Desert Rose (11 page)

A few minutes later, David found her crouched to one side of the front gate behind a thorny shrub and cautiously peering out at the abandoned side street.

"Come on," he whispered. "Door’s open."

With him in the lead, they quickly retraced her original route down the length of the interior garden wall. He pushed open the front door and stepped aside, allowing her to slip into the house ahead of him. She didn’t bother to ask how he’d managed to release the door’s lock. She didn’t care. He’d done it, and that was sufficient.

Emma only made it as far as the living room. Once there, she paused for a silent thank you to whatever deity had chosen to aid them. Yanking the burqa from her head and shrugging out of the abaya, she tossed aside the garments and wrapped her arms around herself to dispel the sudden chill suffusing her body.

David secured the deadbolt, taking the added precaution of shifting a bulky chest into position before the double front doors. Then, he inspected the entire two–bedroom dwelling to assure himself that all of the windows were covered and the rear door was locked. When he returned to the living room, he found Emma standing stock–still on an ornate rug, eyes closed and arms wrapped around her trembling body.

He moved forward, pausing less than a foot from her. He lowered the lighted candle cradled in a shallow bowl that he’d found in the kitchen onto a nearby coffee table. Then, he straightened and stepped even closer, drawing her forward and into his arms. He held her then, waiting while her respiration slowed and she regained her composure.

Finally, she heaved a ragged sigh and opened her eyes. "Sorry."

"Why?"

"I think the last three weeks just caught up with me."

Embarrassed, she lifted her head. She looked at him then—really looked at him. Her senses registered a weary smile, as well as the hard featured facial expression of a man who’d endured the rigors of nearly three months of captivity.

"One of your famous delayed reactions?" he asked as he stroked her back with his big hands. "I seem to remember a few of those happening during the last few weeks."

"No kidding." She shoved at the heavy fall of midnight black hair no longer restrained by the veil she’d been forced to wear.

He studied her for a long moment. "I was right about you. You’re beautiful."

"I’m a disaster… and filthy."

"Okay… a beautiful disaster who needs a bath, clean clothes, and some decent food."

She smiled faintly, her gaze steady as she returned his perusal. "That covers part of what I need."

He stilled. "What else do you need?"

"You… but I want to be clean first."

Her directness shouldn’t have surprised him, but his darkening eyes told a different tale—as did the tightening of his hands at her waist when he brought her against his aroused body.

She relaxed into him, curves molding to muscle. The hard length of his sex pressed against the cradle of her upper thighs. Looking up at him, she shifted even nearer as a shaken breath escaped her.

"I’m so hungry for you," he said, his voice a low erotic rumble.

She nodded, her eyes fixed on the hard lines of his face. An electrical current of desire, as well as something even more intense, arced between them. She felt the sweep of his searing gaze across her lips, the not so subtle dig of his fingers at her waist, and the stark evidence of his desire—for her. It was in that moment that she grasped the true depth of his hunger—for her. She grasped it for one very simple reason—it matched her own.

Expectation and anticipation accelerated her heartbeat. Reaching up, she smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead before she trailed her fingertips down the side of his strong jaw and then traced his lips with a single fingertip. David captured her hand, pressing her open palm to his lips. And a thousand fiery sensations spilled into her bloodstream.

"I need you, Emma."

"Soon," she promised, "because I need you, too." She lingered in his arms, her gaze riveted to his rugged face. The desire to be absorbed into his flesh and bones sang in her veins, but common sense prevailed. "First, though, I must bathe."

"First things first," he agreed.

He stepped back, reclaimed the small bowl that contained the lighted candle, and then clasped one of her hands. He led her into the kitchen, pausing before a well–stocked pantry.

Emma smiled. "Mary’s always ready to feed an army."

He gestured to the contents of the pantry. "Why don’t you get cleaned up while I put together some kind of a meal for us?"

"You deserve to go first," she reminded him.

He shook his head. "Ladies first. Now, get going. If you need anything, tap on the wall."

** ** **

Emma settled into a huge bathtub filled with fragrant hot water fifteen minutes later. At first, she simply soaked her battered body, savoring both the heat of the water and the scent of the lavender bath salts that Mary favored. Soon, though, she began to scrub the accumulated filth of three hellish weeks from her flesh. Next, she washed her waist–length hair twice, drained the tub, and then stood under the showerhead to rinse away the last of the soap and shampoo.

She wrapped her wet hair in a towel, using a second one to dry herself before she borrowed an ankle–length bathrobe Mary had left hanging on the back of the door. After brushing her teeth, she smoothed moisturizing lotion into her skin. Her thoughts then shifted to David and what he might need. She set out a stack of fresh towels, a plastic–wrapped toothbrush and tube of toothpaste, a disposable razor and manicure scissors, and a bar of unscented soap for him.

In Mary’s guest bedroom, she retrieved the extra–large, terrycloth bathrobe that she remembered from a previous visit. For David’s sake, she was glad Mary’s brother had left it hanging in the closet. She placed the folded robe atop the bathroom countertop. After starting a bath for him, she padded barefoot into the living room, feeling cleaner than she had in more weeks than she cared to count.

She found him standing with his back to her at the heavily draped front window. A platter piled high with all manner of finger food and canned fruit sat on the coffee table, along with additional bottles of water, napkins, plates, and utensils.

Emma snagged a banana, peeled it, and took a bite while David continued to scan the front gate and interior courtyard garden of Mary’s house through a narrow gap between the drape and window frame.

"Is anyone out there?" she finally asked.

He stiffened, his tension evidenced in the rigid set of his broad shoulders and the stiffness of his spine.

"It’s just me, David."

Exhaling a hard gust of air, he turned to face her.

"I didn’t mean to startle you…" she began.

He waved off her apology. His heated gaze raked over her with a masculine thoroughness that very nearly off–balanced Emma. She felt naked, despite being clothed from throat to ankles.

"My God…" He broke off, looking stunned and confused as he stared at her.

"What’s wrong?" she whispered.

"Nothing’s wrong. I just didn’t expect… I mean, you’re…" He paused a second time.

"I’m not sure what you mean." She felt unnerved, and she didn’t try to pretend otherwise.

"You’re…" Yet again, he seemed unable to complete the thought.

"I’m what, David?"

He heard the edge that had crept into her voice, and it seemed to shake something loose inside him. "Christ, I’m sorry. I knew you were beautiful, but you’re not just beautiful… you’re exquisite."

She relaxed and flashed a lopsided grin at him. "Thank you."

"I mean it, Emma." He frowned. "What haven’t you told me about yourself?"

She shrugged. Unwilling to meet his gaze, she popped the last bite of the banana into her mouth and set aside the skin. She finished chewing and swallowed before she answered his question. "Not too much. You really do know all of the important stuff."

"Not all of it, obviously. Talk," he ordered. "Now."

She sighed. "If you insist."

"I insist."

"There were a few other reasons I had to give up gymnastics," she conceded.

David broke in. "Let me guess… too tall and over the top curves in all the right places."

She nodded. "I started getting injured. My legs were too long, and I just couldn’t handle the equipment any longer. It’s not exactly designed for a giraffe."

"A gazelle," he corrected. "An elegant, long–limbed, sexy as all hell, knock–out of a gazelle." He gave her a questioning look. "You could model for Victoria Secret."

"No, that would be my cousin, Gabriela, although I
was
the first runner–up in the Miss World competition when I was eighteen. After all of that insanity finally ended, I enrolled in college and didn’t look back. That, Major Winslow, is my story, and I’m sticking to it."

"Holy fuck, woman!" The words burst out of him. He couldn’t stop them.

Emma laughed so hard, her knees almost buckled. When she could speak again, she said, "The tub’s probably half filled by now, so you need to get in there before we accidently flood the place. I highly recommend a good long soak. It’s very therapeutic. And while you’re taking care of you, I’m going to satisfy my craving for some decent food."

"Yes, ma’am." David still looked faintly stunned. "Anything else, ma’am?"

She grinned up at him as she sank down onto the sofa, reached for a plate, and began to fill it with much needed sustenance. "I thought Marines were trained to handle the unexpected."

** ** **

An hour later, David found Emma stretched out on the sofa. Her eyes were closed, her breathing slow and steady. He settled into the chair closest to her, still not quite able to wrap his mind around what he now knew about her. He held his breath when she stirred, her shift in position atop the cushions causing the robe she wore to part from her thighs to her toes.

Desire steamed through his veins as he indulged himself in a leisurely study of those shapely legs—legs that seemed to go on for frigging ever—legs that made him want to groan aloud his need to sheathe his sex deep within her body and feel them wrapped around his hips as they made love. He must have made a betraying sound, because when his gaze reached her face, he saw that her eyes were open and she was watching him with a curiously tender expression.

"Feel better?" she asked as she took in his startling transformation.

Gone was the grime of deprivation and captivity. Gone were the filthy flight suit and the steel–toed flight boots that he’d worn since being shot down. And gone was the heavy beard that had obscured his hard cheeks and stubborn chin.

Obviously naked beneath the towel fastened low on his hips, he literally took Emma’s breath away. She cared little that he hadn’t opted to use the robe she’d left on the bathroom counter for him. In fact, she was almost relieved that he hadn’t put it on.

Scrubbed clean and freshly shaved, he was a new man. A striking man, but not at all handsome. Definitely not handsome. That tame word would never in a million years be applied to David Winslow. He was big and powerfully constructed—so much so that her heart did a little tap–dance of pleasure. And as he shifted in his chair, the air in her lungs stopped cold. She realized that even his slightest movement reflected the lithe grace of a predator. And, my God, the man looked ready to prowl.

He remained silent, though, apparently not yet ready to answer her question. Instead, he seemed to have questions of his own to ask, questions that lurked in his eyes as he studied her. So, she waited him out and continued her study of him.

The strength of his character and his Montana origins showed in his steely jaw, direct gaze, and sensual lips. His uncompromising personality was apparent in the sturdiness of his starkly male body. Although bruised and likely scarred in a variety of places by the torture he’d endured during his captivity, the damage inflicted upon his flesh did nothing to diminish his appeal.

"I feel much better," he finally said.

"I like you without the beard."

He dipped that strong chin in acknowledgement, his expression remaining oddly neutral.

"What are you thinking, David?"

"That I want… I need… to take you to bed."

Warmth and desire swamped her. "I want you, too."

She sat up without further comment, swinging those impossibly long, impossibly spectacular legs of hers off the cushions. Her upward momentum dislodged the towel that had encased her damp hair. As it fell away, her nearly waist–length mane tumbled free like an unraveling bolt of obsidian silk past her shoulders and down her back.

Hunger lanced through him as David pushed up from his chair, took her extended hand, and drew her to her feet. "You’re sure?"

She nodded, captured by his incinerating gaze—a darkly territorial gaze that asserted both male prowess and his personal claim on her. "I’m very sure."

He raised his free hand, stroking the mass of unbound hair, his gliding fingers indulging in pure sensory appreciation. "It’s almost blue, it’s so black."

She shrugged. "Chalk it up to an excellent gene pool."

His hot gaze ran riot over her, his hand trembling as he withdrew it from the damp strands. "Excellent. Good word. Christ, if I’m dreaming don’t wake me up."

He gathered her up and into his arms in one fluid motion. As he cradled her against his broad chest, she looped her arms around his neck and remained silent as he carried her into the guest room. And with every step he took, she ached all the way down to her soul for this man.

He held her like precious cargo, and she felt the sluggish, simmering flow of the blood in her veins. She felt simultaneously weakened and empowered. She felt utterly seduced, just as he’d seduced her with his touch in the prison cellblock when all they’d been able to do was hold hands and dream of freedom. And she felt needy, but only for
his
touch—
his
passion—
his
hunger.

Once he lowered her to her feet beside the bed and they faced each other, she held his gaze. Without pretense or false modesty, Emma shrugged free of her robe and let it tumble to the floor. A hard gust of air burst out of him. As the raw sound faded, she freed the towel knotted at his hips. It, too, fell to the floor.