Valentine's Day. Nicola Marsh

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       EIGHT

      August

      There really weren’t enough showers cold enough or long enough to get the haunting, hot mirror scene out of Zander’s mind. It was all too easy to cop out when you were the boss, when you had staff to do things for you.

      Minions.

      He’d never felt the distinction so clearly until he had Casey ring Georgia up and let her know he wouldn’t be coming to belly-dancing classes with her any more. That she was OK to go to them solo. That he got what he needed that first night. It wasn’t hard to find an excuse. Salsa was on a Wednesday night. Belly dancing was on a Tuesday. He had network meetings until late on a Tuesday.

      Not so late that he couldn’t get across town to the dance studio, in fact, but it was too convenient an excuse to pass up. There was no way on this green earth that he was setting foot back in there while Georgia was around.

      He’d already been back to see the instructor, to get from her the interview he’d been too much of a coward to get from Georgia right after her first class had finished. It was only the fact that her borrowed car was parked virtually outside the door to the dance studio that made it even remotely OK that he’d just bolted on her. Left her there alone.

      What a class act.

      She hadn’t called him on it. Or emailed. Or even asked Casey what was up with her coward of a boss. And that said a lot about how she was feeling about his disappearing act. Defiant. Irritated.

      Possibly hurt.

      But getting hands-on with her was no better an idea now than it had been up at Hadrian’s Wall. And so walking out of there seemed like the most prudent action at the time. He’d spent a lot of time and energy avoiding emotional entanglements, focusing on his career; this was really no different. If spending time around Georgia was making it too hard to keep her at arm’s length, then there was really only one solution.

      Getting Casey to do his dirty work for him—well, there was no excuse for that. He’d just needed some space from the mirror scene before they headed off into the wilds of Turkey together.

      But that was only effective if he could exorcise the memory branded into his brain.

      And three hours in the air and three more in a car—no matter how luxurious—was a lot of nothing to try and fill with other thoughts.

      Another cowardly act. Getting Casey to shift his flights so that they weren’t travelling together. That bought him precious more hours to build up his reserves against Georgia. To get through the weekend in Turkey. Both of them had jobs to be back for come Monday morning so this was the most fleeting of Turkish experiences. But he’d re-routed through Istanbul whereas Georgia was touching down in Ankara. Again, precious hours for last-minute fortification.

      ‘Göreme.’

      His driver slowed on the limits of a village. At first glance it looked much like the extraordinary landscape they’d been driving through for some time: gorgeous, golden rock faces, enormous jutting spurs of sandstone. But as they got closer Zander started to notice the details. Square edges, dark windows, balconies, a layer-cake of dwellings carved into the rock face. They drove more fully into town and it looked much like any other, people milling around stone storefronts with brightly painted signs on them, cars angle-parked in front for the convenience of shoppers. But behind it—towering high behind it—a rock face filled with homes.

      And hotels. Like the one he was heading for.

      They pulled around a corner and the whole city unfolded before him. A mix of enormous stone monoliths surrounded by carved homes. And nearly a dozen bright colourful balloons drifting silently overhead. The sharp protrusions of the rocks contrasted with the square edges of the façades of the cave-houses and the bulbous curves of the hot-air balloons, which dropped insanely low to give their passengers a good look at one of Cappadocia’s underground cities.

      The whole thing was bathed in a golden, afternoon light.

      Zander wound his window down and breathed in the air—sweet, fresh and carrying a distinctive tang. Was it apples?

      He asked his driver.

      ‘Shisha,’ he said simply. The apple-flavoured tobacco smoked by the locals.

      The car stopped in front of a stone hotel that reflected the shapes of the entire city. Square edges of the block construction of the fascia of the hotel, the rolling curves of the darkened archways that led deep into the rock face, and the sharp, zigzagging stairways that led up the mountain face to the dwellings higher up. But the closer he looked, the more detail he saw.

      Intricate carved patterns around the doors and windows. Niches everywhere filled with bright intriguing ornaments, and potted colour spilling from every available surface.

      Clearly the Cappadocians loved their plants as much as Georgia did.

      Georgia.

      He looked up the length of the building, at some of the balconies carved into the rock face, as if she’d be standing there waiting for him. A beautiful smile on her face. Bouncing on her toes the way she did when she got excited.

      He forced the image away. That kind of thinking was barred, too.

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