Dance with the Devil

by Sandy Curtis

  Instinct scuttled warning vibes down his spine. He stepped back.

  The man stepped forward, deliberately, unhurriedly, until he was within reaching distance. AA noticed his hands, big, work-roughened hands, swinging lazily at his sides. He looked again into the man's eyes, and terror squeezed his heart.

  He felt the hands close around his neck.

  His own hands reached up, gripped steel-muscled forearms. His nails tore skin in futile desperation.

  The hands tightened, lifted him. His hiking boots scraped rock, then kicked in the air.

  'Ask for His forgiveness.'

  Aloysius Abercrombie, circuit judge, lover of fine wine and offbeat humour, heard the words through a dim haze as powerful fingers cut off the blood supply to his brain.

  The last sound he heard was his own spine snapping.

  'Where, Carly?' Drew's voice cut like steel through the girl's hysterical yelling.

  'The toilet!'

  Then they were all running after Drew as he sprinted for the door.

  The toilets for The Centre were situated between the kitchen and a small storage room, and in the few seconds it took Drew to reach them, he felt he'd aged a hundred years. Not another one! He didn't know if he could cope with being the catalyst for another murder.

  Drew pushed his way through the throng of teenagers. Seeing the unfamiliar body lying on the tiles brought no sense of relief. The boy looked about sixteen, red-haired and skinny. The rubber tubing and hypodermic beside him told its own story.

  'Let me look.' Emma knelt beside him. Quickly she checked the boy's vital signs. 'He's alive,' she said grimly, 'but only just.' She tossed her car keys to Drew. 'Call an ambulance and get my bag.'

  The ambulance wailed its way through the traffic, slamming to a halt outside the Emergency entrance.

  Emma gave the admitting nurse a medical run-down on the boy the other kids knew only as 'Baker' as he was trolleyed in. A doctor barked orders and a young nurse scurried in compliance.

  Emma walked out into the waiting room and sank onto a chair. She hated death in the young and fought it with a vengeance. She wondered about Baker, about what had brought him so close to death by his own hand. In her work, she'd seen so many young lives lost because of famine and war, and she had mourned the waste. To see life squandered on drugs was something she found abhorrent.

  The minutes ticked by. A magazine flipped slowly through her fingers but her mind didn't register the words.

  A middle-aged couple rushed into the room, Drew following behind them. The man spoke to a nurse and they were ushered into the casualty ward.

  Drew walked over and sat beside Emma.

  'How is he?'

  'They're working on him.'

  'He'd dropped his wallet outside the toilet. One of the kids gave it to me.' He sat down on the chair next to her. 'I went to see his parents. A phone call's too callous at a time like this.'

  She looked at him. And saw him, really saw him, for the first time. Saw the caring and compassion that was as much a part of his nature as his strength and determination. She thought the caring he had shown her had sprung from his gratitude. Now she recognised in Drew the qualities she'd sought and never found in the man she'd married. It was a startling revelation. One she'd need time to come to grips with.

  'Did they know - about the drugs?'

  'They'd suspected something was wrong, but they'd blamed adolescent hormonal swings. Allan's their only child.'

  'And if he dies, they have nothing,' she sighed.

  Drew reached out and covered her hand with his. Emma looked down at his hand, the long, strong fingers, the ugly red wound in the centre. She shuddered. If the killer had succeeded in getting the cross upright, Drew's weight would have caused the nails to rip through his hands and possibly cripple him for life.

  She turned her fingers to twine with his.

  An hour later, Allan's parents walked back into the waiting room. Their faces were strained but Emma hoped she wasn't mistaken at the relief in their eyes.

  They stopped in front of Emma. The woman clutched her husband's arm as though she would fall down if she let go. 'Thank you,' she said to Emma. 'The doctor said if you hadn't treated Allan before the ambulance arrived, he wouldn't have made it to the hospital. At least now he's got a chance…a chance to…' Sobs racked her body.

  Her husband hugged her tightly and led her away.

  Emma watched them with sadness. Their battle had only just begun.

  Drew drove the Land Cruiser slowly back to The Centre.

  Emma watched his tight grip on the steering wheel, the drawn brows betraying his intense concentration, and a funny sensation fluttered in her heart.

  'Why did you start The Centre, Drew?'

  'It was needed,' he replied simply, and she knew it was the only explanation she would get. But she remembered what he'd told her about becoming a street kid himself and the girl who'd died of a drug overdose, and she felt she knew the answer. The title of an article she'd read sprang to mind - Who's looking after the children?

  A smile touched her lips. Drew was.

  'Drugs aren't allowed in The Centre,' Drew mused. 'Allan must have been desperate to shoot up there. Hopefully it was a cry for help. If he's willing, he can start counselling with Diane as soon as he's well enough.'

  'And if he's not willing?'

  Drew shrugged. 'We won't give up. But in the end, it's up to him.'

  Emma frowned. Drew was as dedicated in his own way as she was in hers. It added another dimension to his personality, which she was finding increasingly hard to ignore.

  When Drew stopped in front of The Centre, he didn't turn off the engine. Instead, he turned to her as he opened his door.

  'I have some work to do. I'll see you back at your mother's place. Keep an eye out when you're driving home. If you see a white van following you, drive straight to a police station.' He smiled, but it didn't relieve the haunted look that had returned to his eyes.

  Emma walked around to the driver's side and got in. Disappointment nagged at her. Of course there was no reason for her to stay. Drew had his own vehicle now and was back where he belonged. Why should she feel like he'd cut her out of his life? She should be pleased - it was exactly what she wanted to do to him. But damn him! It didn't feel half the relief she thought it would.

  She tried to shift her thoughts and concentrate on the tasks in front of her. First on the list was arranging her father's funeral, then seeing his lawyers. Out of some perverse sense of guilt, she had refused her mother's offer to help. If her father had not thought Emma competent while he was alive, she was sure as hell going to show him how well she handled his death!

  Drew heard the Land Cruiser roar off and paused as he entered The Centre. Emma certainly was in a hurry to get away. Pain shafted through him. If she had her way, it would be as soon as possible. He breathed a sigh of gratitude for the slow turning of legal wheels. Emma would be here for a long time yet while her father's estate was being wound up. Time enough, he hoped, to convince her that he was in her life for good.

  But now he needed some time alone.

  He couldn't think straight when she was around. He'd tasted the sweetness of her body once, and it hadn't been enough. He'd been a perpetually coiled spring since, craving what she was determined not to give him - herself. Not just for sex, though he hungered for that with a desperation which gave him an insight into a drug addict's craving, but that connection with her emotions which would finally let him into her heart.

  In his office he turned on his computer, wondering how far his secretary had got in her bid to input all his case histories. He'd been working for himself for several years, and if he had to look up each case manually it was going to be a long day.

  Frustrating. There was no other way to describe it.

  Drew was working on the hypothesis that whoever had kidnapped him was in some way connected to one of his cases; and that Dario's murder had happened because of their friendship. Then
he switched tactics, and tried looking for any connection between himself and Dario and the killer, but he and Dario had faced each other in the courtroom so often he would need a more definitive connection than that.

  Six-thirty, and he still hadn't made any headway. Between the frustration with his search, his sexual frustration and his nagging urge to see Emma again, his concentration had all but disappeared. He turned off the computer.

  Diane had switched off most of the lights when she'd left at five o'clock, but Drew checked the toilets and the small storage room before switching off the rest of the lights and locking the main door. Diane's husband had driven Drew's Rodeo in that afternoon and parked it at the front of The Centre. As he threw his bags in the back seat, Drew caught a fleeting movement behind him and whirled swiftly.

  A dark shape separated from the recessed entrance of the closed takeaway.

  'We've been keeping an eye on things for you, Mr J.' Dale's voice echoed softly in the peaceful night.

  Drew smiled. There had been a world of hostility and bitterness in Dale when he'd first started hanging around The Centre. When Dale's mother had approached Drew to defend him two months later, Drew was privately convinced nothing would change the sullen young man. But as he fought to convince Dale he had a future worth striving for, Dale had begun to hope. And with the hope came a willingness to break down the barriers his father's desertion had erected.

  Then Carly had announced she was pregnant. Within hours, Dale was pleading with Drew to keep him out of jail so he could be there for his child. When the community service sentence was handed down, Dale had promised Drew he'd never see him in court again.

  Drew held out his hand to the young man. 'Thanks, Dale. I know I can count on you.'

  He watched the swell of pride in Dale's chest and smiled as the dark hand gripped his firmly. With Dale and his street-wise mates keeping surveillance on The Centre, it was one thing less for Drew to worry about.

  As Drew drove up to Emma's mother's house, he noticed the Land Cruiser wasn't parked in the carport. A small twinge of worry nagged him. Emma should have been home by now. Perhaps she'd gone out again.

  He dropped his bags at the front door and rang the bell. Within seconds the door opened. Trish smiled, then looked past him and frowned.

  'Where's Emma?'

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Fear, cold and heavy, clawed into Drew's guts. 'Isn't she home? She left hours ago.'

  'I've been here all afternoon. She hasn't come in.' Drew's worry echoed in Trish's eyes, in her voice.

  'Damn!' Drew picked up his bags and swung them inside. He unhooked his mobile phone from his belt and dialled Mick's mobile number. Within seconds, Mick growled a grumpy 'Hello'.

  Fighting to control his worry, Drew queried Mick regarding traffic accidents or anything that could give him a clue to Emma's whereabouts. But Mick had no answers for him.

  He turned to Trish as he finished. 'Did Emma say she was going anywhere else after she dropped me off?'

  'Only to the gallery.'

  'The Regional Gallery?'

  'No, no. The Boutique Gallery. J.D.'s stepsister Kirri and I run a small shop selling our paintings and various crafts from other Cairns artists. I'd asked Emma to pop in if she had time and pick up a painting of mine. Kirri had phoned and said it was damaged.'

  Just then they heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Trish sighed with relief as Emma's Land Cruiser came up the driveway.

  'Thank heavens,' she breathed, and turned to walk inside. 'I'll go and finish cooking dinner.'

  As the Land Cruiser pulled into the carport, Drew wrenched the door open.

  'Where the hell have you been?'

  'Picking up my mother's painting.' She frowned at the deep scowl marring his features. Why was he so concerned? He couldn't wait to be rid of her this afternoon.

  'Something that should have taken an hour at the most.' Drew glared at her, then at his watch. 'Not till after seven at night.'

  Emma's temper flared. She jumped out of the vehicle and pulled open the back door. She'd spent a miserable afternoon wondering why he'd suddenly changed into the ice man, now here he was acting as though she'd violated parole. 'Since when have my comings and goings been any of your business?'

  Drew grabbed her arm and spun her to face him. 'Since some lunatic forced me through an audition for the Easter pageant and used my best friend as a sacrificial lamb!'

  His anger escalated. How could she stand there looking so unperturbed and so…so…beautiful, while he'd aged five years in the five minutes he'd thought something could have happened to her!

  He pulled her into his arms. His lips found hers, hungrily seeking the sweetness, the warmth, his body and soul craved.

  She stiffened in surprise. He felt the rigidity in her body and used his hands, his strength, to mould her against him.

  The desperation in his kiss touched her, made her ache. She melted into him, feeling the hot, hard contours of his body against hers, moaning softly into his mouth.

  That little sound of need ripped the guts out of Drew. He exploded with a depth of passion that ground his hips against hers, his swollen, rigid flesh a declaration of his own need.

  Emma flared in his arms, all thought of keeping a barrier between them extinguished. For too long she'd denied the sensual side of her nature, and now her body claimed its rightful due.

  Unlike their kiss of the previous night, when they'd sought comfort from each other after the shock of Dario's death, this was pure lust, a wild, primitive compulsion to brand and be branded, a savage demand to answer the need in the other.

  Drew wanted to throw Emma to the ground and take her on the soft grass, bury himself inside her and make her his in every way he could think of. But he fought to regain some control. They were bathed in the soft glow of light from the front veranda, and some tiny modicum of sense warned him that Trish may be observing them from inside the house.

  With a groan of pure frustration, he pulled away from Emma. His deep ragged breaths seemed unnaturally loud in the quiet evening and the blood pounding through his veins seemed no less noisy.

  Dazedly, Emma stumbled back against the open door, suddenly bereft of the heat and passion her body craved. She looked up at Drew, and her breathing stopped at the fierce hunger blazing in his eyes. Before she could recover, he reached past her and grabbed the painting.

  She watched him stride past her mother, who'd come out and was standing on the front veranda.

  Only then did she register the soft smile on her mother's face.

  The next morning Trish rose early and went into her studio to repair the painting. Her husband had had the studio built when he'd seen Trish's talent blossom under the guidance of her art teacher. A covered courtyard joined it to the wing of the house that contained the main bedroom - far enough away from the visitors' wing to give privacy and seclusion.

  She mixed paint and proceeded to blend it into the scraped area, grateful the canvas had not been affected. As usual when painting, she quickly became absorbed in her task, and it was only when a gentle hand touched her shoulder that she realised Emma had come into the room.

  'I'm sorry for worrying you last night, Mum. Kirri wanted to talk to me on a professional basis about her daughter and the time just flew.'

  Trish shrugged. With a daughter who worked in the most troubled countries in the world, worry had become second nature. 'I think you should be saying that to Drew,' she commented.

  The hand on her shoulder tensed and moved away. Placing her brush and palette on the bench, Trish turned to her daughter.

  'He was worried sick about you, Emma. He really cares about you.'

  'I don't want him to care about me! And I don't want to care about him. I don't need to make another mistake. He has a life here that means a lot to him - you only have to look at how he is with those kids.' Emma gazed intently at the soft hues of a half-finished seascape as though it would provide her with answers. 'I'd go insane if I had to prac
tise in a normal clinic, Mum. You know that.'

  'Has he asked you to do that? From what you told me last night about The Centre, Drew doesn't seem to be very conventional in his attitudes.'

  A faint wisp of a smile threatened Emma's lips. No, 'conventional' certainly didn't apply to Drew. Other people might support worthy causes, but not too many actually lived them. She couldn't stop the gentle glow that thinking about his compassion for the street kids brought. A man as caring as that…She shook the thought away.

  'Emma, you know I loved your father, and how hard I tried to make our marriage work. I read his diary you gave me, and it made me weep for all the bitter, wasted years. He could have had a much happier life if only he'd allowed himself.'

  Trish reached up and touched Emma's cheek. She loved her daughter fiercely, and it broke her heart to see her refuse to acknowledge her true feelings. 'You went into aid work for all the right reasons, and you've given many years of wonderful service. But don't make the same mistake your father did. Don't use work as an excuse not to let yourself love.'

  'Love? How do you know what love is, Mum? How do you know if someone is worth changing your life for?'

  Trish's chuckle surprised Emma. She watched the bemused smile on her mother's face as Trish reached out to hug her.

  'Oh, darling,' the words whispered in her ear as Trish embraced her, 'you'll know. You'll know.'

  They walked into the kitchen just as Drew did, and Trish felt the tension arc between him and Emma.

  Last night they'd been freezingly polite to one another and Trish would have been surprised if either of them had slept well.

  In spite of his short-sleeved chambray shirt and butt-hugging blue jeans, Drew looked as though he should be going to bed for a good night's sleep. Fatigue lines edged his eyes, and their normal brilliant blue had dulled a little.

  Trish gave up trying to talk to either of them as they ate breakfast. Instead, she watched the covert glances one would throw at the other, and the pretended indifference when caught out.