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Captive of Kadar
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
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.’
