Читать книгу The Wedding Party Collection - Кейт Хьюит, Aimee Carson - Страница 12

TWO

Twenty-six hours later Trig collected their bags and herded Lena out of Ataturk airport space and into a rusty, pale blue taxi. No fuss, no big deal made about Lena’s slow and steady walking pace, and she was grateful for that. Grateful too that Trig had chosen to accompany her.

‘Where to?’ asked the driver in perfectly serviceable English as he opened the boot and swung their luggage into it, smoothly cataloguing them as foreigners and English-speaking ones at that. The street kids here could do much the same. Pick a German out of a crowd. An American. The English. Apparently it had something to do with shoes.

‘The Best Southern Presidential Hotel near the Grand Bazaar,’ Lena told the driver. ‘And can you do something else for us? Can you take us past the Blue Mosque on the way there?’

‘Madam, it would be my uttermost pleasure to do that for you,’ announced the beaming driver. ‘This is your first visit to our magnificent city, no? You and your husband must also journey to Topkapi Sarayi and Ayasofya. And the Bazaar of course. My cousin sells silk carpets there. I shall inform him of your imminent arrival and he shall treat you like family. Here.’ The driver turned towards them, waving a small cardboard square. ‘My cousin’s business card. His shop is situated along Sahaflar Caddesi. It is a street of many sharks. Many sharks, but not my cousin. Tell him Yasar Sahin sent you. This is me. I have written it on the card for you already.’

Trig took the card from the driver in silence, probably in the hope that the driver would turn around and drive. Lena grinned. Trig had a weakness for carpets and rugs and wall hangings and tapestries. She had no idea why.

‘You know you want one,’ she murmured.

‘Don’t you dare mention jewellery,’ he murmured back, but Yasar Sahin heard him.

‘Are you looking for gold?’ Another card appeared in the driver’s nimble fingers. ‘Silver? This man is my brother and his jewellery will make your wife weep.’

‘I don’t want her to weep,’ said Trig but he took that card too. He didn’t mention that Lena wasn’t his wife.

‘Are you hungry?’ asked the driver. ‘On this road is my favourite kebab stand. Best in the city.’

‘Another brother?’ asked Lena.

‘Twin,’ said the driver and Lena laughed.

They didn’t get the kebabs, they saw the Blue Mosque at dusk and they arrived at the hotel without mishap.

Trig tipped well because Lena was still smiling. He got Yasar’s personal business card for his trouble. ‘Because I am also a tour guide and fixer,’ said Yasar.

‘Fixer?’

‘Problem solver.’

Of course he was.

The hotel Lena had chosen to stay in was mid-range and well located. She’d told the check-in clerk that Trig was her husband, who’d joined her on the trip unexpectedly, and the clerk had added Trig’s details to the booking without so much as a murmur.

‘You sure about this?’ he murmured as the clerk went to fetch their door cards.

‘Why? You want another room?’

He didn’t know.

‘It’s a twin room. Two beds.’

Still one room though.

And boy were quarters snug.

Trig eyed the short distance between the two beds with misgivings. They’d weathered plenty, he and Lena. Sharing a hotel room was not on the list.

He put her bag on the rack at the end of the bed farthest away from the door. Lena inspected the bathroom and proclaimed it satisfactory, because she’d wanted one with a spa bath and got it. Next thing he knew, the bath taps were on and Lena was rummaging through her belongings for fresh clothes.

‘You want to shower while the bath is running?’ she asked him. ‘Because—fair warning—when I get in the bath I am not going to want to get out.’

‘You’re sore?’

‘I just want to work the kinks out.’

‘Right.’ Trig cleared his throat and opened his bag, staring down at the mess of clothes he hadn’t bothered to fold, and tried not to think about Lena, naked in a bath not ten feet away from him. ‘So...okay, yeah. I can shower now.’ He grabbed at a faded pair of jeans and an equally well-worn T-shirt and then paused. ‘Where do you want to go for dinner?’ This could, conceivably, affect his choice of T-shirt.

‘I’m all in favour of room service, provided the menu looks good. And it’s not because I don’t want to walk anywhere,’ she added defensively. ‘Room service for dinner this evening has always been part of the plan.’

Far be it from him to mess with the plan. He eyeballed the distance between the beds again. ‘Is it just me or is this room kind of small?’

‘Maybe if you’d stop growing...’

‘I have.’ Okay, so he was extra tall and his shoulders were broad. For the most part, he was good with it. ‘You just think I should have stopped sooner.’ He eyed his little double bed with misgivings. ‘That’s not a double bed. It’s a miniature double bed.’

‘Princess.’

‘Are we bickering?’ he asked. ‘Because Poppy tells me she’s heartily sick of our bickering. I thought I might give it up for Lent.’

‘It’s not Lent,’ Lena informed him. ‘Besides, I like bickering with you. Makes me feel all comfortable and peachy-normal.’

Trig snorted. At sixteen, bickering with Lena had been his first line of defence against anyone discovering just how infatuated he was with her. He was still gone on her, no question. But these days the bickering got old fast.

He found his toiletries bag and stalked into the bathroom, only to find that that room was the size of a bath mat and that the spa was filling ever so slowly—a sneaky deterrent to filling it at all. Instead of four walls, the bathroom had two walls, a side door and one of those shuttered, half-walls dividing it from the main room. Trig reached for the shutters.

She-who-bickered would of a certainty want them shut.

He eyed the bathroom door and the floor mat in its way. He could shut that at the last minute. Never let it be said that Adrian Sinclair had more than a regular dislike for small spaces. Just don’t ever put him in a submarine.

‘Hey, Trig.’ Lena’s voice floated through the door. ‘Five things you never wanted to be. And don’t say, “Your babysitter”.’

Never wanted to be in love with my best friend’s sister, he thought darkly. Especially since she’d never once given him the slightest encouragement.

‘I never wanted to be a motor mechanic,’ he said instead.

‘Be serious.’

‘I am serious.’ He turned on the shower taps, hoping for a little pressure. Nope. Maybe if he turned the bath taps off. He shucked his clothes and dropped them on the floor. And Lena appeared in the doorway.

‘Dammit, Lena! Close quarters!’ But he didn’t reach for a towel or turn to hide his body. Most of it she’d seen before, and as for the rest...well...nothing to be ashamed of there.

Lena dropped her gaze, but not to the floor. She swallowed hard. ‘I, ah—’

‘Yes?’ he enquired silkily, half of him annoyed and half most emphatically not.

His brain thought she was objectifying him and he objected to that.

His body didn’t give a damn whether she objectified him or not.

‘I, ah—’ Finally she dragged her gaze up and over the rest of him and then, with what seemed like a whole lot of effort, looked away. ‘Sorry. Pretty sure I’ll remember what I wanted to tell you sooner or later.’

‘Size queen,’ he challenged softly.

‘Yeah, well. Who knew?’ She did the quickest about-turn he’d seen from her in a long time and headed back into the other part of the room, the part he couldn’t see. ‘I mean, I’d heard rumours... Your old girlfriends aren’t exactly discreet.’

‘No?’ He’d had girlfriends over the years—not plenty, but enough. He’d tried hard to fall for each and every one. ‘What are they?’

‘Grateful,’ she said dryly. ‘Now I know why.’

‘You really don’t,’ he felt obliged to point out, and left the bathroom door open and turned back towards the shower. ‘Who’s to say it wasn’t my winning personality?’

‘You do like to win,’ she said as he stepped beneath the spray and closed the shower door. Surely one closed door between them would be enough.

‘You keep saying that.’

‘Only because it’s true.’

All throughout their teens and beyond, he, Lena and Jared had pushed each other to be faster, cannier, more fearless. It had got them into plenty of trouble. Got them into the Secret Intelligence Service too. Jared rising through the ranks because he was a leader born, Trig and Lena rising with him because they had skills too and the suits knew the makings of a crack infiltration team when they saw one.

No space between him and Lena at all when it came to what they knew about each other. No strength or flaw left unexamined. No shortage of loyalty or love. Lena loved him like a brother and like a comrade-in-arms, and that was worth something. It was.

But sometimes she saw the reckless boy he’d once been rather than the man he was now.

Sometimes she coaxed him into competitive games he no longer had the heart to play.

He raised his voice so that she’d hear him over the spray. ‘Is there a burger on that menu?’

‘Hang on...’ She came back to the bathroom doorway, casual as you please now that a plate of frosted glass stood between her and his nakedness. ‘Yes, there’s a burger on the menu. Lamb burger on Turkish. Surprise. There’s also meatballs and potatoes, salads, green beans, and lots of pastries.’

‘Baklava?’

‘Oodles of baklava. Walnut, pistachio, cashew, pine nuts... You want yours drizzled in rose water?’

‘Rather have it in my mouth.’ He squirted shampoo in his palm and raised his hands to his head.

‘Are you posing on purpose?’

‘Are you looking on purpose?’ It seemed like a reasonable reply. ‘Because I’ve no objection. You want a closer look, all you gotta do is say.’ He reached for the shower door and smirked as Lena squeaked a protest and fled. ‘Thought you were fearless.’

‘That was before I got scarred for life. Now I’m wary. Don’t want to get scarred for life twice.’

‘Amen to that,’ he muttered, all playfulness gone as he shoved his head beneath the spray again, the better to chase away the image of Lena on her back in the mud, her guts hot and slippery against his hands while the world around them exploded. Scrub that memory from his mind.

Good if he could.

‘What kind of baklava did you want?’ asked Lena.

‘Is there a mixed plate?’

‘I can ask.’

He heard Lena ordering the food.

He tried to think about the real reason they were in Turkey. Get Lena’s eyes on Jared and Jared’s on her. Let them realise that everyone was okay and then get Lena the hell out of harm’s way before Jared could tear him a new one.

Simple plan.

Didn’t take a genius to know that the execution was going to be a bitch.

* * *

Trig emerged from the bathroom squeaky clean and somewhat calmer about sharing a hotel room with Lena. Lena had the television on and was standing to one side of it, flicking through the channels. She glanced at him, eyes wary. He thought she had relaxed a bit. Possibly because he had his clothes on.

‘Food’ll be here in an hour,’ she said. ‘I thought you’d take longer. I thought I might soak in the spa.’

Soak. Right. Lena was about to get naked and soapy not five steps from where he was standing, and he was going to ignore her and not even think about palming the bulge in his pants, not even just to rearrange it.

‘I need a walk,’ he muttered. And tried not to slam the door on his way out.

* * *

Lena sagged against the nearest wall the minute the door closed behind him. She didn’t know what to make of Trig’s moods these days—one minute teasing, short-tempered the next. That was her bailiwick, not Trig’s. Trig was the even-tempered one, rock-steady in any crisis.

Calm, even when she’d been flat on her back in the sticky grey clay of East Timor and he’d been holding her guts in place with his hands. Calm when Jared had skidded in beside him and told him to get out of the way and Trig had said no, just no, but Jared had backed off, and gone and stolen transport and got them to safety while Trig kept Lena alive.

Trig, steady as you please, as the world around her had turned cold and grey.

‘Don’t you,’ he’d said, his voice hard and implacable in her ear. ‘Fight, damn you. You always do.’

She’d fought.

She was still fighting.

Her injuries. Her reliance on others.

Her feelings for Trig and the memory of his cheek against hers and the gutted murmur of his voice when he’d thought her unconscious.

‘Stay with me, Lena. Don’t you dare go where I can’t follow.’

Closest he’d ever come to saying he had feelings for her that weren’t exactly brotherly.

Once upon a time, maybe, yeah, she’d have been all over that. All over him if he’d given her enough encouragement.

But now?

No way.

Because what could she offer him now? She who could barely hold herself together from one day to the next. She whose default setting ran more towards lashing out at people than to loving them.

And then there was the matter of her not so minor physical injuries. A body as beautiful as Trig’s deserved a beautiful body beneath it, not one like hers, all scarred and barely working. No babies from this body, and Trig knew it. He’d been there when the doctor had broken that news, only it was hardly news to Lena because given the mess her body had been in at the time she’d already figured as much.

It had been news to Trig though, and she’d plucked at a thread in the loose-woven hospital blanket and watched beneath lowered lashes as he’d dropped his head to the web of his hands and kept it there for the duration of the doctor’s explanation. No comment from him at all when he’d finally lifted his head, just a stark, shattered glance in her direction before he’d swiftly looked away.

Not pity. He didn’t do pity.

It had looked a lot like grief.

A bottle of red wine stood on the counter above the little hotel-room fridge. Lena cracked it and poured herself a generous glass full. She picked through her suitcase for a change of clothes and took those and the wine with her to the bathroom.

Water would help. Water always helped her relax and think clearly.

Find Jared. That was her goal.

Keep Lena out of trouble. She was pretty sure that was Trig’s goal.

And then, once the world was set right, she and Trig could find a new way of communicating. One that didn’t involve him being overprotective and her being defensive. One that involved more honesty and less bickering. Lena sipped at her wine and stared pensively at the slowly filling tub.

One that involved a little more wholly platonic appreciation for the person he was.