Wedding Party Collection: Don't Tell The Bride. Kelly Hunter

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      She rolled over, careful not to lie on the lump on her head, and there was Trig, next to her on the bed, faint shadows beneath his eyes and those long girly lashes. He looked younger in sleep and his body was even bigger up close.

      He was still the most beautiful man she’d ever seen.

      The urge to touch him became unbearable and she scooted closer and slid her hand across his chest. She’d have plastered herself against the rest of him only he’d slept on top of the covers rather than between them. Five more minutes, maybe ten, and the throbbing would stop and maybe she’d be able to do something about waking him in ways a man on his honeymoon might want to be woken, but for now just resting her cheek on his shoulder would do.

      And then he rolled towards her and the covers got shoved to the bottom of the bed as he gathered her close and wrapped his arms around her. Target acquired, mission accomplished, and with the faintest rumbling sigh he slid straight back into sleep.

      Five more minutes, she thought as she burrowed into his warmth. Five more minutes.

      Or maybe an hour.

      * * *

      Trig woke slowly, with Lena wrapped around him like a limpet and strands of silky black hair tickling his jaw. She stirred as soon as he shifted, and snuggled in closer even as he tried to draw away.

      ‘Lena—’ Somehow, one of his hands had made its way to her waist. The other one had journeyed a little lower. Neither hand was in any hurry to let go. ‘Lena, I need to get up.’

      ‘No, you don’t.’

      ‘I really do.’ He pressed a brief kiss to her shoulder and then peeled himself out of there, one reluctant limb at a time. ‘What do you want for breakfast?’

      ‘You.’

      She still had her eyes closed. She’d rolled over into his warm spot, tucked her arms beneath his pillow and probably wasn’t awake enough to know what she was saying.

      ‘And some of that yoghurt you got me yesterday. And the tea,’ she mumbled into the pillow.

      ‘So you do remember.’

      ‘It was good tea.’

      ‘About the man and wife thing...’

      ‘I know,’ she murmured. ‘Who wants a wife who gets beat up on the first day of their honeymoon? I’m a bad wife. Already. But I will make it up to you. Promise. Just as soon as I get up and go shopping.’

      So much for Lena waking up this morning with her memories intact. ‘I really think you should rest,’ he said. And he’d book those flights. ‘Shopping can wait.’

      ‘Wrong.’ She rolled onto her back and fixed him with a sleepy gaze. ‘Have you seen the clothes in my suitcase? No. And you’re not going to. They’re funeral clothes. I brought the wrong suitcase.’

      ‘You have a funeral suitcase?’

      ‘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 СКАЧАТЬ