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       SEVEN

      Tuesday morning broke with the sound of the dawn prayer. Istanbul, thought Lena. I’m in Istanbul with its mosques and its rich cultural history and its slick market thieves. Her head throbbed when she moved it ever so slightly—time for more painkillers. There they were on the bedside table with a glass of water beside them, two of them, ready to go.

      She eased up onto her elbow and reached for them with her spare hand, and then reached for the water to wash them down with. Give it five or ten minutes and the throbbing would stop and the fog would take over, fog being preferable to pain on most occasions, both of them preferable to being dead.

      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 СКАЧАТЬ