Turkish Delights Series (3 page)

Levent stood. He towered over most men, having reached his father’s height of nearly six foot six inches. The older man clapped him on the shoulder. “Come, boy, I know a place where the tea is hot and the conversation hotter.”

“I appreciate that, but I have a prior date to keep.” He winced at the lie. But another moment in the gasbag’s company would send him over the edge. The sight of Vivian, so amazingly beautiful as he remembered when she was a girl, but obviously all woman now had made him antsy, like he’d consumed too much caffeine. He felt a headache on his horizon, too, and the only way to avoid a monster migraine was to go home, get a hot shower and lie down. But his mind kept jumping around. He touched the scar on his lip, which stung at that moment as if he’d re-injured it.

“Ah, yes, youth. You enjoy that ‘date,’ young man. Big strapping lad like yourself, must have plenty of those, eh?” The older man elbowed Levent. He clenched his fists but pasted on a smile and smothered the impulse to punch the man’s pudgy red face. He shook his head at himself. An even temperament had always been part of his makeup. Why in the world would simply seeing an old friend set him off like this?

He wiped a hand across his face. He must be tired. Between schoolwork and this job, he averaged five hours of sleep. Trying to complete a Master’s level degree in business while running his own made for long exhausting days, but since he never had valued “down time,” he had no real complaints. Until now. He shook his head to dispel her. It didn’t work. After giving his goodbyes, Levent stomped down the steps, anger at himself making the headache worse.

***

Vivian brushed out her hair and stared in the mirror. At nearly nine-thirty, her father had left for some function and his wife and kid were ensconced in the other wing of the residence. They generally avoided her, which worked. It left her free to roam around as she pleased. Her usual excitement at sneaking around most every night had been wearing off lately. It seemed too easy. As if trying to prove her own badness was no fun because no one ever acknowledged it.

She sighed and reached for her journal. The pencil drawing she’d made of Levent stared back at her. His strong, stubbled jaw, deep blue eyes, crooked smile, and lean frame were as familiar to her today as if she hadn’t spent the last fourteen years being angry with him for leaving. Vivian ran her finger across the picture, smudging the lines a little. The phone in her suite rang, startling her. The downstairs housekeeper’s voice crackled through the receiver.

“Madam, there is a young man here to see you. It’s Mister Harrison. From the office.”

Vivian sighed. What was he doing here? She and Ron Harrison had been shoved together by her father the moment she’d touched down in Istanbul. The arranged nature of their dates did not lead to much fun, for either of them she didn’t think. A former Marine and now a diplomatic flunkey of some sort bouncing between Istanbul and Ankara doing whatever it was diplomats did, Ron followed orders. And it seemed her father had ordered him to “escort her” around like some kind of juvenile.

“Okay, tell him I’ll be down.”

She swiped on some lipstick, buttoned up a few more buttons on her blouse, and made herself presentable. Hoping she didn’t look like she planned on sneaking out to an illicit bar, she descended the steps. The young man stood, hands behind his back, parade-rest style, and watched her. His blue eyes shone. She let him take her hand and lead her into the formal sitting area of her father’s enormous diplomatic home. Vivian studied his classically handsome face, framed by blond high-and-tight hair, and the span of his impressive shoulders currently cloaked in a dark brown suit. In other circumstances, she’d be interested. But this man had her father’s mark of approval. Therefore he could take a long walk off a short dock as far as she was concerned.

“Vivian, I’ve come to have a serious talk with you.” His low voice held the honeyed hint of an American southern accent. Her heart pounded but she leaned back on the couch and crossed her legs, accepting tea from the servant who brought it to them. “Your father and I agree that you should accompany me to Ankara next week and that we…well, I’ve asked his permission to–”

Vivian held up her hand as the tea seared her nasal passages. She coughed and sputtered and sat back up. Incredible. These two had effectively planned her marriage. To a man she barely knew and liked even less. Or had really not tried to like, might be a fairer assessment. He frowned at her, his eyes losing some of their sparkle.

“Stop right there, Ron.” She took his hand, hoping the blunt the edge of her harsh words. “You are a perfectly nice guy, but….” Her throat closed up with fury. Her father had divorced her mother, knocked up some secretary then married her, and demanded Vivian move back here after her own mother’s death. He’d done a not-so-subtle takeover of her life with that move—but this took the cake. He was sorely mistaken if he thought he could hand her over like a horse from his stable. She stood. Ron kept a grip on her hand, but she yanked it back. “I’m sorry but my father has given you the wrong impression. I am not interested in joining you in Ankara or anywhere else.” She crossed her arms, truly repentant at the way his handsome face fell. He stood and ran his hands down her arms. His touch made her want to scream and run away.

“I’m sorry, too. But I think you should talk to him. I’m not so bad, really.” He surprised her with a kiss, just a light one at first, lips barely ghosting across hers then deeper, his tongue invading her mouth, his grip on her arms tightening. She had a brief moment of regret, wondering what she’d be missing by rejecting this man. But as the “chosen one” he would never be an option. She broke the kiss, looked away, and took a step back. He put his hands in his pockets.

“I’ll call on you again tomorrow, if I may. We can…um…talk some more perhaps?” His tall muscular frame seemed somehow diminished by the massive room. Vivian gulped. If she had met him on her own, hadn’t had him shoved down her throat by her father, things might be different. But they could both take a flying leap right now.

“Do whatever you like. But I’m telling you I’m not…not marrying you.”

He smiled at her. “You say that now….”

In spite of herself, she grinned back. “And I will tomorrow and the next day and the next. I suggest you keep looking. Thanks for stopping by.” She kept herself from touching him, not wanting to give him the wrong idea. There was no way she was changing her mind. Her father and this man could find someone else’s life to arrange.

Vivian leaned against the large wooden front door after he left. She touched her cheek where he’d grazed it with a knuckle. Yes, he could be quite the fine specimen, but he was not what she wanted. Nothing her father wanted for her would ever be acceptable. Ever. She checked her watch. Ten fifteen. Time to go. She hoped Levent would be there. They had a lot of catching up to do.

***

Levent resisted the temptation of Vivian’s invitation as long as he could. He ran for ten miles, dodging through well-known streets and alleys in the in-between neighborhood where he lived in a two room apartment. The familiar sidewalk-less and cobblestoned streets pounded up through his legs, easing the headache but not the twitchiness in his nerve endings. Why should he even care to see her again? He’d shut the door on that friendship years ago when he didn’t say good-bye.

Sweat poured off his body by the time he circled back around to his nondescript building. His legs were on fire. He did an hour of sit ups and push-ups, the nervous energy in his soul pushing him further than he’d gone physically since he’d left the military. His body screamed at him to stop, but his brain made him continue, anything to exorcise those brown eyes from searing his brain like they’d done since that morning.

Finally, he sat, leaned against the couch, his breath coming in short gasps, arms propped on his knees. The clock over the stove indicated he had twenty minutes if he were going to meet her. Suddenly freezing, Levent dragged a blanket down and covered himself, stretching his aching legs out. He groaned as the semi hard-on he had nursed all damn day got real, making him shift on the floor so he could reach in and handle it.

Dear God, how in the world had he come face to face with the girl again after all this time, in a city of nearly five million people? If he were the type, he’d call it pre-destined. But he wasn’t. He increased his rhythm, felt the orgasm gathering energy at the base of his spine. He laid his head back on the couch, gave into it. Temporary relief surged through him but he called her name at the last minute and imagined her in his arms.

Oh hell. I should not go there. I should transfer out of that class and avoid her. She is my superior
. But he showered, dressed carefully and seemingly on autopilot, started walking the ten blocks to 101 Cannakale Street, to the Dungeon. To meet the woman who’d haunted his every waking moment for years.

Chapter Three

“Viv! Over here! Where have you been?” The pretty blonde woman waved at her from the other side of the dimly lit room. British rock music poured out of small speakers. The extremely thin young local, who owned the place and sported an amazing number of tattoos and horn rimmed glasses on his beakish nose, doubled as bartender and DJ. He nodded hello to her. Here she wasn’t a diplomat’s daughter, merely another young woman chafing at the boundaries of the culture where she lived. He’d learned how to make some lira out of types like her, and the occasional tourists who got wind of his place.

“Hiya.” Vivian flopped into a ratty overstuffed chair next to her friend. “Sorry. I had to turn down a marriage proposal.” She sighed and put a beer bottle to her lips. Vivan didn’t really like to drink. The thrill here was more about being out. Out of her father’s reach for a few hours doing what represented activity completely and utterly wrong for her. But boredom threatened as she scanned the familiar crowd. Same guys and girls, same music, same scene. The Roman artifact reeked of mold and mildew and age, but what else was new. Everything in this damn city must be a zillion years old, and everything in it stank.

Lillian kept talking. Vivian paid little attention to the words coming out of her mouth. “Ron! Wow! You turned him down? Why, Viv? He’s dreamy.”

Vivian snorted and put the beer down. She looked at the door again, feeling edgy, nervous. “No chance. He’s daddy’s boy. They can forget about arranging my life.”

“Yeah, but he’s so….”

Vivian cut the simpering girl’s next words off with her sharp tone. “Spare me, Lil. I’ll introduce you. He is a nice kisser. You two can move to Ankara and start spewing out children. Whatever.”

Lillian gasped and put her hand to her throat. “He kissed you?”

Vivian sighed. The girl was hopeless. She’d probably have kittens if she knew how many of the men in this very room she’d kissed. She patted her friend’s denim clad knee. “Yes dear, but I don’t think he even got hard.”

“Oh my God, Vivian, you are so bad!” Lillian’s face turned beet red. Vivian resumed ignoring her. Kissing meant nothing to her. She’d done plenty of it and more back home at UCLA. But here it had the added extra bonus of making her a stone cold slut in the eyes of any Turk who locked lips with her. She loved it. She readjusted her skirt, the one she’d changed into after Ron left and positioned herself so she could see the ancient wooden door opening and closing. Would he come?

A commotion near the makeshift bar drew her attention. Some tourist kept griping about how much the beer cost. The owner, who was also a class-A kisser in Viv’s book, glared at him. The coiled energy and tension ramped up as the locals gathered around in a loose circle behind the two men. He muttered curses, calling all the girls sluts, all the Turks dogs in the rough language she recognized as German. Vivian’s heart pounded so hard it made her breathless. They hadn’t seen a good fight in here in a while. This would be fun. She stood and walked around behind the bar. The tall, blond, boringly European jerk had worked himself into quite a state. Demanding his money back, threatening to call the police down on the place. Her heart sped up as his obviously drunken stare landed on her.

“How much for her?” The group around him shuffled and murmured, moving closer.

“What did you say, Kraut?” The bartender replied in perfect German.

“I said very clearly you Turkish son-of-a-goat: how much for the whore?” He made the mistake of moving toward the bar and reaching across it. She didn’t move.

“You could never afford me, you Nazi bastard.” She answered in his native tongue, crossing her arms. His eyes narrowed. Moving faster than she figured he could, he covered the two feet around the back of the bar and grabbed her hair, hard, bringing tears to her eyes.

“I’ll show you Nazi, you American slut.” He crushed his disgusting mouth on her, raping her with his tongue as she struggled. The man reeked of cologne covering a lack of bath, and God knows how much booze. She let him invade her mouth just enough.

“Holy mother of…Christ!” He leapt back, covering his mouth. “The bitch bit me!” He lunged at her again, and she sidestepped him. The place erupted in chaos as the regulars surged forward to grab him by his shoulders. The foreigner yelped in pain as one set of hands grabbed his wrist and jerked it up behind his back then shoved him to the floor. The crowd stepped back. Vivian looked down at the guy with the black boot pressed against his face.

“This floor is really really filthy, Kraut,” she whispered switching to Turkish. “Why don’t you kiss it? It’s more suited to your nasty mouth.” Unable to resist she spit at him, and the room erupted in laughter as her saliva rolled down his cheek. He yelled out a few more German curses, but Vivian stood to thank the savior that belonged to the huge boot planted on the jerk’s face. Her gaze travelled upward, taking in dark slacks, a trim waist, light blue shirt, long elegant, golden-hued throat. She put a hand over her mouth when she locked eyes with Levent. He wasn’t even breathing heavy after his little wrestling match. He lifted his upper lip in a smirk, the scar standing out on his otherwise perfect face.
Dear Lord, the man was gorgeous
. Her thighs tingled as she smiled at him. The purely physical response was something entirely new. No man had ever elicited anything like it from her. It terrified and exhilarated her all at once.