Dance with the Devil. Sandy Curtis
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confided to anyone but her mother.
'Fathers aren't very good at that sort of thing, are they. My father wouldn't give one word of praise, let alone say he loved me. My mother used to say I had to accept him for what he was because he didn't know any different, but I figured he was just too stubborn to change.'
Emma nodded her agreement. Then she blinked in surprise at Drew's next words. 'After my mother died, my father changed. It was almost as though he no longer had a reason for being so tough, so macho. It was only years later he told me that Mum had made him promise to change, to break the pattern he'd learned from his father.'
'Do you have a good relationship with him now?'
'He was killed in a work accident a few years ago.' There was a world of sadness in Drew's eyes. 'I would have liked to have told him how much it meant to me to know he loved me, but I always thought there'd be time. There never is, is there.'
Emma bit back a reply. There was a terrible anger burning inside her. A deep, festering anger and resentment she thought she'd buried long ago. Perhaps it was her grief, perhaps the overwhelming futility of wishing and hoping for something that could now never be possible, but suddenly it burst out. She jumped to her feet.
Her anger was a wild beast inside her. A beast that demanded release. She picked up a plate from the sink and flung it across the room. It shattered with a crash that helped to abate the storm within her.
'I had a brother…' Hell, why tell Drew her problems? He had enough of his own, didn't he? But the blue eyes that focused on her gave Emma the distinct feeling that explaining her feelings was exactly what Drew wanted her to do. She sighed. 'An older brother. When I was six years old, we both came down with viral meningitis. Matthew developed complications. He died. I don't think Dad ever forgave me for being the one who lived.'
Drew said nothing, just nodded in sympathy. A deep melancholy swept over Emma. She tried to push the emotion aside. She'd seen grief, felt grief, too often to succumb to the chains it could create.
'I have a bedroom to clean up.' She stood. 'You probably want to clean up, yourself.'
Drew stroked the stubble on his cheek. 'A shave, and a shower if possible, would be great.'
'A shave I can arrange. But I'm sorry, the shower is out. You can't get your back wet, and you'll have to wear plastic bags over your hands to have a wash.'
'What?' Drew raised one eyebrow. 'No sponge bath from my personal physician?'
That exact thought had already plagued Emma. She knew it would be far easier for Drew if she bathed him. But the memory of her reaction to his kiss warned her it would definitely not be easy for her. She bent down and picked up the pieces of the smashed plate and dropped them in the bin. She turned to Drew as she walked into the hallway.
'I'll put what you need in the bathroom.' Her voice was coolly professional, but she couldn't help the smile that tugged at the corners of her mouth. She suspected what he needed wasn't just a shave and a shower.
She hurried away before Drew could comment.
It was awkward shaving with plastic bags over the dressings on his hands, but Drew was passably pleased with the result. Even running a comb through his tangled hair gave a pleasure that surprised him. In the heat of his prison shed, sweat had trickled itchy trails through his hair and bristles. The chains had prevented him from scratching them. A minor irritation, but it had reinforced his feeling of helplessness.
The sensation prickled in his scalp again. He dug his fingers into his head, rubbing in a slow determined massage, and fought against the memory of darkness, the feeling of suffocation. It was only when his breath escaped in a rush that he realised he had been holding it in anticipation of the appearance of his captor.
He almost succumbed to the temptation of standing under a hot shower and washing away the grime of the past week, but ran a small amount of warm water into the bath instead. Keeping his feet out of the water proved more difficult than he'd thought, but the relief at finally being clean again was worth the effort. He'd only been teasing Emma about the sponge bath but, as he imagined her soft hands on the more intimate areas of his body, he was pleased, but perversely disappointed, she had refused. He knew he wouldn't have been able to control his reaction if she'd touched him.
Emma called out to him through the closed door just as he stepped from the bath. He wrapped a towel around his waist, cursing the restriction of his bandaged hands, and opened the door.
If he'd been less observant he would have missed the gleam of desire that shone briefly in her eyes as she looked at his now clean-shaven face, and his heart soared in response. Each time he saw her he wanted her with a fierceness that amazed him. But the way she seemed determined to keep him at arm's length frustrated him badly.
She held out a bundle of clothing. 'From J.D. He said something about there being a bit more room.'
Drew's eyes narrowed at the innocent look on her face - he suspected she wouldn't have missed the meaning behind J.D.'s comment.
In her other hand she held a plastic jug. 'Would you like me to wash your hair? I know how hard it is to feel really clean if your hair's dirty.'
His rapid agreement had as much to do with desire as a need for cleanliness. Even though he told himself he should be concentrating only on discovering the identity of his would-be killer, he seemed unable to stop the ache in his chest that formed at even the thought of Emma.
Her fingers massaged his scalp as he leaned over the handbasin. He could feel the soft outline of her body pressed lightly against his. It took an immense effort of concentration to ignore his body's reaction and listen to her words.
'In a lot of places where I worked, there was no running water, or little water because of drought or war. I used to tie my hair up and wear a hat to try to keep my hair clean. Washing it was an impossible luxury when people were dying from lack of water.'
Drew had a mental image of Emma working in a grass hut in a dusty jungle clearing, ministering to the sick and injured. From what he'd seen of her already, he sensed she would be irritated by the lack of amenities only if it hindered her treatment of her patients. If her treatment of him was any indication, she was a compassionate physician.
Emma poured clean water through Drew's hair, then towelled it dry. She had told herself that offering to wash his hair was a kindness she would have given any other person, but she knew she was lying. She wanted to touch him. Touch him, apart from the necessity of cleaning and bandaging his wounds.
Touch him in ways she hadn't touched a man in a long, long time.
Too long without sex she castigated herself. Any man would look good.
'Do you have a pen and paper?' Drew asked.
Emma looked up from where she knelt before the stove, pushing wood into the firebox.
'In the desk drawer in the living room. Why?'
Drew shrugged, J.D.'s cotton short-sleeved shirt allowing him freedom of movement without catching on the dressings on his back. To Emma, the blue of the shirt seemed to pale in comparison to his eyes. They were a deep shade of blue, with a piercing intensity she felt impaled her each time he looked at her.
'I've been going over in my mind where I could have come in contact with this devil, but I can't recall ever meeting someone who resembles him. I thought if I made a list of everyone who'd ever threatened me, it might give the police somewhere to start.'
'Everyone? Just how long would this list be?'
Drew chuckled. 'Hopefully not too long. But in my profession you tend to make enemies without meaning to.'
'What if he comes here, Drew? What will you do?'
The tiny frown lines between his eyes tightened. 'I've been thinking about that, Emma. And to tell you the truth I'm scared.'
'Of what he might do to you?'
'No.' Tension invaded his body, and a sudden savage glint shone