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  “What’s wrong, Jeannetta?” He watched, aghast, as her glance shifted in a way that suggested she searched for a way to escape something. He rushed to her.

  “What’s wrong, honey?” His fingers on her arms absorbed her trembling, and he didn’t doubt that something had frightened her. He put an arm around her, drew her to his side and waited for her answer. None came.

  Minutes later, she exclaimed, “Oh, Mason, there’s a big mosque. Can we go in?”

  Relieved that the somber moment had passed, but worried that she hadn’t confided in him, he forced a smile. “I don’t see why not.” They walked toward the mosque, but two young boys stopped them.

  “You speak English, mister?” the more forward of the two asked Mason

  “Yeah. Why?” Eager smiles spread over the two young faces.

  “We practice our English. What you like? We show you.” Mason turned to ask Jeannetta if she would like the boys to give them a walking tour. She’d disappeared. His heart surged powerfully in his chest. Where had she gone? He raced into the mosque, smaller than it appeared from the outside, and searched behind every one of the large marble columns, but he neither saw nor heard anyone. Perhaps she had gone outside...but she would have passed him. Had those boys acted as decoys, distracting his attention while someone spirited her away? He dashed outside, where the two boys waited, spoiling his theory that they had helped someone kidnap Jeannetta. If he ever got her to Pilgrim, he’d take that soldier’s advice.

  If she went to the police, the plane would have left for Singapore long before the officers finished questioning him and filling out forms. He could go to the American Embassy, he reminded himself, but to what end?

  “You wait ’til the lady comes back, and then we take you tour? Okay?” one boy asked.

  He had to get a plan, and quick. “What’s your name?” he asked the talkative one.

  “At’ut. We do business? Yes? Very cheap. Three American dollars.” Mason sized up both boys as intelligent and resourceful. What choice did he have?

  “At’ut, did you see the woman who was with me when I met you?”

  “Sure.” The boy gave Mason as accurate a description of Jeannetta as any warm-blooded adult male might have done.

  “I can’t find her. I think she went in there,” he said, pointing to the mosque, “but she walked away and I’ve lost her. I’ll stand here until noon. Find her and bring her back here and I’ll give each of you twenty-five American dollars.” Both boys leaned toward him, as though making sure of what they’d heard, their eyes as round as saucers.

  “You wait here,” At’ut said. “We bring her back. You don’t lose the American dollars. Wait here.” They left at breakneck speed and, after loosening the collar of his damp shirt and wiping his neck with a handkerchief, Mason took a position against a post in the shadow of the mosque. Not an iota of breeze relieved the sweltering heat.

  He could stand the heat; he could take anything, except losing her. He had to look for her—but if he left there, what if she came back and panicked when she didn’t see him? He paced the cracked sidewalk, stumping his toe on the loose rumble. He couldn’t leave her fate in the hands of two Turkish urchins whom he might never see again, though there was some comfort in the fact that twenty-five dollars would buy nearly one hundred and seventy Turkish lira.

  He hated the feeling of helplessness that had begun to pervade him, a feeling he hadn’t had since his first year of internship, when his team had lost a patient whom he favored. What if he couldn’t find her? A burning sensation on his arms, neck and face sent him back to the shaded post beside the mosque. Suppose someone had abducted her. He had no intention of leaving Istanbul without her but, if he deserted the tour, he’d get sued for every cent he had and he could kiss Fenwick Travel Agency goodbye. He squinted at the blazing sun, bowed his head and closed his eyes. He hadn’t prayed for such a long time that he doubted he’d get a hearing.

  Chapter 4

  “You are looking for the door?” The little man bowed from the waist, the picture of courtesy. Jeannetta glanced around, hoping to see another human being. The man’s saintly persona could be a ruse, a trick, but she had despaired of finding her way out. Thick Turkish carpets in a multitude of bright designs covered the floor, the space relieved only by the dozens of silent marble columns scattered about. Each may have had significance for the worshippers, but they only gave her a feeling that she walked in circles. She sighted a paneled-off area and wondered whether it hid a door. The quick glimpse she’d intended to take while Mason talked with the boys had turned into half an hour.

  “If you wish to go out, I will show you,” the man repeated, though with less patience than previously.

  She didn’t know the customs, so she bowed her assent. Her rescuer led her to a door so heavy that she could never have opened it. Tentacles of fear streaked through her at the thought that she might be facing a fate worse than the loss of sight. The little man pulled at the door, and bright sunshine enveloped her. She smiled at him and stepped outside.

  She stared at her surroundings, looked back at the door through which she had just walked, at the shops across the narrow street. Where was she? She took a deep breath and decided to walk to her left. A dump heap. She retraced her steps and walked several blocks, but she saw neither a mosque, a broad avenue, nor, worst of all, any sight of Mason. Her short-sleeved cotton shirt clung to her body; she searched her bag for a tissue, but couldn’t find one, and had to use the tail of her long skirt to wipe away the perspiration that bathed her face. Hunger pangs irritated her stomach, but she didn’t dare stop for food. She had to find Mason.

  Hearing a buzz of traffic, she walked toward it, hoping to find the avenue where she’d left Mason at the entrance to the mosque. Every building that she passed seemed to house an open-front coffee house in which scores of men sat drinking coffee and watching her. Surely she didn’t defy custom by walking the street at noon, but she remembered that she hadn’t seen a woman. She would never forget the seas of dark eyes—some of them beautiful, but all of them disconcerting—that followed her the way the eyes in Van Gogh’s self-portrait follow the viewer. In spite of the blazing heat, she hugged her middle as she walked, as though to protect herself from the unknown, the unseen.

  The odor of raw lamb, pungent garlic and a strong, strange pine-like odor bruised her nostrils. She longed to escape it, to breathe a different air. Dank, decaying scents greeted her from an alley as she passed it, and she welcomed the all-pervading aroma of cinnamon, cloves and rose water that soon flowed from several bakeries. Gnawing hunger over her reticence, and she turned into the next bakery. She had discovered that bowing and smiling invited friendship if you didn’t have language to do the work for you. The old man looked up from his mound of dough, pointed to a high stool and disappeared into the rear of the store. She didn’t care where he’d gone or why; she welcomed the respite from the scorching sun and relief for her tired feet. He soon returned with a young boy, about eight or nine, she guessed.

  “How can we help you, lady?” the boy asked her with a broad smile. After hearing that she was hungry and lost, he went in the back and a woman shrouded in black returned with him. Jeannetta quickly explained that she wanted to buy something to eat and drink and to get instructions back to the mosque. A rapid translation sent the woman scurrying away, only to return with three soft drinks and assorted breads, cakes and baklava. The mosque, the boy happily informed her, was right around the corner. Replenished, rested and relieved, she struck out for the mosque, carrying a sack of pastries that the woman had handed her. Around the corner stood the great Hagia Sophia, a fifth-century architectural miracle that she recognized from travel posters. She brushed away the tears, raised her head and walked on. She tried to remain calm, to think, but the strange noises and peculiar and often unpleasant smells disconcerted her. She had to take comfort in knowing that he w
ouldn’t leave her alone in Istanbul, that he’d find her, that he cared enough to search the city for her. Lord, let her see him before dark.

  Mason looked at his watch for the nth time. Four o’clock, and not a word from the two boys. His feet had covered every inch of the pavement within a block of the mosque, because he hadn’t been able to stand still. The pangs of hunger had long since become a painful ache, but he refused to leave the place long enough to eat. In another thirty minutes, he’d have to go to the United States Embassy and report her missing; he’d also have to phone Josh and tell him to take the tour on without him.

  * * *

  “Hey, mister! Hey, mister!” Mason whirled around and ran to meet the exuberant youth.

  “You come. We find her.” He grabbed the boy by the collar of his jacket and tugged him upward, nearly to eye level.

  “Where is she? Where is your friend? You tell me something right here.” He had to calm himself; the boy bore no responsibility for his state of near madness.

  “She with my friend in Ataturk Square. I ask her to come with me, but she refuse. So my friend stay and I come. You still have American dollars?”

  Mason nodded. “Let’s go. If you’re not telling me the truth, I’ll take you to the police.” The boy grinned, unconcerned about the threat.

  “Police my uncle. You come now.” Mason had to restrain the anxious youth, who couldn’t wait for his prized American dollars; he had barely enough energy to walk, to say nothing of running. He wondered that he hadn’t suffered sunstroke; poor hydration had stopped his profuse perspiring and his stomach cramped. Renewed strength flowed through him, however, at the thought that he’d soon see her, verify with his eyes that nothing untoward had happened to her. They reached the edge of the square and stopped for the traffic. He had to swallow hard to stave off the sorrows that welled up in him. Where was she?

  “Come. Over there,” At’ut urged. Mason searched the distance until his gaze fell on the blob of yellow at the edge of the monument. His heart surged in his chest and he had to run.

  “No. Wait. Come back, mister. The traffic, she kill you.” Buses loaded with passengers lumbered by; automobiles raced past him; he dodged motorcycles, bicycles, vans and a hearse. But none of them slowed his pace. He had to get to her, touch her, feel her, know for himself that nothing had harmed her. Horns blared, words that must have been curses fell against his deaf ears; a stunned traffic officer whirled around as Mason whizzed past.

  He saw the smile break out on her face as she glimpsed him, jumped up and started toward him, and he silently thanked the boy for yanking her back, away from the rushing traffic. He jumped the curb and swept her trembling body into his arms. The hell with custom. He didn’t give a damn if the Turks didn’t embrace publicly. Her lips parted in a joyous greeting, and he filled her with himself, emptying his relief, longing, need, hunger for her and, yes, fear, into his powerful and explosive kiss. He ignored the tugging at his shirt.

  “I’ve never been so scared in my life, not even when... I was on my way out of my mind when At’ut came back for me. Don’t you ever do this to me again.” His lips dried the tears that streamed down her cheeks.

  “Say, mister, what about the American dollars?” He reached into his pocket and paid them each the twenty-five dollars he’d promised them.

  “Thanks. You two were great.” Joyous laughter erupted from them as they counted the money.

  “When you lose her again,” At’ut the entrepreneur of the two, assured him, “you come to mosque. We find her again, quick like today.” He thanked the boys and told them goodbye.

  “Where were you?”

  She recounted her adventures, adding, “About an hour ago, I decided to get a taxi to the airport, thinking maybe you’d gone there, but the cabs didn’t stop. There must be a thousand mosques in this city, and I’m sure I’ve seen most of them today. Oh, Mason, if you think you were scared—I’ve been terrified that I’d miss the plane, never get back home, never see you again.” Her slender body moved closer, and a sense of well-being pervaded him.

  “I would have let the tour go on without me, Jeannetta. There’s no way I’d have left you here.” He kissed each of her eyelids.

  “Good Lord, Mason, we’re the local attraction.”

  He looked over his shoulder and saw that the traffic had stopped and that the passengers leaned from automobiles to watch them. He remembered that kiss and grinned; it had been one hot one, and he hoped they had all enjoyed it half as much as he did.

  * * *

  “If it wasn’t so late and I wasn’t starved, I’d suggest you show me where you were today. I still haven’t had a chance to visit old Istanbul. There’s where you find the centuries-old mosques, quaint customs, ancient bazaars, narrow streets and crumbling old buildings—the flavor of Turkey that tourists hope to see. I’m told that many of the inhabitants still cling to the old way of doing things. Too bad you were so concerned about finding your way that you couldn’t enjoy the experience.” Saliva accumulated in his mouth as he looked down at the pastry she took from a brown paper sack. “I’m so hungry, I think I’ve forgotten how to eat,” he told her when she handed it to him. “I don’t know where you got this, but let me tell you, I’m glad to see it.” She gave him the bag.

  Mason noticed a taxi driver among their audience and negotiated a ride to the airport.

  “How do you feel?” he asked Jeannetta when she sagged against him in the cab.

  “Stupid. It has just dawned on me that the nice little man who showed me how to get out of the mosque knew I’d get lost, but he didn’t care. I had no business in that male sanctuary, or at least not in the place where he found me. What a day!”

  “Women use a separate entrance, and you went in the main door.” He settled back in the hot, bedraggled car, slid his right arm around her shoulder and his left hand into the bag of pastries. “In other words, if you want to live with Vikings, learn how the Vikings live.”

  * * *

  She looked down at his long legs, close to but not touching her, as they sat in the Singapore Airlines business-class lounge. His head lay against the back of the seat, his eyelids covered his eyes and his arms lay folded against his broad chest. She knew he needed those moments alone, to regroup after what must have been an emotionally gruelling day, so she used the time to record her experiences in Istanbul on her cassette.

  “I was scared,” she said, unable to control the tremors that laced her speech and the unsteadiness of the hand in which she held the recorder. “More scared than I’ve ever been in my life. It was worse than when they told me...” Startled at what she’d almost said, she glanced over to see his gaze on her, switched off the machine and forced her attention to several of her fellow passengers. She could feel him scrutinize her, but she refused to acknowledge his pulsing hot vibes that stimulated every centimeter of her body, and she shifted her gaze everywhere but to his face. He had questions that she didn’t dare answer. After a time, she closed her eyes and was soon deep in thought. Because his refusal to Dr. Farmer had been emphatic, she had procrastinated about asking his help, hadn’t gotten the courage to open the subject for fear of hearing that “no” herself, that sentence to darkness. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, hoping to distract him from whatever thoughts he might have about what he’d heard her dictate into the recorder.

  His attention was focused on her.

  “Didn’t you know I’d find you?” he asked. “That I wouldn’t leave you behind? Haven’t you accepted that I’m going to take care of you, even if you test me to my limits? Even if you insist on being late, getting lost, attracting dangerous men and I don’t know what else?”

  She wished she knew whether he’d just said he cared for her, or that he always took care of his tour guests. His dispassionate face told her nothing.

  A sigh escaped her. “Thanks. I knew you�
�d try to find me, but I didn’t know how you’d succeed without a clue. Of course, I hadn’t reckoned on your psychic powers.”

  He shrugged. “‘Psychic powers’? I can’t remember the last time I prayed, before today.” He flexed his left leg, stood and held out his hand to her.

  “I’ve got to check-in my gang, the flight’s boarding. Come with me?” he asked, smiling that warm, intimate smile that she loved.

  “Oh, I don’t want to get in the way, I’ll get in line.”

  At his incredulous stare, she rose without hesitation.

  “If you think I’m letting you out of my sight before you get on that plane, lady, you’d better think again. Not after what I went through today, I’m not.”

  He grinned—to soften his words, she thought. She tried not to stare at him, to ignore the way in which his mesmeric eyes gleamed whenever he smiled.

  “Besides,” he went on, “is being with me so unpleasant?”

  She wrinkled her nose at him, aware that the day’s adventure had augmented their bonds, but she couldn’t resist a chiding remark.

  “If you thought so, you wouldn’t ask the question.” But as she stood with him beside the desk while he checked-in the tour passengers, she wondered. Tall. Handsome. Powerfully built. Charismatic. Capable. Intelligent. Could such a man feel the need for praise? She shook her head. Maybe her view of him differed from his own.

  Mason led her to her seat and stored her carry-on luggage in the baggage compartment. After all his guests had found their seats, he took the aisle seat beside her. Jeannetta couldn’t decide whether his having changed her seat should annoy her. She had originally been assigned 6-D, but he’d changed it to 11-F.