Dance with the Devil. Sandy Curtis
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pushed at her, buffeting her with debris. The rain stung her skin. She squinted, tried to run against the force of the wind but managed only a slow-motion parody.
By the time she reached him the wind was shrieking, howling. She grabbed his wrists and pulled. The heavy body moved only slightly.
She pulled again. Again, just a small movement.
'Damn you!' Her words screamed inside her head like the incessant wind. 'Cooperate! You couldn't bloody well do it in life - at least try now.'
A dog barked from the shadowy depths of the stables and she called out a quick reassurance. Suddenly the body slipped, shifted easily. She dug her heels into the mud and pulled him into the shelter. Emma wanted to cover him, do anything rather than leave him lying there, muddy and lifeless. Instead she pulled the door closed, bolted it, and stepped back into the almost horizontal rain.
The banshee howl rose higher. A bucket, flung by the wind, hit her behind her knees, dropping her to the ground, then spun crazily across the yard. She tumbled, pushed by the overwhelming force, and finally slammed into one of the verandah stumps. She gripped the timber rails, pulled herself towards the stairs. No longer able to stand upright, she crawled up the steps and across the verandah.
The screen door flapped madly on one hinge. Emma caught it, steadied herself to grab the handle of the wooden door, then rose, twisted the handle, stumbled inside. Bracing her shoulder against the door, she pushed it closed.
She sagged against the wall, gasping air into lungs that seemed to have forgotten how to breathe. Her sodden clothes dripped, creating a puddle on the polished wood floor. She glanced into the surgery. Her patient lay still, his breathing deep and steady.
She unbuttoned her shirt and dropped it to the floor. Her boots and jeans followed. Squeezing the water from her hair, she padded quickly to her bedroom, stripped off her underwear, pulled on shorts and T-shirt, and hurried back to the surgery. Her patient was still sleeping, his body limp with exhaustion. About a week's growth of beard covered a face that was strong and well balanced, with a long straight nose and full lips. Dark brows curved over wide-set eyes.
A terrible groaning sound had her racing to the window. A large mango tree next to the stables was bending over with the force of the wind. Branches snapped off and slammed into the stables and veranda rails. Emma ran her fingers down the tapes criss-crossing the window, well aware there was no guarantee they would hold against the vicious onslaught. If the window gave way, or the roof came off, there was only one safe place to be. She looked back to the prostrate form.
'Well, mate, I can't leave you here. This old house might be strong but Cyclone Bertha could be just a bit stronger.'
Emma shook his arm, urging him to wake up. He stirred briefly, then relaxed back into sleep. With an exasperated sigh, she reached for a small bottle of ammonia, removed the lid and waved it under his nose. He snorted at the harsh smell and growled a curse.
'We have to move to the bathroom.' Although she shouted, the noise from the wind almost drowned her voice. She swung his legs off the table and helped him to sit up. 'It's the safest room in the house.'
His expression changed from bewilderment to agreement as memory returned. Then his gaze lowered and Emma almost smiled at the expression on his face.
'I am a doctor. I have seen naked men before,' she assured him.
'I hope I measured up.' His grim smile was abruptly curtailed as he tried to lever himself off the table. His bandaged hands jerked back and he smothered a cry of pain.
Emma manoeuvred herself to support him as he slid down. 'Try to put most of your weight on your right foot. The nail didn't penetrate very far.' She fleetingly wondered how he had managed to get away before the crucifixion had been completed.
They shuffled down the hallway to the bathroom. Emma's heart lurched at the sight of the blankets and mattress in the old claw-footed bathtub. If only he'd stayed there! I told him to stay there! I should have known he wouldn't listen to me.
She shook the bitter recriminations from her mind.
The sound of the wind seemed amplified in the small room.
'Get in the tub,' she yelled at her patient, 'on top of the blankets. I'll put the mattress over you.'
'Where are you going?'
'I'll sit on the floor.'
'No way. I'm not keeping safe at your expense. I'll sit on the floor.' The stubborn set of his jaw under the overgrowth of bristles told her she would have trouble winning an argument with him.
Something heavy crashed into the outside wall. A can of shaving cream toppled and clanged into the old enamel handbasin.
'Okay,' she sighed, 'we both get in the tub.' She sent up a silent prayer of gratitude that her mother had never succeeded in convincing her father to renovate the bathroom. The old-fashioned tub must have been made to accommodate the whole family in its day. She tugged at his arm. 'Come on.'
'Just hand me that towel first.'
'What?' She barely heard him over the shriek of the wind.
He leaned down so his mouth was close to her ear. 'Listen, lady, if I'm going to spend the next few hours in that tub with you, I feel there should be something between us. Not all of me is injured, you know.'
Emma grabbed a towel off the rail and was about to hand it to him when she realised his injuries wouldn't allow him to wrap it himself. She bent and wrapped it around his waist. Her cheek brushed his chest and she was suddenly acutely conscious of the tiny whorls of dark hair against his tanned skin.
'Hurry up and get in,' she shouted, 'and be careful of the dressings on your back.'
She helped him in, pulled the mattress over the tub, then carefully eased herself down under it so her back was facing him. Again she blessed the tub's large size.
A bang like an explosion jolted Emma half out of the tub. She orientated the sound, realised a window had smashed under the onslaught, and relaxed back onto the blankets.
A large hand settled on her shoulder. He made no other movement, and she didn't know if he were offering her comfort or seeking it for himself. Surprisingly, she realised, she felt no fear, either from the cyclone or the stranger lying behind her. But then she hadn't been capable of feeling anything very much in the past half hour.
As the minutes lengthened, she felt his hand grow heavy. His breathing deepened and she sensed he had fallen asleep. Her mind kept replaying the events of the past half hour, raising a series of retrospective 'if onlys' that she knew were pointless.
Her mental castigation delayed her feeling the stirring behind her at first, but as she slowly grew aware of it her body tensed.
The hard length of his erection pressed against her bottom. She reached up to grab the edge of the bath, prepared to haul herself out as soon as he made a move. But his hand was still limp, and his breathing had turned into the gentle rumble of the completely exhausted.
'Thank God for the towel,' she muttered.
Glass shattered in another room, sharp, explosive. The old house shuddered, debris crashing like shrapnel into its walls. Emma flinched, and memories of another hiding place flashed into her mind. They'd cringed for three hours in the damaged hut as shells burst around them, she and Hanna. And Hanna had talked, as she always did when the tension became too much for her, of Phillipe.
'The worse the situation was,' Hanna had said, 'the more Phillipe would want to make love. I don't know if it was a primeval urge to procreate in case he didn't survive, or if it was just his body taking his mind off the danger. Perhaps it was a comfort thing.' Her eyes had grown wistful, and Emma knew Hanna was remembering that there had been no time to make love before a landmine had shattered Phillipe's body. So Emma had held onto Hanna's slight but wiry frame and listened to the words, the whine of shells, the staccato crack of gunfire.
Now she felt the warmth of the solid body behind her. She listened to his heavy breathing, the shriek