by Laura Taylor
EMMA AND David raced out of the prison compound and into a night punctuated by bursts of small arms fire and rocked by exploding mortar shells and rocket rounds. They spent four harrowing hours navigating narrow back alleys and dark, deserted streets.
For the most part, they escaped the notice of groups of heavily armed rebels and the clusters of wailing civilians trying to douse the fires caused by incoming rockets that now threatened to destroy their homes. They also dodged assorted contingents of military personnel still loyal to the dictator who commanded them from an underground bunker in his presidential palace.
All the while, Emma held her emotions in check despite the peril they faced. She focused on the safest route to Mary Winthrop’s house. She guided David through a maze of shabby neighborhoods, park-like settings that boasted towering steel statues of the country’s dictator, and the now abandoned open-air markets of the sprawling, war-torn capital city.
At one point they drew the attention of a group of youths, who stood atop the flatbeds of their trucks and fired handguns and rifles into the night sky. When the young men turned their weapons on them, David grabbed Emma’s hand and they fled the area. They ducked down into a dry drainage ditch, dove behind a mound of debris, and held tight to one another as the youths raced by in their battered pick-ups a few minutes later.
Soon after, they resumed their trek to Mary Winthrop’s neighborhood. Twice they were forced to scale stacked pallets of imported foreign goods, first behind a small store and then in a lot adjacent to an unguarded warehouse, in order to avoid roving packs of wild dogs.
When they finally reached Mary’s home, both were sweat-drenched and exhausted. They paused beneath a shadowed overhang. Emma knocked on the front door with as much discretion as possible. No one answered the door despite her persistent knocking, which prompted David to circle the house in order to investigate alternate points of entry.
When he rejoined her, she cast a worried glance at him. “Any sign of Mary?”
He shook his head.
“Maybe we should try to make it to the Canadian embassy.”
David frowned up at the pre-dawn sky. “I’d like nothing better, but we’re out of time. We’d be shot if we were caught on the streets right now. I’d also rather not break a window and risk drawing the neighbor’s attention.”
“The Canadian Embassy isn’t more than a mile from here,” she persisted.
“It’ll be light soon. We wouldn’t make it, Emma.”
“Then I’ll keep watch while you deal with getting us inside,” she whispered. “Mary will understand whatever damage you might need to do.”
When she started to slip away, David snagged her wrist and brought her up short. She met his gaze, certain that he sensed her mounting anxiety.
“You’re doing great, babe. I know you’re tired and frightened, but I promise you we’ll be inside in no time.”
She nodded, and she allowed herself a moment to absorb some of the strength reflected in his eyes. Then, she eased free of his grasp and sidled along the enclosed garden wall to the front gate.
Two-story residences loomed on both sides of Mary’s interior garden, but Emma saw no betraying movement in the heavy window coverings and she heard not a hint that anyone occupied the interiors of the dwellings. She hoped that the chaos in the city had caused many locals to flee in favor of safety with relations in other, more remote parts of the country.
Despite being clad in a concealing burqa and the cloak-like abaya, Emma still feared being recognized as a Westerner and reported to the secret police by an early-rising neighbor. The thought of being taken into custody again, not to mention the very real threat of gang rape and a public execution as penance for escaping the cellblock, made her blood run cold. She refused to even consider the torture that would be inflicted on David. The dawn, poised to spill across the sky in a matter of minutes, simply added to her escalating tensions.
A few minutes later, David found her crouched to one side of the front gate behind a thorny shrub and cautiously peering out at the abandoned side street.
“Come on,” he whispered. “Door’s open.”
With him in the lead, they quickly retraced her original route down the length of the interior garden wall. He pushed open the front door and stepped aside, allowing her to slip into the house ahead of him. She didn’t bother to ask how he’d managed to release the door’s lock. She didn’t care. He’d done it, and that was sufficient.
Emma only made it as far as the living room. Once there, she paused for a silent thank you to whatever deity had chosen to aid them. Yanking the burqa from her head and shrugging out of the abaya, she tossed aside the garments and wrapped her arms around herself to dispel the sudden chill suffusing her body.
David secured the deadbolt, taking the added precaution of shifting a bulky chest into position before the double front doors. Then, he inspected the entire two-bedroom dwelling to assure himself that all of the windows were covered and the rear door was locked. When he returned to the living room, he found Emma standing stock-still on an ornate rug, eyes closed and arms wrapped around her trembling body.
He moved forward, pausing less than a foot from her. He lowered the lighted candle cradled in a shallow bowl that he’d found in the kitchen onto a nearby coffee table. Then, he straightened and stepped even closer, drawing her forward and into his arms. He held her then, waiting while her respiration slowed and she regained her composure.
Finally, she heaved a ragged sigh and opened her eyes. “Sorry.”
“Why?”
“I think the last three weeks just caught up with me.”
Embarrassed, she lifted her head. She looked at him then – really looked at him. Her senses registered a weary smile, as well as the hard featured facial expression of a man who’d endured the rigors of nearly three months of captivity.
“One of your famous delayed reactions?” he asked as he stroked her back with his big hands. “I seem to remember a few of those happening during the last few weeks.”
“No kidding.” She shoved at the heavy fall of midnight black hair no longer restrained by the veil she’d been forced to wear.
He studied her for a long moment. “I was right about you. You’re beautiful.”
“I’m a disaster … and filthy.”
“Okay … a beautiful disaster who needs a bath, clean clothes, and some decent food.”
She smiled faintly, her gaze steady as she returned his perusal. “That covers part of what I need.”
He stilled. “What else do you need?”
“You … but I want to be clean first.”
Her directness shouldn’t have surprised him, but his darkening eyes told a different tale – as did the tightening of his hands at her waist when he brought her against his aroused body.
She relaxed into him, curves molding to muscle. The hard length of his sex pressed against the cradle of her upper thighs. Looking up at him, she shifted even nearer as a shaken breath escaped her.
“I’m so hungry for you,“ he said, his voice a low erotic rumble.
She nodded, her eyes fixed on the hard lines of his face. An electrical current of desire, as well as something even more intense, arced between them. She felt the sweep of his searing gaze across her lips, the not so subtle dig of his fingers at her waist, and the stark evidence of his desire – for her. It was in that moment that she grasped the true depth of his hunger – for her. She grasped it for one very simple reason – it matched her own – for him.
Expectation and anticipation accelerated her heartbeat. Reaching up, she smoothed back the lock of hair that had fallen across his forehead before she trailed her fingertips down the side of his strong jaw and then traced his lips with a single fingertip. David captured her hand, pressing her open palm to his lips. And a thousand fiery sensations spilled into her bloodstream.
“I need you, Emma.”
“Soon,” she promised, “because I need you, too.” She lingered in his arms, her gaze riveted to his r
ugged face. The desire to be absorbed into his flesh and bones sang in her veins, but common sense prevailed. “First, though, I must bathe.“
“First things first,” he agreed.
He stepped back, reclaimed the small bowl that contained the lighted candle, and then clasped one of her hands. He led her into the kitchen, pausing before a well-stocked pantry.
Emma smiled. “Mary’s always ready to feed an army.”
He gestured to the contents of the pantry. “Why don’t you get cleaned up while I put together some kind of a meal for us?”
“You deserve to go first,” she reminded him.
He shook his head. “Ladies first. Now, get going. If you need anything, tap on the wall.”
