The Wedding Party Collection. Кейт Хьюит

      ‘I must have. There’s no other explanation.’

      ‘Pretty sure I can think of one. You want to hear it?’

      ‘No, I want to shop. And eat yoghurt,’ she pleaded wistfully. ‘And pastry. Lots of flaky breakfast pastry. I’m starving.’

      Now he was starving too.

      ‘Lena, do you remember where you are?’

      ‘Istanbul.’

      ‘Do you know why you’re here?’

      ‘Honeymoon.’

      Okeydokey, then. Time for another trip to the hospital. ‘You want me to get you anything else while I’m out?’

      ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Champagne and strawberries.’

      * * *

      Five hours later, the doctor declared the swelling in Lena’s head much reduced and Trig had declared her memory much improved. She could talk about Damon, Poppy and her father with assurance. She could talk about Jared and the things they’d done in the past. But she had no recollection of getting shot in East Timor, or of her long and arduous recovery, or of Jared going rogue in order to find out who’d betrayed them.

      She still thought she was Mrs Lena Sinclair.

      The doctor had nixed any long-haul flights for Lena for the next few days, but all was not lost.

      The doctor had also banned sex.

      ‘Got it,’ he’d told the doctor swiftly. ‘No sex. Plenty of rest. Doctor’s orders.’

      And then Lena had turned accusing eyes on him and it would have been flattering and funny if it hadn’t been so tragic.

      They’d returned to the hotel and Lena had obediently dozed for a couple of hours before declaring herself completely over the hotel-room experience and desperate to take a slow, relaxing walk through the hippodrome next to the Blue Mosque.

      ‘Is this a honeymoon thing?’ he asked suspiciously. Because it sounded like a honeymoon thing and he wanted to avoid those.

      ‘It’s a tourist thing.’

      ‘The doctor said you had to rest.’

      ‘And I have. Now I need to do something.’

      ‘The walking will tire you.’

      ‘How about a Turkish bath, then? Warm water. Relaxation. I hear they even throw in a massage.’

      ‘Water baby.’

      ‘I do recall a fondness for water. And doing a lot of leg rehab in it.’ Lena frowned. ‘You said I got shot in the line of duty. I still don’t remember a thing.’

      ‘Lucky you.’

      ‘Can you describe it to me?’

      ‘No.’

      She looked at him with far too penetrating a gaze and he thought she would push the issue, but then she shrugged and rifled through her suitcase and held up a brightly coloured swimsuit. ‘So...Turkish bath or unwanted interrogation? Which will it be?’

      Which was how they ended up at a Turkish bath house, with him being shepherded through a door to the left labelled men and Lena being pointed to the one on the right that said women.

      ‘Wait for me when you get out,’ he commanded gruffly.

      ‘Don’t I always?’

      Surprisingly, upon reflection, the answer was yes. He gave her a grin. ‘Rest and relaxation,’ he said. ‘Don’t forget.’

      ‘I’m on it.’

      Once through the man door, an attendant showed him to a shower cubicle and change room. ‘You must shower first,’ the attendant said. ‘And then this door will take you into the bathing area.’

      Trig nodded. There’d been pictures of the bath house on the waiting room walls. Rooms full of marble and cascading water. Huge stone slabs where bodies lay prone and masseuses worked their magic. Enough steam to make a belching dragon proud.

      Lena’s post-op physiotherapy programme had involved a lot of water-based stretching and exercises and whether she remembered those exercises or not, a warm bathing pool and massage would be good for her.

      Trig showered and stowed his wallet and clothing in the locker provided. He picked up a tiny square face cloth from a carefully folded pile of them sitting at the door to the bathing area. No swimwear required, apparently. It said so, right there on the instructions plaque hanging on the wall.

      The first thing his eyes were drawn to as he stepped into the room was the high domed and tiled ceiling. The second thing he saw was Lena entering through a door on the other side of the room.

      Why on earth would a bathing house have separate change-room areas when the bathing area was for males and females both?

      Like him, Lena had only one cloth.

      And she didn’t seem to know where to put it.

      Only half a dozen other people swam or lazed beneath the cascading water pouring from spouts in the wall. A few men. A few women. No one seemed to be paying much attention to anyone else.

      Didn’t matter. Lena stood butt naked with one tiny little cloth that she seemed to want to cover the worst of her scarring with. He crossed to her quickly and held out his cloth.

      ‘Here. Use it. Cover yourself up.’

      She seemed to find his glower amusing. ‘Which bits? Because these wash cloths? Really not that big.’

      ‘Get in the pool,’ he ordered. The pool would provide at least some protection against prying eyes. And they were drawing attention. He could feel eyes boring into his back. ‘You’d think they might have mentioned when we came in that this was a mixed bathing pool.’

      Lena was making her way slowly down the steps, holding fast to the hand rail. ‘Relax,’ she said. ‘This is working for me. Are you sure you don’t want your flannel back? Or mine as well, for that matter. Because, frankly, most of the women and some of the men in here are staring at you and salivating.’ Her lashes swept over her eyes and she scanned him from head to toe. ‘And why wouldn’t they? There’s a lot to love.’

      He followed her down into the water fast. He’d never considered himself body shy, but still... ‘Keep the flannels. Use the flannels. Why aren’t you freaking out?’

      ‘Too busy watching you,’ she said with a grin, and then slid into the water and struck out for the far side of the pool. ‘Oh, this is nice.’

      ‘Wouldn’t you be more comfortable if you were, oh, I don’t know...not buck naked?’

      ‘Adrian Sinclair.’ Her voice floated warm and teasing across the water. ‘Are you self-conscious?’

      ‘Apparently.’ The water was deliciously warm, bordering on hot. Lena would like it. ‘I’m also possessive—particularly where you’re concerned. And I’m on my honeymoon and all kinds of frustrated. You might want to keep this in mind should the masseur attempt to wash you down.’ The masseur was washing someone down on the marble block now, and there were suds, lots of suds, and a wet white towel that the masseur was scouring the skin with. He wasn’t being gentle. ‘Maybe you should give that experience a miss, because if he scrubs too hard and antagonises your scars I’ll have to relieve him of his arms.’

      ‘I’m sure he’ll adjust his ministrations accordingly.’

      Trig watched as the masseur fisted half the towel around his hands and proceeded to bring the free end of the towel down hard on the person’s back. He did it again and the towel landed lower this time. Again and again, all the way down to the toes. Every time the towel came down the body strung out on the slab twitched.

      ‘I might