Whispering, page 1
An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication
www.ellorascave.com
Whispering
ISBN 9781419920813
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.
Whispering Copyright © 2009 Nathalie Gray
Edited by Mary Moran.
Cover art by Syneca.
Electronic book Publication January 2009
The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.
With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.
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This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the authors’ imagination and used fictitiously.
Whispering
Nathalie Gray
Trademarks Acknowledgement
The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of the following wordmarks mentioned in this work of fiction:
BMW: Bayerische Motoren Werke Aktiengesellschaft
Bobby pin: Monroe Hair Care LLC Ltd.
Canadiens: Montreal’s National Hockey League, Club de Hockey Canadien, Inc.
Cavalli: Roberto Cavalli, IGA B.V. Corporation
eBay: eBay Inc.
Fabergé: Victor Mayer GmbH & Co. KG, House of Fabergé Ltd.
Google: Google Inc.
Ghostbusters: Columbia Pictures Industries, Inc.
James Bond: character, Danjaq, LLC Ltd.
Mad Max: Time Warner Entertainment Company Ltd.
Mercedes: Daimler-Benz Aktiengesellschaft Corporation
Mountain Dew: Pepsico Inc.
Opel GT: Opel Eisenach GmbH Ltd.
Smart: Smart GmbH Ltd., Mercedes–Benz, Daimler AG Corp.
The Mummy: Universal City Studios LLLP Ltd.
The Sixth Sense: Barry Mendel Productions, Inc.
Tim Hortons: T.H.D. Donut, Inc.
Windows: Microsoft Corporation
Prologue
Established more than twelve years ago, Gentlemen Inc. is a global male escort agency that caters exclusively to a female clientele, offering a wide range of services at home and worldwide. At Gentlemen Inc., we understand some needs transcend the regular fare offered elsewhere, be it for a chic affair or a show of force.
Wish to make a splash at a corporate or social event?
Need a bodyguard on your travels?
Require someone to show a belligerent ex-flame the door?
All our escorts are multilingual, pleasing to the eye, cognizant in proper etiquette from various regions of the globe and well versed in martial arts or other close protection protocols.
Give us a call. We at Gentlemen Inc. look forward to meeting your every need.
Chapter One
“There is beautiful vulnerability with the back of a woman’s neck,” Kivanç murmured in the woman’s ear as he poured wine into her glass. Goose bumps pebbled the skin of her forearm. “How the fine hairs converge to the spine and the base of her skull. It is like a sensual consent, a subtle submission. Nothing, in my opinion, is more arousing than a woman denuding her nape for a man’s fingers to caress, his lips to taste.” He dabbed the bottle mouth with the linen serviette as he straightened.
“Ever the charmer, Kivanç,” Darlene said. Her round cheeks blushed as she looked over the restaurant table at her husband, who smiled and shook his head. “I think we’ll kidnap you and take you home when we go back to Canada.”
Kivanç grinned, poured wine the color of liquid rubies in the husband’s glass. “What can I say? I love women.”
“And women love you,” her husband replied. His wide shoulders shook when he laughed. Canada’s consul to Turkey, Andrew Moss looked exactly how Kivanç would expect from a man of that nation—hardy and genial.
By the corner of his eye, Kivanç noticed one of his employees trying to gain his attention with not-so-subtle hand gestures. Smiling at his favorite patrons, Kivanç bowed slightly then joined Nihal as she stood and nervously wrung her hands.
“I’m sorry to disturb you, Kivanç,” she said under her breath. “But they demand to see the manager.”
Kivanç knew the type. “I will take care of it. Thank you.”
Obviously relieved, Nihal smiled then rushed away to greet more patrons standing at the door. He had opened The Marmara only a couple of years before and already had attained the prized title of Best Table in Istanbul. Hard work always paid off in the end. Smiling, Kivanç made his way to two couples who sat at the table nearest to the rooftop terrace. His own design. The restaurant occupied the last floor of a grand old building. He had commissioned architects and designers to turn the old bank into an oasis of gourmet dining amidst warm, earthy tones with exposed beams and mosaic walls that opened onto a large terrace. He had potted plum trees set all around the edge of the rooftop, their branches strewn with tiny amber lights. Cream-colored draperies, matching the restaurant linen, festooned the massive wooden kiosk a skilled artisan and his sons had built for him. As if one ate outside under the stars. Plus, the view of Istanbul was the best in town. His own little Garden of Eden.
“Ladies,” he said, smiling at the two women and keeping his gaze on them alone. He usually ignored men if they were accompanied. “How may I assist you?”
“The lamb,” one of them said, her dyed red hair reflecting the closest oil lamp. He could not place her accent other than northern Europe. “It is underdone.”
Kivanç did not tell her his chef would cry that the meat on her plate, when cooked properly, should be pink and not burned to a crisp. Instead, he acknowledged her request with a nod. “Of course, my apologies.” He bent a bit closer to her, his gaze still on hers, and gently leaned on the corner of the table with his fingers. “It would be my delight to rectify this situation. What would please you?”
She blushed, glanced at one of the men sitting diagonally from her. Kivanç would not be able to recognize him in fifteen minutes. “Well, erm, maybe cook it a bit more?”
“I will have my chef prepare another plate for you. Cooked to your specifications. And I notice that you have no wine. Could I offer you one of my personal best? On the house.”
He left them nodding and smiling and with one last look at the woman who preferred her meat charred, strode across the kitchen, calling requests. Chef must have been busy because he did not rail against the vile populace who knew nothing of his culinary genius and just set to the task. Three levels down, past his own apartment underneath the restaurant and into the wine cellar—an old stone vault—he found the bottle he knew would impress and please his patrons. On his way back up, his cell phone’s text message alarm bleeped. He stopped to check it…and almost dropped the bottle on the steps when he saw the sender’s name.
“Adriano,” he murmured, flicking the cell phone on with his thumbnail.
A few years ago and through a mutual acquaintance, an Italian man had contacted him with a most outlandish offer—freelance as an escort to women. More than mere escort in fact, but play roles. Companion, accessory and even bodyguard. At first, Kivanç had wanted nothing to do with any of the crazy enterprise. But Adriano had been persistent and in the end, with the help of several case files stripped of any identifiers, Kivanç had come to view the man’s agency as filling a genuine need. He had joined Gentlemen Inc., fulfilled his first task, given the golden card to his happy “client” and never looked back. To date, with seventeen cases, he surmised he was Adriano’s second or third most prolific member. He had also come to view all women as Ladies, a trait shared with his shadowy employer, who always referred to them with a capital L, in every instance of the word.
Kivanç set the bottle on the step and accessed his message.
From: Adriano
To: Kivanç
Subject: Lady Jillian Moss
Buongiorno, Kivanç,
The Canadian consulate will host a gala in honor of its national day tomorrow 1 July…
Kivanç laughed out loud. Such coincidences never happened. The consul and his wife presently sat a stone’s throw away. Was Adriano in town? Indeed sitting here at The Marmara? He looked up when one of his employees poked his head in the darkened stairway, drawn no doubt by the sound of laughter, noticed Kivanç on the phone and offered an apologetic smile. He mouthed the word “Sorry” as he withdrew.
Adriano had access to very, very fresh information. Which could have been worrying had he not always acted in the most circumspect and courteous way. Kivanç read on.
The consul’s youngest sister Lady Jillian is due to land in Istanbul sometime tomorrow morning. She will need a companion for the gala. As usual, any of her passions should be met with enthusiasm and support, no matter how peculiar they may seem. From what I have gathered, she is quite the adven
Kivanç could not remember a single time where Adriano had exhorted him to meet a Lady’s “passions”. Unless something had become lost in translation, which was plausible since they corresponded in English with neither of them being a native speaker.
If you accept the task, I will e-mail you a file with the pertinent information on the Lady and will make the appropriate deposit once you contact me with your decision.
Arrivederci.
AdL
Kivanç replied to his secretive employer, half expecting to hear a cell phone going off in the dining room. His reply was brief.
From: Kivanç
To: Adriano
Re: Subject: Lady Jillian Moss
Buongiorno, Adriano,
I look forward to meeting Lady Jillian. As per our initial agreement, please make the deposit to the account on file. Thank you.
Now all he had to do was secure an invitation to the gala. And he knew just the two persons to ask.
* * * * *
“I like your shirt.” The flight attendant smiled.
Jill pulled on the edge of her turquoise T-shirt, looked down at the black-and-white message that read If you can read this, you’re in my roundhouse kick range. She grinned. “Yeah, a woman can never be too safe.”
“Have a pleasant stay in Turkey,” the agent replied, already on to the next passenger.
“Oh, I will.”
She’d come to Turkey to take a break, hang out with her brother and sister-in-law. Take a breather. Not necessarily from her translation work, which was most excellent and paid well. It was from her extracurricular activities that she needed a break.
Jill followed the throngs of passengers through the accordion tunnel, maneuvered through a particularly thick cluster of young, boisterous travelers—a sports team maybe? After clearing customs and bypassing the luggage carousel—she always traveled light, one backpack presently on her shoulder and that was it—she entered the arrival terminal and scanned the expectant faces for one she knew. Andy had said he’d be there himself if he could, or would send the chauffeur.
“Jill!”
She turned at the excited voice of her sister-in-law, who was brandishing flowers, balloons, a purse and cell phone. Multitasking was an art form with Darlene.
“Hey! It’s good to see you!”
Jill dropped the backpack and opened her arms a split second before a vortex of nylon ribbons, plastic wrapping paper and hard leather purse corners slammed into her. Darlene was many things. Subtle she was not. A perfect fit in the family of intrepid and opinionated Moss women. Her mom, sisters and she had loved Darlene on sight when Andy brought her home fifteen years before.
With a grin bright enough to power a nuclear plant, Darlene relinquished flowers and balloons. “Did you have a good flight? Here, let me help with that.” She grabbed the backpack strap. “Is that all you have?”
“That’s it. And yeah, I had good flights, plural, all three of them.”
“What?”
“Got delayed in Toronto then in Frankfurt. Did you know folks can smoke almost right off the airplane there? Man, it reeked. Then I was told that flight had been rerouted through Munich instead.”
“Oh my God!” Darlene shook her head. “Europe and smoking. It’s getting better now.”
Two abreast, they cleaved a path through the crowd and dodged runaway luggage buggies. Darlene reached the exit doors’ rubber mat first. The glass panels slid into the walls. “Did you get my text?”
“No, why?”
“Damn. I was sure I’d get you before you left. There’s a function tonight for Canada Day. A gala.”
Jill groaned but gave her sister-in-law a big grin when she turned, beaming.
“All kinds of gowns, Jill, very exciting. Lots of shiny. And the men…mmm. And can you spell sequins!”
“I’d rather not,” Jill replied, laughing.
As translator for the Canadian government, she could spell sequins and its French equivalent paillettes. But the thought of a gala… Ugh. So unlike her regular life at home. She loved traveling and meeting new people, visiting ancient sites. One of her—many—goals was to swim in all five of the world’s oceans. Or at least dip a foot.
“I’ll lend you something.” Darlene waved to a pair of men waiting by a black sedan with tinted windows. One wore a military uniform.
“Not a dress!”
They shared a laugh. “Dress pants and a nice top?”
“Perfect.”
“Hi there, thanks,” Jill said to the soldier who popped the trunk for her. Smiling, he took her backpack, looked around for the rest.
“That’s it?”
“That’s it.”
As the women sat in the back, both men took the front seats with the one in regular clothes driving. Smoothly, he pulled out of the terminal parking, stopped at a booth to show some sort of ID. The man in the booth languidly waved them by. Despite the AC blasting out the vents, Jill still felt the oppressive heat.
While Darlene gave her a full report of the last three days—they called each other often—Jill looked out the window to take in as much as she could of this fabled city. She’d read about it, watched movies filmed on location, but any kind of rendition paled compared to the original thing. A gem. A true gem. Modernism and history battled for real estate. In one city block, she saw shiny Mercedes–Benzes, a pickup held together by willpower alone, more mopeds than in her entire life and even a donkey lugging some type of leaves. Mosques, bridges, markets, churches, trams, shops, street vendors. Buildings flashed by, some of them old, others older. Rubbing elbows with Ottoman architecture were glass and steel banks and insurance companies’ headquarters that stabbed upward into the blue Turkish sky. There was energy in Istanbul. Energy that bordered on frenzy. She loved it!
They finally pulled into a narrow street bordered with huge trees. White stately façades peeked from behind branches and tall wrought iron fences. Turkish security guards—whoa, talk about tight uniforms…not that she minded—moved temporary blockades aside. The driver skillfully navigated the S-shaped entry while more guards, this time Canadian military police, made room for the car to pass into a low arch. Inside the compound proper, the driver parked under a carport that could easily fit a fleet of school buses.
“Are you hungry?” Darlene asked. The question pulled Jill out of admiring the way pants fit those soldiers’ legs. Nice.
“Nah, later maybe. I’m jetlagged like it’s not funny.”
“I’ll show you to your room then. Andy’s in a meeting for tonight.”
“Oh yeah, the gala.” Fun. Not.
Darlene had a grin on her that instantly put Jill on full smell-o-fish alert. “What?”
“Nothing.” She shouldered the backpack the driver had just given her. Let Jill take care of the welcome accessories.
Jill overtook her before Darlene could use the doorway as an escape route. “No, really. What?”
“What? I told you, nothing. There’s just a formal gala. That’s all.”
Jill groaned. “What’s his name?”
Darlene’s grin widened. “Damn. You’re good.”
“So ‘Damn’ is his name?”
“Kivanç. Kivanç Demir. Andy figured you’d like company so he paired you with Kivanç.” Darlene said the first name “Kee-vahnsh” with a sigh.
“That good?”
“You know that guy in the movie The Mummy? The Egyptian guy with the tattoos on his face? Almost like that, but no mustache or beard, and that accent… Plus, he’s very, very nice. He’ll meet us at the party.”
Jill rolled her eyes. It wouldn’t be the first time Darlene and Andy conspired to find her a companion, short- or long-term. She enjoyed uncomplicated sex with clean, nice men, not long-term relationships, but if he was that handsome plus nice, maybe the gala wouldn’t be such a drag after all.
“Okay, I’ll play nice. But I’m telling you, Andy’s getting an earful when he gets here.”
“That so?”
