Captive of Kadar. Trish Morey

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