would jump and catch her breath and lick her lips and pretend nothing had happened.

He smiled. He’d never felt the urge to brush his arm against another’s more.

By the time they reached the stately entrance to the restored nineteenth-century building where he lived, she was breathless.

She turned her eyes upwards, taking in the double-level entry with its columns and grand doorway and high arched windows. ‘You live here?’

‘I have an apartment here, yes.’ There was no need to tell her he owned the entire building. She hadn’t asked the details and he had no compunction to tell her. She also hadn’t asked him what 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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