Desert Rose (7 page)

"Braggart… Montana same… for me."

"You’re darn right I’m a braggart. I can’t wait for you to see it, David. It’s really a slice of heaven." She paused for a moment before admitting, "I think about it whenever I’m frightened, especially if I wake up in the middle of the night and I can’t get back to sleep. You’ll understand why when you visit me."

His heart lurched. "I’m… invited?"

"Where else would we celebrate your birthday?"

"I feel… old enough… right now… to celebrate… hundredth birthday."

"You’re just a little… dented," she reminded him, using his word. "You’ll feel better once you’ve had some rest, which you should probably try to get now."

"Hope so."

"Is anything broken?"

"Don’t… think so… just bruised… all over."

"Rubber hoses or lengths of pipe? Or both?" she asked, her voice losing its buoyancy.

"Mostly… pipe," he admitted. "How…" His voice trailed off, and he waited. Her answering silence unnerved him. "Emma?"

"I had my turn with the hoses before they brought me to this cell," she said quietly, "but the bruises are almost faded now."

Stunned, he said, "You… didn’t… tell…"

"David, I don’t want to talk about me. Please."

"Emma." He groaned her name, shattered that she’d hidden the truth from him.

"I mean it, David. I’m going to be fine, and so are you. I know you’ll get better. You’re the strongest, most resilient man I’ve ever known," Emma insisted before a choked sound cut off her words.

"Cream… puff." In the silence that followed, he heard the broken sounds coming from her cell. He recognized them for what they were. "Please… don’t… cry."

"I’m not."

"Yes… you are."

"David," she began.

"No more… withholding… truth. Promise?"

She laughed, a faintly soggy sound thanks to her tears. "You must be feeling better. You almost sound like your old self. And for the record,
Major
Winslow, I do talk to you when I’m about to lose it. I’d go insane if I didn’t."

"Not… alone, Emma. Not… worth much… right now… but… here… for you."

"You’re worth everything, and then some. Now, get some rest."

"Need… your voice… can’t sleep… yet."

"You’re sure?"

"Talk… please," he insisted.

"Would you like to hold hands for a while?"

He wanted nothing more than to touch her again, to stroke her satiny–smooth skin and caress her long, slender fingers. But he knew it was impossible, and he cursed his body’s weakness. "Can’t… babe… sorry."

"Tomorrow?"

"Yes." He prayed he’d have the strength to move then.

"Do you ever have nightmares?" she asked in a low voice.

He weighed his answer. While he hated to admit that he couldn’t control his sub–conscious, he no longer felt compelled to preserve his macho Marine Corps image. He knew, too, that Emma never judged. She simply listened, so revealing the truth to her would be the most natural thing in the world for him to do.

"Sometimes," he conceded.

"Not fun, are they?"

"No… questions. Talk… Hamilton."

"Yes, sir!"

He smiled into the darkness of his cell in spite of the lancing pain in his jaw. "I’ll… teach you… to salute."

"Every woman’s secret fantasy, and you’re going to make mine come true. Be still, my heart."

He laughed, and then he groaned when his body protested the rapid rise and fall of his chest. "Don’t make… me laugh… talk, please."

"I’m a great cook," she immediately confided.

"More… comic relief… or truth?"

"I’m serious. My girlfriends think I’m crazy to even admit it, but I love being in the kitchen. I cook to relax. Then I get to diet. It’s a vicious cycle."

"Maybe you… should’ve… become… chef."

"Dangerous idea, since I’d be tempting fate and ruining my waistline at the same time. Thank you very much, but no."

David slowly shifted his legs forward and massaged the tops of his thighs. He listened to the sound of Emma’s voice, which dulled the pain throbbing in his body and soothed some of his rage. She spoke for nearly two hours, rambling from subject to subject when not regaling him with tales of her childhood and anecdotes that involved her siblings.

She also confessed the details of her youthful endeavors as a competitive gymnast. She amazed him when she admitted that she’d terminated her nearly ten year commitment to gymnastics at the age of fifteen when she’d announced to her coach that she wanted a normal life. Instead of trying to change her mind, her parents had supported her decision one hundred percent. David concluded that Doctor and Mrs. Hamilton had to be as unique as their daughter.

He listened closely to her every word, finding strength in her generous spirit. As he kneaded the muscles in his legs, arms, and shoulders, David silently vowed that his future—if he was even destined to have one—would include Emma Hamilton. He couldn’t imagine finding happiness without her.

He nearly succumbed to light–headedness as he struggled to his feet. Trembling and breathing raggedly, he pressed his cheek to the cold wall, closed his eyes, and submerged himself in the sound of Emma’s voice.

Driven by his desire to feel the comfort of her soothing touch, he brought himself under control. He moved awkwardly and slowly, each step an exercise in agony as the muscles of his body tremored in constant protest, but he finally managed to position himself in the corner of his cell.

He caught his breath and then carefully maneuvered his arm through the narrow space between the bars and cell wall. Sweat beaded across his upper lip and soaked the back of his flight suit. He shuddered, but he refused to give in to his damaged body.

Emma soon fell silent, her fatigue evident in the heavy sigh that escaped her.

"At… wall… babe."

She scrambled up from her pallet and made her way to the corner of her cell. "Are you strong enough to be on your feet?"

"Shaky… but… standing," he assured her before he heard her choked sob. "Please… don’t… cry."

"Sorry." She cleared her throat and straightened her spine. "I saved your half of the chocolate bar. Shall I pass it to you? It might give you the energy you need."

Closing his eyes against the tears unexpectedly filling them, he tried to speak but found he couldn’t. Getting emotional over a candy bar was hardly his style, and he felt like a complete idiot.

"Tell me what you want," Emma urged in a soft voice a few moments later.

"Want… you. Need… you."

She immediately extended her hand. David felt the brush of her fingertips. He clasped her wrist before encompassing her slender hand with his own. His exhalation of relief echoed in the cellblock.

Neither spoke as unspoken emotions flowed between them. They remained physically and emotionally linked as the dawn emerged and the sun burst onto the horizon of the early–morning Middle Eastern sky.

"I’d give anything to take a shower and wash my hair," Emma announced in a fit of frustration several days later.

"Fantasy time, babe."

David’s reply grated on her already frayed nerves. She stomped back and forth in her cell. When she heard him chuckle, she nearly gave into the urge to familiarize him with a full–blown Irish Italian temper tantrum.

"I can’t stand being so filthy. It’s making me crazy."

"Use your imagination," he suggested. "Pretend you’re relaxing in an enormous hot tub filled with warm, bubbling water. It’s the closest you’re going to get to clean until we blow this pop stand." David laughed. "It’ll also give me something to imagine."

"Not good enough," she protested.

"You don’t have any other options," he reminded her. "Deprivation’s the rule of thumb around here, but I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know, am I?"

The compassion in his voice took some of the edge off her frustration. Emma stopped her restless pacing and returned to her pallet. She took deep, cleansing breaths and made an effort to calm down.

"David, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be such an infant, but I don’t know how much more of this I can stand. It’s been three weeks, and no one’s tried to rescue us. The Red Cross hasn’t even shown up to conduct an inspection. Surely my parents or Child Feed realize by now that I’ve gone missing. Why isn’t someone doing something?"

"We can only hope."

"I know," she whispered bleakly. "I know you’re right."

"How about a book or a movie?" he asked a short while later. "Might help pass the time."

She slumped forward and rested her head in her hands. Although she knew he wouldn’t force the issue, she called upon what remained of her dwindling good humor and forced herself to cooperate. She owed him that much at the very least.

Emma lifted her head and asked, "What’s your pleasure, Major?"

"A sexy flick," he promptly replied.

She laughed, the first positive sound to emerge from her in several hours. "You’re absolutely hopeless. How about something more cerebral or a thriller with a knockout heroine?"

"Since it’s your turn, you make the decision."

She weighed her options. "Okay then, let’s test your memory bank. Do you remember Part Two of The Devastator series?"

"Who could forget? Milos Bekenberger as a muscle–bound cyborg, and Cara Stone as the pumped–up mother of a boy destined to save the planet. Everybody had great pecs in that movie, especially the kid’s mother. She was dy–no–mite."

Emma groaned. "Talk about a one–track mind."

"You may be right." His tone contained just enough leer to make her laugh.

Feeling more relaxed, Emma began to recount the movie. What she couldn’t remember, she made up for with excruciating details about the parts she did.

David periodically chimed in with both suggestive remarks and insightful comments about the film. Emma reclaimed her sense of humor as they talked, and David unknowingly soothed her restless emotions with the warmth and resonance of the low, gravel–rough voice she’d grown to love.

They lingered at the end, critiquing the pacing of the movie and the performances of the actors. And they agreed, as was often the case, that filmgoers and readers preferred the validation of their belief that good would ultimately triumph over evil. Given their current situation, it was a philosophy they both needed to hold on to.

Emma took a sip of water from her tin cup to wet her mouth before she got to her feet and prowled the confines of her cell once more. She eventually came to a stop in the corner, hungry for physical contact with David but reluctant to impose her needs on him. Although he insisted that he’d completely recovered from his most recent interrogation, she didn’t believe him. She knew he still tired easily.

"Babe?"

She gripped the iron bars of her cell. "Yes?"

"You okay?"

"I’ll live."

He exhaled, the sound harsh in the quiet of the cellblock. "That’s not what I asked."

"Self–pity’s a wretched idea, so don’t get me started down that road again," she cautioned.

"Do you need me?"

A shiver of expectation rippled through Emma. She knew he was asking if she wanted to hold hands. Had he already guessed that she longed to share far more with him? Did he realize that she yearned to walk straight into his arms and make love with him?

"Is your shoulder bothering you?"

"Not to worry. It’s almost a hundred percent."

"I do worry," she admitted as she positioned herself between the cell wall and the bars. She extended her arm, feeling the clasp of David’s large hand as it closed over hers a moment later. She sighed, grateful for his touch.

Her eyes fell closed. Slowly, surely, and with the silence borne of total concentration, he soothed and aroused her with the sensuality of his touch. Nudging her hand to the left, he slid his fingertips to the back of her hand, around the plump ridge of flesh at the base of her thumb, and then into the center of her palm.

Emma held her breath while he traced expanding circles of sensation into her sensitive skin, sensations that sent her pulse racing and her blood pounding through her veins. She closed her hand, capturing his fingers. She gathered them together so that the tips rested in the center of her cupped palm, slowly stroking the length of his fingers with the smooth edges of her nails. She stroked up and down… up and down… up and down… until she heard him groan. The primal sound stirred her to the depths of her soul, her body melting with need.

She felt his hand tremble, but he didn’t pull away. A shudder of arousal swept over her like a brushfire. She heard his ragged exhalation, felt the tremors that shook his body. A sensual lethargy began to envelop her.

Tingling warmth drifted across her palm, up her arm, and into her body. Biting her lip to smother a cry of need, Emma felt her breasts swell and her nipples tighten.

Heat swirled inside her. Flames ignited deep within, scorching her nerve endings and shattering what remained of her composure. Tears filled her eyes. She teetered between seductive torment and the emotional anguish of trying to deny her desire for David.

Emma ached with hunger. Tears spilled form her eyes and trailed down her cheeks. "David…" she breathed, her voice riddled with desire and frustration and a hundred other unvoiced emotions.

David fought his own battle for control. His breathing grew even more ragged. He laced their fingers together, but he said nothing. He couldn’t.

Emma swallowed her tears. "Forgive me."

"Nothing… to forgive," he finally managed through gritted teeth. "You’re the most volatile thing I’ve ever touched, Emma Hamilton."

"Should I apologize?"

He laughed, but the sound ended on a low groan. He needed her so badly, his body screamed for release. "I wouldn’t want you any other way."

They remained connected for several silent minutes. The call to prayers sounded over the loudspeaker in the adjacent courtyard, but neither Emma nor David moved.

"Were you telling me the truth before?" she asked softly.

"About what?"

"Your shoulder really is better?"

"Yeah, and the bruises are starting to fade. I’m not quite as multi–hued as I was a few days ago."