Desert Rose (8 page)

"And you aren’t having any trouble walking or breathing?" she pressed, still concerned that he might try to protect her from the truth.

"No,
Doctor
Hamilton," he teased. "No trouble at all on either score."

"David, this is important. Those men could have caused you severe internal damage of some kind."

"My ego and my pride took the brunt of the beating."

"I know," she murmured. "I just worry about you, and since I can’t see for myself that you’re alright, I wind up asking you a lot of boring questions that drive you nuts."

David hesitated for a moment. "My turn to ask a question."

"Go ahead."

"What would you say if I told you that I want to make love to you?"

"You do… every single time you touch me," she said.

"It does feel that way most of the time, doesn’t it?"

"Yes."

"I want more, Emma. So much more."

"Me, too."

"You’re all I think about."

She teased, "When you’re not dreaming of rare steaks, hot showers, and a firm mattress?"

His voice, part gravel and part groan, seemed to grown more intense. "You really think about me that way?"

"Constantly."

He admitted, "I didn’t realize…"

"How could you not?"

"You seem reluctant to talk about it."

She sighed, the sound as soft as an intimate caress. "Only because I’m afraid we won’t ever have a chance to… to make love."

"Why?"

She stared at the iron bars of her cell. "That’s kind of obvious, isn’t it?"

"That’s not what I meant. Why do you want to make love with me?"

"Because I care about you, and I want you." Because I’m falling in love with you, she wanted to say, but she managed to bite back the words. He’d think she was insane.

"Have you ever been in love?" he asked in a hushed voice.

"Once, or so I thought. Now, I know it was nothing more than an infatuation."

"When did it end?"

"A few years ago. He wasn’t willing to understand that I needed more than our time together to feel complete as a person."

"Sounds selfish."

She nodded. "Yes, he was."

"Was he the same guy who accused you of not having time for a real life?"

"Good memory," she remarked. "He made that comment while he was packing his things and moving out of our apartment. At the time I was devastated, especially since I’d already given up so much of my work with Child Feed in order to spend more time with him. He didn’t think I’d cut back far enough. I guess he assumed that I should have been satisfied to devote my entire existence to him. When I refused, he walked out."

"The cretin did you a favor," David muttered.

Emma smiled; he was right. "I realize that now, but I certainly didn’t when it all happened. I spent way too much time licking my wounds and feeling inadequate as a woman. The experience also made me pretty gun–shy with other men. I’ve avoided getting entangled with anyone else since then."

He slipped his fingers free and trailed the tips across the back of her hand before bringing them to rest against the delicate inner curve of her wrist. "What do I make you feel?" he asked after absorbing the jump of her pulse.

She felt seduced anew by the rough sensuality of his voice. "Everything. I don’t even know where to start."

He remained silent for a moment. "What did you mean when you said I was a part of you?"

Surprised by his question, Emma considered her reply. In the end, she concluded that their situation was too uncertain for her not to be candid with him.

"When the guards took you away," Emma began, "I was terrified I’d never see you again. That’s when I realized how connected I felt to you. You’re in my heart," she whispered as his hand closed over her narrow wrist. "You, David Winslow, are now a permanent part of me."

"Maybe you're just suffering from some bizarre version of Stockholm syndrome. Has it occurred to you that you might not want any reminders, and that includes me, of this place once we make it home?"

"That’s absurd," she protested. "You’re not my jailer. You are my ally and my most trusted confidant. Jailers don’t hold hands with their prisoners, console them after nightmares, make them feel safe in an impossibly dangerous environment, try to protect them, or share their survival skills."

He laughed, but the sound contained no humor. "You don’t have too many other options for friendship at the moment."

She searched for and found the right words to express a truth that she’d already confronted. "This is more than friendship. You fill me with hope, and you strengthen my determination to survive this place and these people so that we’ll be free to explore what I think we both have begun to feel for each other."

The silence that followed nearly deafened her, but she waited—waited for him to speak, waited for him to wrestle with his surprise at her honesty.

"I want that, too."

The sudden squeal of the cellblock’s door made her jerk with surprise. "Oh, God! Please, not again."

David gripped her wrist as footsteps sounded at the far end of the hallway. "Listen!" he ordered, his voice like a sharp blade.

"To what?" she gasped.

"Two sets of footsteps."

She concentrated on the sound, and what he was trying to tell her finally penetrated the fear spiking inside of her.

"Whatever’s going on, the guards are moving more slowly than usual, aren’t they, Emma?"

"Yes."

"Step back from the bars and into the shadows. If we’re really lucky, this might be the food they neglected to bring us yesterday. If it’s not, don’t panic and don’t let them know you’re frightened."

Emma gave David’s hand a quick squeeze of acknowledgement before she released it. Slipping out of her corner, she worked her way down the cell wall and stepped into the shadows at the rear of the shoe–box shaped enclosure. Her heart thudded wildly against her ribs, her hands fisted at her sides, and her empty stomach growled at the prospect of a crust of unleavened bread or a bowl of watery broth.

Two young men clad in ill–fitting uniforms paused before Emma’s cell. They peered into the cell, their curiosity about her evident. Although they carried weapons, neither one seemed inclined to wave them at her in a threatening manner, which was the custom of the other guards.

If anything, they appeared awkward and uncertain. New recruits, she decided. One stepped forward and fumbled with the rusty lock of her cell door. He slid open the door, seized her, and propelled her forward into the hallway.

"Emma?" David said. "You okay?"

"So far," she answered, her eyes darting between the two uniformed youths. "I don’t understand what’s happening. Where are they taking me?"

"Stay calm," he urged. "Don’t antagonize them."

She looked back, spotting David’s powerful, white knuckled hands as he gripped the bars of his cell. "They’re not as mean or experienced as the other guards," she managed to say before one of the guards clapped a dirty hand over her mouth.

"You’ll be alright, babe."

Emma jerked free, crying, "David, don’t forget me!"

"Never, Emma. Never!"

They hustled her out of the cellblock and down an endless succession of hallways. Five minutes later, the youthful guards shoved her through an open doorway.

She stumbled and fell forward, landing on her hands and knees just as the door to the room slammed shut behind her. She heard the lock being secured in the same instant that she noticed the two women who towered over her. Clad in the native garb of concealing burqas and abayas, both women held deadly looking handguns and glared down at her.

Scuttling backward, Emma scanned the room and searched for an avenue of escape. But all she saw were sealed windows at the top of tiled walls and an ancient water spigot mounted high on the far wall.

She retreated as the two women advanced on her. Even when the wall she backed into forced her to stop, the women kept advancing. She cringed when one of them reached out and jerked on the sleeve of her blouse. The second woman stepped aside to turn on the nearby showerhead. Her companion waved the unfriendly end of her weapon in Emma’s face just before she hauled her to her feet, spat an order at her in some Arabic dialect, and then shoved her under the cold water.

Emma decided against removing her clothes. Modesty, she knew, was stressed in the Middle East, especially among Muslim women. She spotted a wedge of soap in a basket on the floor and reached for it.

She clumsily scrubbed at her clothes and her hair. One of the women yelled at her and made emphatic motions with her weapon; the other one clawed yet again at her soggy clothing. She complied with their obvious expectations.

Shedding her clothes, she kept her gaze averted and hurriedly washed her body. Her face burned with outrage as she prayed that she would soon be returned to her cell and David.

Emma remained silent as the shower was turned off. Shivering, she gathered up the pile of sodden garments at her feet, but it was snatched out of her hands.

After being prodded forward with a gun pressed into her lower spine, she followed one of the women to a cabinet on the far side of the room. Once there, she received a voluminous black cloak and a veil–like garment known as a burqa. Although still dripping wet, Emma dressed quickly. She scooped up her clothes before being marched out of the shower room, down a short hallway, and outside to a deserted courtyard.

She hesitated as the two women made themselves comfortable across from one another on wooden benches. They looked on, expressionless and their weapons still pointed at her, as she draped her wet clothing across an unused bench. Emma scanned the area to be sure there were no men in the vicinity before she slipped the burqa off her head and finger–combed her long hair. The light breeze and pleasant midday sun should have felt therapeutic, but they did nothing to ease her fear.

Her thoughts repeatedly strayed to David. While she longed for an end to her imprisonment, she knew she would find little satisfaction in freedom if he remained a captive. Surely their captors realized that, if they released her, she wouldn’t remain silent about him. If anything, she would shout his status and location to the world until they were reunited.

At least an hour passed before the two women jumped into action once again. She watched in horror as one of the women fashioned a leash with a length of rope. Lifting her chin in a gesture of defiance, she refused to cower as the leash was looped around her neck and she was jerked forward. Then, she was quick–marched through a large kitchen. When an old man surreptitiously shoved two oranges into the folds of the still wet clothing she carried, she nodded her gratitude. She thought, maybe they aren’t going to hang me right away.

She was shoved into a storeroom, a deadbolt grinding into position after the door slammed shut, and left alone to languish. Huddled on the floor, she stared at the two oranges the old man had given to her as the minutes ticked by—minutes that turned into hours. Darkness finally fell, casting the windowless room in deep shadows.

She rested her forehead on upraised knees as she endured the darkness. The rustling sounds of small rodents in the depths of the storeroom and the periodic pounding of booted footsteps as men raced up and down the hallway beyond the door made rest impossible.

She tried to sustain herself by imagining a future beyond the threat of being hanged in some media–designed circus. When that failed, she tried to imagine a future with David, but all she saw in her mind was an endless black void. She struggled then, really struggled not to abandon herself to complete despair.

Despite her hunger, she couldn’t summon the ability to eat even a small piece of the fresh fruit she’d been given. What kept her sane as the hours unfolded was her determination to share this windfall with David.

Don’t forget me.

As if I could ever forget you, Emma, he thought as he prowled his cell like a beast deprived of his mate.

Torn between hope that her release had finally been arranged by Child Feed or the United Nations and his anxiety that Emma was being subjected to another interrogation session—or something far worse—he paced his cell as endless hours transpired. Even when his common sense surfaced to protest the futility of his behavior, David ignored it and his aching body.

Guilt gnawed at him. He wanted her out of harm’s way, but he also craved her continued presence in the cellblock. He needed her, but he wanted her safe.

Exhaustion finally forced David to lower himself into a seated position on his pallet. He stared at the floor as the puddle of light from the window at the top of his cell slowly shrank into oblivion. His anxiety for Emma escalated as darkness consumed the cellblock.

Don’t forget me.

Her words continued to echo in his mind. He leaned back, rested the back of his head against the wall, and wondered not for the first time how she could think that he could ever forget her. He dreaded being without her, and he loathed not knowing what was happening to her. David wondered if she even understood the complexity of his emotions where she was concerned.

He’d feared for both his life and his sanity before Emma’s arrival in the cellblock. She’d given him the gift of hope. He treasured her confidence and faith in him, although he doubted that he deserved them. He savored the vulnerability she revealed when they shared information about their lives, her tender way of viewing those she loved, and the explosive attraction that sent desire streaking through his body whenever they touched or when he dreamed about her during those sporadic hours when he actually slept.

He desired her in the same way that any healthy man desired the woman who aroused his passion and stirred his imagination, but he longed for her in numerous other ways, too. She fed his soul with her sensitivity, made him laugh with silly jokes, eased his loneliness with her compassion, and nurtured whatever courage he possessed with her belief in him.

Emma had helped him to rediscover his ability to feel, perhaps to even love again. In the years since his divorce he’d closed himself off to all emotional involvement, but in just three weeks Emma had opened his heart and expanded his world. She’d become the center of both. But nagging at him was his worry that she was clinging to him out of fear. Did he simply represent a safe haven, or could she truly care for him, even love him, if they weren’t facing the threat of execution on a minute by minute basis?