Desert Rose

by Laura Taylor

  He smiled, feeling absurdly proud of her outburst. He knew now that she wasn’t caving in over a bad dream. "No questions at the moment, babe, but don’t stop moving around that cell. I want to hear your footsteps."

  "You’re starting to remind me of a nun I used to know," she complained as she kept pacing.

  "Talk while you walk, Emma. Tell me what you’re feeling right now."

  She ignored him. "We called her Sister Mary Drill Instructor. She was not my favorite person."

  He chuckled. "How are you feeling?"

  "Furious. Absolutely furious."

  "Of course, you are," he agreed. "That’s normal. Use your anger, Emma. Make it work for you, babe. I know you can do it."

  She made a noise that sounded like an unladylike snort. "If you don’t stop calling me babe, I may deck you just for the hell of it."

  He laughed again. "Be my guest, babe."

  "Don’t you dare make fun of me."

  He smothered the laughter that rumbled through his chest and shook his broad shoulders. "Stay mad, Emma. I don’t mind being used for target practice."

  His humor slowly waned, and he didn’t prod her when she fell silent. Instead, he leaned against the bars of his cell and pondered Emma Hamilton’s feisty nature. Desire throbbed steadily in his loins, and he allowed himself to speculate on the passion she would bring to a lover.

  "David?" she said a few minutes later.

  Roughly shoving his hands through hair that had grown far longer than was acceptable to any self–respecting, spit–and–polish Marine Corps officer, he roused himself from his insane fantasies. "You can’t believe that this has happened to you, can you?"

  Startled, she asked, "How do you always know what I’m thinking?"

  "I will never forget my first few days in here," David responded bitterly. "Never."

  He recalled the pain of countless beatings, as well as his constant fear that he wouldn’t survive the torture or the mind–numbing isolation of imprisonment. Exhaling quietly, he cleared away the vivid memories by the sheer force of his will.

  "Emma, what in hell are you doing in this war–ravaged country?"

  "I told you. I’m a caseworker for Child Feed. We supply food, clothing, and medical care to children displaced by war or natural disasters. Following the cease–fire in the capital, a team of doctors and nurses arrived to set up refugee camps. Since we’re a multinational aid group, we frequently work under the auspices of the United Nations."

  Pleased that he’d found a way to distract her, David indulged his own curiosity about her work. "How did you happen to become involved with the organization?"

  "My dad’s a pediatrician. He helped to found Child Feed almost twenty years ago after a trip to India. My mother does an annual fundraiser for Child Feed. She owns an art gallery in San Diego, so she comes into contact with a lot of wealthy types with fairly strong humanitarian instincts. Sam used to work with us, but he’s with the State Department now. My younger sister’s a nurse, and she periodically donates her time, too."

  "Sounds like you’re all very dedicated," he mused thoughtfully.

  "We are, but only because we want to be. Dad never put any pressure on us. I didn’t get involved until I finished college, and even then I didn’t intend to make it a permanent arrangement. It just worked out that way."

  "Why?" David asked.

  She responded with candor. "I saw the condition of the children in some of the Africa camps during a tour with my dad about five years ago. When a little girl… probably no more than five… died in my arms from malnutrition during that trip, I knew I couldn’t walk away, so I decided to pitch in and help. It felt like the right decision when I made it, and my feelings haven’t changed."

  "Even now?"

  He heard the sigh that escaped her as she considered his question. He sensed what her response would be, but he wanted the satisfaction of hearing her say the words that would confirm his initial estimation of her character.

  "Even now," she answered.

  "I like you, Emma Hamilton. You’ve got grit."

  "I don’t know about grit, but I like you, too."

  "I don’t understand why the authorities picked you up. It’s obvious you’re no threat to the government."

  "I was checking the status of one of our camps when my driver told me he had a personal emergency. He promised to return in plenty of time to take me to the airport for my flight home. I was so busy at the last camp I was visiting, I didn’t think anything about his absence until I discovered that he’d stolen all of my travel documents, including my passport and my cell phone, and nearly all of my money."

  "And then?" he prompted.

  "I decided to return to the capital city when I finished my report. I have a good friend who works for the Canadian embassy. I knew Mary would be willing to help me secure new travel papers and loan me the money for an airline ticket to Paris. Since Sam works there, I knew he could facilitate a temporary U.S. passport at our embassy. I was only a few blocks from Mary’s house when I was stopped and detained by the secret police." She sighed. "Now, we’re neighbors."

  "They’ll realize their mistake." His automatic reassurance sounded logical, but as soon as the words left his mouth, he hoped he wasn’t guilty of giving her false hope.

  "I don’t know if I share your optimism, David. No one would listen to me, and no one seemed inclined or willing to verify my claims."

  He didn’t feel capable of further encouragement so he refrained from voicing emotions he knew he couldn’t fake.

  "Tell me about your family," Emma urged. "I’m tired of talking about myself."

  "You must be tired, period," he observed.

  "I’m not the only one who needs to share."

  "Playing shrink, Emma?"

  "Just trying to be a friend," she chided, but the gentleness of her voice softened the impact.

  "Thanks." A sudden onslaught of emotional hunger roughened his voice. "I guess I do need one just about now."

  "Tell me about life in Montana," she encouraged.

  "I grew up on a ranch."

  "Now, why doesn’t that surprise me?"

  He smiled as his pride in his heritage surfaced. "I don’t get home that often anymore, but I’ll end up there one of these years."

  "After the Marine Corps?"

  "Probably. I’m a partner in the ranch, but my first priority is aviation," he told her, warming to the subject. "It always has been, and I suspect it will be for a long time to come."

  "I take it your family’s still in Montana."

  "My dad passed away during my first year in the Corps. Mom stayed on at the ranch until my younger sister married. Her husband runs the place now."

  "I’m surprised your mother was willing to leave her home."

  "She’s a teacher, so it’s more convenient for her to live in town, especially when winter sets in. She also wanted to make sure that Jenny and Zach had the privacy they needed for a good start to their marriage. They’ve got three kids now, and Mom spends a lot of her weekends with them, but in a separate guest house on the property."

  "She must be a terrific person."

  He nodded, glimpsing members of his family through Emma’s eyes. "I’ve always thought so. Mom was my strongest ally when I was trying to get Dad to understand that I wanted a career in military aviation. She has a gift for helping people nurture their own dreams. I was too damned determined at the time to really understand Dad’s disappointment that I had every intention of delaying ranch life in favor of aviation. Mom invariably wound up playing referee. I finally realized that her efforts made it possible for me to reconcile with my father before his death. I owe her a major debt when it comes down to safeguarding important family relationships."

  "And what you do in the Marine Corps means everything to you, doesn’t it?"

  "I honestly can’t imagine doing anything else, at least not at this point in my life."

  "I understand what you're saying, David. I feel the sam
e way about my work with Child Feed." She hesitated a moment before admitting. "I've been accused of not making time for a real life by some of my friends. One person in particular told me I was obsessed. I don’t know. Perhaps he was right."

  "Are you happy with your choices, Emma?"

  "Very happy."

  "Then forget what anyone else thinks. You won’t ever go wrong if you always trust your instincts."

  "Good advice."

  He laughed at the surprise he heard in her voice. "Why do you sound so shocked?"

  "My dad said the same thing to me not too long ago."

  "Well, there you have it. Two intelligent males imparting sage wisdom. Can’t do any better than that, can you?"

  "I suspect I could have." Self–recrimination underscored her remark.

  "How’s that?" he asked.

  "David, think about it. I trusted my instincts and wound up in here."

  "You took a calculated risk. Unfortunately, you had no way of knowing all of the potential ramifications of the actions of other people, so don’t beat yourself up over it," he said, his tone sharp. "Think of this situation as a classic example of an accident of fate. Pure and simple. Trust me. I've had plenty of time to come to that conclusion. As my buddy Dev MacKenzie always says, ‘No one ever promised you a rose garden.’"

  "That’s a quaint perspective."

  "No, babe, that’s life, and this is the thorny part."

  David closed his eyes against the darkness, his mood suddenly melancholy. He regretted that he’d allowed himself to inject such a cynical note into his conversation with Emma. He wanted to help her adjust, but he also longed for a respite from the steady, aching need that made him hungry for human contact and a thousand other things he knew he couldn’t have.

  "I wish we could be face–to–face when we talk to each other," she whispered after several long moments of silence. "I’d feel better if I could see you."

  "We can always try digging through the wall and meeting in the middle. It’d be a fascinating way to pass the time."

  She ignored his stinging sarcasm. "Why don’t we?"

  "Forget it, Emma. I’ve tried and failed. This building may be old, but it’s sturdy. It’ll take a bomb blast to open up these walls."

  David stiffened, his eyes widening. A means of physical contact did exist. He just hadn’t thought of it until now. Not surprising, he realized, because until Emma, he’d been the sole occupant of the entire cellblock.

  He moved to a corner at the front of his cell. "We may not be able to see each other, Emma, but we’re going to hold hands," he vowed as he slid his arm through the bars, angled his body into a position that offered little physical comfort, and then slid his hand along the wall that separated him from Emma. He intended to touch her and find out for himself if her skin was as soft as he’d imagined.

  "What did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  "I don’t do magic tricks, David."

  "We don’t need magic. I’m just sorry I didn’t think of this sooner, but we can make it happen if you're willing to meet me halfway."

  "You aren’t making any sense. We aren’t capable of walking through walls."

  "Of course, I’m making sense," he disagreed. "Where are you standing right now?"

  "At the front of my cell."

  "Are you facing out?"

  "Yes."

  "Step to your right until you reach the wall."

  "I’ve decided to humor you, David."

  "Trust me."

  Silence. Total silence.

  Then, she said, "I do trust you."

  He listened for the sound of her footsteps. When she paused, he said, "Lift your hand until it’s level with your shoulder. Once you’ve done that, find the gap between the bars closest to the wall, and work your arm through it. Then, extend your arm so that it’s parallel to the wall."

  "I’m working my arm through now."

  "Be careful," he cautioned. "Sections of the wall are really jagged. You can’t afford to cut yourself. A minor infection in this place could wind up killing you."

  "Nice thought," she muttered. "I’m in position. Now, what?"

  He reached for her, his fingertips skimming over grime–covered masonry. He frowned for a moment, then asked, "How tall are you, Emma?"

  "Exactly five feet, nine inches. And you’re well over six feet, right?"

  "Right. Now hold still. We’re about to find out the true width of this damn wall." He lowered his outstretched hand several inches. An odd noise caught his attention, and he froze. "Did you hear something, Emma?"

  "All I can hear is my heartbeat. It’s absolutely deafening."

  He smiled at the conspiratorial quality of her whispered reply. "That’s not surprising. I can hear mine, too."

  "What happens next?"

  He answered her question by stroking his callused fingertips across her knuckles. "This happens next," he said quietly.

  "David?" His name gushed out of her on a breath of disbelief.

  "Yeah, babe, it’s me."

  She laughed. He did, too, but the sound stalled abruptly in his throat and turned to a nearly silent moan of longing as he closed his large hand over the warmth and softness of her smaller one.

  3

  Emma didn’t try to fight the tears that spilled from her eyes. Sagging against the bars of her cell, she wept silently as she savored the security and reassurance she found in David’s touch.

  "Feel better?" he asked several minutes later.

  Swallowing her tears, she managed a faint, "Yes."

  He squeezed her hand. "Emma, don’t cry. There’s no need, at least not now."

  "I know." She drew in a shuddery breath. "I didn’t mean to go all soggy on you, but I’ve been so frightened."

  "With good reason," he reminded her. "You aren’t alone, babe, so hang on to me for as long as you need."

  "What did I tell you about that ‘babe’ stuff?" she groused.

  He chuckled. She wiped at the tears streaming down her cheeks with her free hand, and then held her breath when he began a slow exploration of each one of her fingers. He paused at the tips to run his thumb along the edge of her trimmed nails before he deliberately trailed his fingertips across the back of her hand.

  Emma tumbled into the rainbow of sensations that shimmered just below the surface of her skin. His touch stunned and delighted her, and it created an acute yearning for much more of the same.

  She sensed then that, as a lover, David would be exquisitely thorough. The thought brought her up short, and she decided that hunger and fear must be making her light–headed and fanciful. "The woman in your life must adore it when you touch her."

  His fingers stilled while she grappled with her own shock and embarrassment. "There isn’t a woman in my life, unless of course you’re counting yourself, Emma."

  It took her a full minute to wrap her mind around that. "I've always thought that the sensitivity of a man shows in his hands, and that his true nature is revealed through his touch." She laughed then, the sound pitched high enough to betray her frayed nerves. "I’m saying things right now that I’ve never said to anyone before. I must be going a little crazy."

  "Standing in the dark in a prison cell on the wrong side of the world tends to change the rules, doesn’t it?"

  She felt seduced anew by his low voice. "Then I guess that I can admit that I like your voice, too. It’s very sensual." The darkness had made her braver than usual. Perhaps brazen. And probably quite foolhardy in the bargain.

  "You’re easy to touch, Emma. Your skin reminds me of satin… smooth and incredibly soft."

  Stunned by the awe she heard in his voice, she trembled beneath his gentle stroking, but she didn’t pull away. She loved the warmth and substance conveyed by his fingertips. Convinced now that he possessed a deeply sensual nature, she allowed herself to bask in the fantasies he provoked.

  "Do you play the piano?" he eventually asked.

  She felt as though he’d aske
d her if she would consider making love with him. He had that kind of a voice, she realized. Seductive to the point of making her witless, and so damn erotic that he also made her acutely aware of her very limited experience with men.

  "Emma?"

  "Did your cell come equipped with a crystal ball?"

  Instead of answering her right away, David slowly trailed a fingertip along the inside curve of her thumb. He lingered at the plump base, his touch light but also provocative. Emma shivered in response.

  "You’ve got the finger length and spread of a pianist. My mother and sister both play," he continued. "They insist that the hands go a long way in determining success or failure at the piano, especially for a woman."

  "I’m not very good at it."

  "I suspect that you're very good at everything you do."

  Shaken by his suggestive tone, she felt her heart lurch in her chest. Her only lover, a man long relegated to her past, had rarely praised her. If anything, he’d found fault with everything she did or dreamed of doing, especially when it concerned Child Feed.

  "Hardly, but I try," she finally murmured.

  David slid his fingertips to her wrist. Emma held her breath and waited for his shock when he discovered her madly hammering pulse.

  "Since I’ve been here, I’ve wondered over and over again if I’d ever touch a woman again." He loosely circled her wrist with his fingers. "You’re so delicate and finely–boned, the least amount of pressure could damage you beyond repair."

  She laughed softly, thinking of the heavy luggage she routinely hauled around the world.

  "What’s so funny?"

  "I’m a lot tougher than you can imagine."

  "Are you trying to tell me that you eat nails for breakfast and then lift five–hundred pound weights just for the hell of it?"

  "No exactly, but I’m certainly no cream puff." She purposely shifted the conversation back to David. How else would she be able to satisfy her growing curiosity about him and retrieve herself from the sensual pool in which she was currently drowning? "You aren’t a small man, are you?"

  He chuckled. "Hardly, I was a linebacker in college. My coach claimed I had what it took to turn pro, but it wasn’t what I wanted."