Desert Rose (18 page)

"Real?" she said, repeating that one word.

"Yes, Emma, real. Real enough to be a part of my life. Real enough to endure living life as a virtual gypsy."

"I can’t believe that you’re questioning my feelings for you." She asked, "How can you doubt me this way? You know me better than anyone, including my own family."

"I have to question your emotions because there’s too much at stake here. How do you think you’ll react if you’re uprooted every two or three years? Is your idea of love strong enough to get you through weeks, maybe even months, of being by yourself when I’m deployed?" When she opened her mouth to speak, he waved her to silence. "Are your feelings real enough for you to be separated for long periods of time from your family and friends? Can you find a way to maintain your commitment to Child Feed and still be a part of my life? What would you do if you had to face a pregnancy alone? Can you handle sharing your life with a man who could go to war tomorrow?"

He paused. When she said nothing, he reminded her, "My life is very real, Emma. I’ve already had one wife who couldn’t hack the reality of it, and I sure as hell don’t want another one. Surely you can see that we both need time to be certain that our feelings for each other are strong enough to withstand the pressures of my career."

She stiffened, humiliated that he could reduce the emotions they’d shared to simple happenstance and hurt that he would underestimate her ability to make a commitment to him in spite of the demands of his career.

"What I see is that you obviously feel trapped," she said, her tone level despite her chaotic emotions. "There’s no need. I love you, David. I probably always will, but I don’t intend to pressure you, nor will I crawl or beg in order to demonstrate the sincerity of my emotions. Another man in my life thought I should behave that way, and he was very disappointed when I didn’t. You will be, too, if that’s what you expect of me right now or in the future. And just so we’re clear on this entire situation, my career is just as demanding and just as important as yours is, and I can’t help wondering if you could hack it as my husband."

"That’s my point. I don’t expect anything of you. I haven’t the right."

"I gave you the right," she said, "the first time we made love, and every other time since then. Do you think I gave my body and my heart to you out of idle curiosity about your skill as a lover? Not my style, Major. Never has been, never will be. And hasn’t it even occurred to you yet that I would never have been intimate with you if I wasn’t deeply in love with you?"

As if he were talking to himself, David murmured, "I can’t and won’t be swayed by anything you say or by the pain I’m causing you." Then he stubbornly shook his head and crossed the room. With his hand resting on the doorknob, he looked back at her. "You and I cannot build a life together on the basis of a negative experience. It won’t work. We’re both smart enough to know how uncertain emotions can be, even in the most ideal of situations. And that cellblock sure as hell wasn’t ideal."

She stared at him, shock and fury comingling within her heart. "I don’t believe you’re doing this to us."

David gripped the doorknob until his knuckles whitened. "One of us must think clearly. Your feelings for me are the result of a life–and–death crisis. At the very least, you deserve the time to come to terms with being imprisoned and the emotional bond we forged in that cellblock. There’s nothing even remotely normal about what we just went through, so how can you possibly think your feelings are normal?"

"You’re making a terrible mistake," she insisted. "A mistake you might not be able to repair."

"It’s a risk I have to take, for both our sakes. I owe you time, Emma. Time to understand what you really feel—about yourself, about me, and about us, if there is an
us
. I intend to give you that time, whether or not you want it. I also owe myself time, because I don’t want either one of us to wind up as an emotional casualty."

"Is this your idea of being honorable, Major Winslow?"

He flinched, his hazel eyes filled with icy shards of green and brown. "Yes, it is."

"It doesn’t matter that I love you?"

"Of course, love matters," he replied.

"But not my love for you?"

"Damn it, Emma, your love matters. It matters so much to me that I won’t risk damaging it or you."

Emma knew David well enough to realize that he wouldn’t bend. He obviously believed what he was saying, so she stopped trying to persuade him of the depth of her love for him. She also understood rejection. She’d experienced it once before, but she couldn’t recall ever feeling totally disabled in its aftermath.

Slipping out of her hospital bed, Emma smoothed her robe into place and tightened the tie belt at her waist. She lifted her chin as she looked at David. Whatever empathy she felt for him only minutes ago disappeared. She consciously buried it beneath the wreckage of their relationship before she said in as steady a voice as she could manage, "This conversation is over. Have a nice life, Major Winslow."

Emma jerked in surprise when she heard a crisp, oddly patterned knock at the door.
Let it be Sam,
she prayed.
Please, God, let it be Sam.

David frowned. His eyes swept over her one final time before he jerked open the door. A tall, dark–haired, and meticulously groomed man pushing forty stood in the hallway. He wore a three–piece charcoal–gray suit that shouted Armani, and he carried an extravagant bouquet of fragrant roses. Grinning widely when he spotted Emma, he stepped into the room.

"Sam…" She took a step forward, ready to hurl herself into his arms—something she hadn’t done since childhood.

"Be well, babe," David said quietly.

Emma went parchment pale. "Don’t ever call me that again."

David’s jaw hardened. After nodding at Emma’s visitor, who watched the byplay between the two of them with frank interest, he exited the room, spine stiff, hands clenched at his sides, and emotion blurring his vision.

"Hey there, baby sister, who’s your tough–looking friend?" Sam Hamilton asked after he closed the door.

Emma blinked back the tears stinging her eyes. "He’s not a friend. He was, however, in the cell next to mine. We escaped together."

"Marine Corps Major David Winslow, I take it. The media people are chafing at the bit to get at him."

"Well, they’re out of luck. He leaves for D.C. this morning."

"He’s big news. Bona fide hero material, from what I hear. They’ll want a piece of you, too, but you don’t look up to a press conference." Sam strode across the room and placed the bouquet of roses on the nightstand. "Winslow may not be your friend, but he obviously cares about you."

Emma visibly flinched. Then, she squared her shoulders. "You’re wrong, Sam. You couldn’t be more wrong. I may love him, but he doesn’t love me enough to trust my feelings for him. He thinks I’m suffering from some bizarre form of Stockholm syndrome."

Sam flashed a sympathetic glance in her direction and didn’t try to change her mind. Pulling her into his arms, he hugged her. "You gonna be okay?"

She trembled as she held tightly to him. Resting her forehead against his chest, she sighed. "Physically, I’m fine. Emotionally, I’m a total train wreck, and I’m not sure how to clean up the mess I’ve just made of my life."

"How about a good meal and then some first class shopping in Paris? Mom said you’d need lots of great food and a new wardrobe once the doctors declared you fit to travel."

She nodded as she moved out of his embrace, slipped across the room to stand before the window, and idly fingered the slats of the blind.

Sam Hamilton frowned. "Emmaline?"

A tear slid down her cheek, then another, but she responded to the brotherly worry in his voice when she turned to face him. "Get me out of here, Sam. I need to feel safe again."
And loved,
she thought, her heart so hollow, it hurt with every beat.
I need to feel loved. If not by David, then by my family.

He nodded. "I left a small bag for you at the nurse’s station. I’ll go get it. Once you shower and dress, we’re out of here. Paris first so you can shop and rest up for a few days at my place… Mom’s orders, by the way… and then a flight home to San Diego. Sound like a plan, baby sister?"

"Yes," she whispered. "I’ll shower now. I’ll need those clothes in ten minutes."

"Emmaline, if you don’t snap out of this depression fairly soon, I’m going to insist that you see Dr. Mercer. Perhaps he can do for you what the rest of us have failed to do."

Emma gripped the telephone until her knuckles turned white. She knew her mother’s concern was legitimate. She’d been wandering around like a lost puppy since returning to Southern California six weeks earlier.

Her parents were worried sick about her, her sister kept threatening to deck the first Marine Corps officer who crossed her path, and her brother called at least every other day from Paris to check up on her.

"For the record, Mom, no one’s failed me, and I’m not depressed. Just kind of sad."

"Anger’s the next stage, and you’re darn close," Mrs. Hamilton cautioned. "So prepare yourself for it, darling."

"You know me too well, but quit worrying. I’ll bounce back. I always do."

"As I see it, you’ve got two choices. Either find the man and talk some sense into him, or get on with your life without him. There’s no middle ground in this situation."

"David doesn’t want me. He’s made that very clear."

"Then he’s a fool, and you’re better off without him."

"He’s not a fool, just very strong–willed."

"Stubborn," her mother corrected, "and that particular personality trait in a man can be hell on a woman’s emotions."

Emma laughed, recalling the noisy confrontations of her childhood between her very emotional Italian mother and her determined Irish father. Their personalities frequently clashed, but they’d never stopped loving each other. Not ever.

"That observation sounds like personal experience talking," she teased.

"Now don’t get me started on your mule–headed father. There are times when talking to that man is like trying to communicate with a rock, but I love him. I guess forty–four years of indulging his little quirks has become something of a habit." She changed the subject with typical abruptness. "Let’s have lunch tomorrow. I can get away from the gallery around one."

Emma smiled, aware of her mother’s food preferences. "Chinese?"

"What else? Double Happiness in Del Mar at one, then. I’ll put it in my book."

"Give Dad a hug for me."

"You could do that yourself if you drop by this evening."

"Maybe later in the week or over the weekend," Emma hedged. "Dad will try to talk me into going back to work. I’m not ready yet."

"You won’t have to take any trips back to the Middle East."

"That’s not the problem, and you already know my feelings on that subject. Our work there is important, and I refuse to be intimidated by bullies, thugs, or dictators. It’s just that I want a little more time to myself. I really need it."

Her mother finally admitted defeat. "Alright, darling, but take care, please, and stop moping around. It’s not healthy. Try out that new cookbook I gave you, or go shopping for some clothes. You need a new cocktail dress for the Child Feed fundraiser next month. If those ideas don’t appeal to you, call your sister and make a date to see a movie."

She smiled, aware that she wasn’t ready to take any of her mother’s advice. "Thanks, Mom. I love you."

Setting aside her cell phone, Emma felt torn between gratitude to her supportive family and the aching sense of loss she still felt. She loved David, even more now than when they’d parted.

Two weeks of pampering by her mother and sleeping in her old bedroom at home, as well as a month of privacy in her own beachfront cottage hadn’t changed her feelings or her needs. Wandering into the kitchen, Emma paused in front of the glass–paned French doors.

Her gaze drifted across a wide stretch of deserted beach to linger on the white–capped Pacific Ocean. It was unseasonably cold for March; an advancing storm had already darkened the sky and made the ocean swells appear angry and threatening.

Emma abruptly turned away from the view. Feeling dissatisfied with herself, she knew she couldn’t continue mourning the loss of a man who didn’t love her.
I’m pining away like some helpless twit in a Victorian novel. I want me back, and I want my life back.

Seizing a plastic bucket, Emma filled it with warm water and detergent and then located the sponge mop. She needed activity, she told herself as she dunked the mop into the bucket and squeezed out the excess water.

"So I’ll clean!" she announced with the relief of finally finding an outlet for all of the pent–up emotions tumbling around inside. "I may be losing my mind at the moment, but I’ll clean until this place shines and then I’ll go back to work. You’re finished messing with my emotions, David Winslow. Do you hear me, Major? You are officially done!"

After mopping the kitchen floor, she moved into the hallway, the tails of her long silk shirt slapping against her thighs like punctuation marks to her anger.

Intent on her task, she jumped at the sound when she heard a fist pounding on her front door. Propping the mop against the wall, Emma marched to the door, jerked it open, and almost fainted on the spot when she discovered David standing on her doorstep.

He looked different, she realized as she braced herself with a hand against the doorframe. Dressed in black jeans, turtleneck sweater, and a leather bomber jacket that looked like the real thing, David appeared rested, healthy, and properly fed.

As they stood there, a sudden gust of rain spattered his shoulders and hair, the latter now close–cropped and an even darker shade of mahogany than she remembered. His hazel eyes had lost their shadows of fatigue, and, if it was possible, his clean–shaven jaw appeared even sturdier than the last time she’d seen him.

Just looking at him made her go all hot and needy inside. She resented her response to him, but she doubted she could do much about it. Her gaze narrowed as she noted the stack of wrapped packages in his arms and the half–smile on his rugged face.