He let her use the butter first before he slathered some on his new pancakes. He’d taken a big bite when Emily’s voice broke into his eating.
“Paul, I really need to thank you for everything you did yesterday.”
Paul felt awkward, as he always did when she tried to thank him so earnestly, and he tried to shrug it away.
“I mean it,” she persisted, trying to catch his eyes. “I want to say this. I was out of it for most of yesterday, but I know what it must have been like for you, what you had to do to take care of me. I know I didn't act grateful yesterday, but I am. It means so much to me that you did that.”
Paul’s chest felt very uncomfortable from both the tone and the sentiment of this conversation, so he stuffed another bite of pancake into his mouth and didn’t meet her eyes.
“But I have to say that I don’t think you should have to do that again.”
He had to swallow before he opened his mouth to object, so Emily had time to talk over him.
“I’m serious, Paul. It’s not that I don’t appreciate everything you did. But I don’t want you to have to do all that. It’s not your job. You shouldn’t have to do it.”
“I’ve told you before,” he muttered, “You’re my responsibility.”
“I know that. I know you’re serious about that. It means so much to me. But you can fulfill that responsibility, you can make sure I’m taken care of, without doing it all yourself. I really want…I would like for you to hire a nurse for next time. It’s just going to get worse. You can’t do it all yourself. I don’t want you to. It will be so much easier with a nurse.”
Paul stared at her, his immediate reaction one of irrational possessiveness, an inexplicable resentment at the thought of someone else, a stranger, caring for Emily when she was so sick and vulnerable. She was his wife. She was his to take care of. It was his job.
But he could feel that dark, gaping hole of yesterday still looming at the back of his mind, waiting to swallow him up. A few specific memories pierced through the fog of helplessness and anxiety.
She’d been tossing frantically on her bed, crying brokenly to him for help. He hadn’t been able to help her.
She’d been delirious, screaming at him for lying to her, abandoning her, letting her aunt die. She’d been beating at him with her fists. He’d been desperate, absolutely desperate, with no idea what to do.
She'd been naked and writhing as he tried to get her into the bathtub without her drowning or knocking herself unconscious on the side of the tub.
She'd tossed in the bed, in horrible pain, for hour after hour after hour. And all he could do was sit and watch her.
The idea of living through that again was so awful it almost pulled him down into that dark, gaping hole.
Emily was offering him an escape, though. A way out.
He could still take care of her, fulfill his responsibilities, but not live through that again.
“I don’t know,” he said slowly, that weird flash of possessiveness rearing up once more.
“Please, Paul.” Emily’s voice held an almost desperate plea. “Tell me you’ll have a nurse ready for next time. I never would have done this to you if I thought you’d have to do…do all that.”
“Okay,” Paul agreed, letting himself grasp at the only way out of the gaping hole that threatened to claim him. “If that’s what you want, I’ll get a nurse.” A clench in his gut and his chest that he hadn’t been consciously aware of relaxed as he made the decision.
This would be better. So much safer. He could get the best nurse money could buy to take care of Emily when she was sick. He wouldn’t have to see her suffer like that. He wouldn’t have to watch helplessly and grope blindly for some way to make her feel better.
She would still be taken care of, but it wouldn’t have to hurt him so much.
With that, and with the relief from the snuffing of those guilty sexual thoughts about someone who was off-limits to him in every way, Paul thought he could make it through this marriage without being completely torn apart.
* * *
Paul told Emily he was going into his room to make some calls about rescheduling their trip to Egypt.
He did call the administrative assistant who worked for him and asked her to make all of the arrangements, using the itinerary he’d originally set up but changing it for them to fly out tomorrow instead of Sunday.
Then he called someone else.
He was told he was being foolish. He was told his request was impossible. He was told there was absolutely nothing that could be done in three months.
Paul understood the nature of medical research. There were no quick fixes. Effective drugs took years and years to develop. But it was possible they wouldn’t have to start from scratch.
The doctors and the FBI hadn’t been able to find any evidence, but he wasn’t convinced this virus was accidental or random. If his father was somehow involved, then the doctors wouldn’t have to start from square one for a cure.
There might already be one in existence.
When he hung up, he called up his lawyer and got a referral to one of the best private investigation firms in the Philadelphia area. Then he made a couple more calls until he was able to talk to the person he wanted.
Someone needed to get into his father’s research facility and find out whether biological weapons were part of the research there, and Paul himself obviously couldn’t do it.
He wasn’t going to tell Emily. She’d told him flat out that she didn’t want to go on a futile search for a cure or try any experimental treatments that almost certainly wouldn’t work.
But it seemed ludicrous not to try at all, so Paul got the private investigator on the case.
He left his room and heard the television on in the parlor, so he wandered over to find her. He didn’t see her until he came around the sofa that was facing the fireplace and plasma television.
She was sound asleep, curled up on the sofa. It wasn’t even noon, but she must have crashed, exhausted after her ordeal the day before.
She was his wife. She wasn’t even eighteen yet, and she had no one but him to help her.
She was huddled up tightly, and he thought maybe she was cold, so he went to get a soft, knit throw from a chair. He draped it over her, tucking it around her shoulders. She clutched at the throw instinctively in her sleep, nestling into it.
Paul gazed down at her, carefully assessing his reactions. He was once again relieved when he wasn’t taunted by any wayward thoughts regarding her. Hopefully, he was past that now and could concentrate on what was more important.
Emily trusted him. She was depending on him for help. She didn’t have anyone else.
There wasn’t much of a chance, but a slim chance was better than nothing.
Maybe he could save her.
Maybe she didn’t have to die.
* * *
Something was wrong with their suite.
They’d arrived in Cairo late in the day and had been taken by hired car to their hotel. Then the private concierge had shown them up to their rooms.
Emily was ecstatic—on an exhausted high from the long flight and the excitement of finally being in Egypt. She was transparently thrilled by the gorgeous suite, which somehow managed to look exotic, historic, and luxurious all at once.
She’d made a circle of the main sitting area, almost clapping her hands with delight over the antique furniture, chandelier, and rich fabrics. Then she had seen the French doors that led out to the large terrace and had given a squeal as she’d stepped out and gazed at the view from their vantage point on the highest floor of the hotel.
Beyond a lovely stretch of green trees and foliage of the city’s botanical gardens, they could see the sun setting behind the Great Pyramids in the distance.
The concierge smiled paternally at Emily’s pleasure. “This suite has perhaps the best views in the entire city.” He spoke in beautifully articulated British English.
It was true. Paul couldn
’t deny it. The long-suppressed romantic part of his nature thrilled at the gorgeous view and the millennia-long history it evoked.
Bu he knew there was something wrong with this suite.
All of the furniture was elegant, built from dark, polished woods and upholstered in sumptuous fabrics. The hardwood floors gleamed, and the art was tasteful and soothing. The four-poster bed in the adjoining room was huge, with silk bedding and a gauzy canopy.
He walked into the bedroom and saw it had the same incredible view of the Pyramids. The connecting bathroom had a marble walk-in shower and a huge claw-foot soaking tub.
Paul returned to the sitting area, where the concierge was waiting patiently for Paul’s approval.
But Paul didn’t approve. There were no more doors off the sitting area.
This suite only had one bedroom. Only one bed.
“Paul, come look!” Emily called out. “It’s amazing!”
“Just a minute.”
He walked over to the concierge. “This isn’t the suite I’d originally requested, is it?”
The concierge’s brows drew together in concern. “No, Mr. Marino. This is the honeymoon suite. When you had to reschedule your reservations, the suite you’d requested was no longer available. But I told your assistant that this suite was equally spacious and had an even better view, and she said since you and your wife are newly married it should work perfectly. Is it not to your liking, sir?”
Paul felt tense and wasn’t sure what to say. He murmured to the concierge that he needed to speak with his wife for a moment, and then he went to join Emily on the balcony.
“Isn’t it perfect?” Emily gushed, turning to look at Paul. “I can’t believe I’m really here. And we get to look at this for three days!” She stretched out her arms toward the lush view as if she wanted to embrace it.
Paul’s heart was beating faster with pressing tension. Emily had suffered so much in the last few months. She'd suffered so much two days ago. And this suite, this view, was making her happy.
He hated to disappoint her, but something would have to be done.
“I’m sorry, Emily,” he said in a low voice, so the concierge inside wouldn’t overhear. “We may need to change rooms.”
“No!” Emily cried, her face twisting in disappointment. “Why? This is perfect. This is the suite I want.”
“I know. I know you like it. But you need to know something.” He cleared his throat. “There was a mix-up when our reservations were changed, and they gave us a suite with only one bedroom.”
Emily blinked, taking a minute to process what he said. “Oh.”
“So, you see, we might need to move. We can stay here if you want, but we’ll have to somehow make do with one room.”
“Oh.”
Paul waited.
Emily looked back at the pink, orange, and violet sunset behind the peaks of the Pyramids. “Will the new suite have this same view?”
“No. I’m sorry. We may, in fact, have to have two separate rooms.” He didn’t like that idea at all. He didn’t like not being around if Emily needed him, but she had to choose what would make her most comfortable. “So, we can stay here with only one bedroom, or we could move to different rooms.”
“Let’s just stay,” she concluded. She’d been staring out at the view, but now she slanted him an ironic look. “We’re married, after all. I’m sure we can manage. I just couldn’t bear to give this up.”
Paul murmured an acknowledgement of her decision. Noticed she had a little smile on her face and assumed she was taking pleasure in the view again. Then went to tip the relieved concierge and tell him the suite was excellent.
As the bellhops carried their luggage into the bedroom, Paul stood watching.
It would probably be all right. He and Emily got along fine, even in close quarters. The bed was huge. And fortunately all of those inappropriate thoughts he’d been entertaining had been snuffed out by the sight of Emily’s helpless suffering.
Sharing the room would be no problem.
The bedroom looked like it belonged in a honeymoon suite. It wasn’t tasteless or crass, of course. Like the rest of the suite, it was lovely and elegant, but the bedding was lush and sensual. There was a huge vase of red roses and orchids on the table and a silver bucket holding chilled champagne and two crystal flutes beside the flowers.
Quite against his will, Paul’s mind flashed to the image of Emily—looking like a wet dream in that new dress that left nothing to the imagination, with tousled hair, sophisticated makeup, and bare legs above her high heels. The sight of her so sexy that evening in New York had been like a hard kick in his gut.
Other parts of his body had reacted too.
Then he thought about her a few nights ago in the kitchen, when she’d woken him up in the middle of the night. She’d been wearing what looked to him like underwear, although maybe they were supposed to be shorts.
Whatever they were, they’d displayed more of her luscious ass than he could handle. Then she’d stroked the scars on his back. There was something about her deep sympathy and tenderness that he’d wanted, he’d needed. But his body had infuriatingly misinterpreted the stimulus and had leapt into eager arousal. He’d been achingly hard, from just a few brushes of her fingers on his back and the knowledge of how little she'd been wearing. He’d panicked when he realized that his pajama pants wouldn’t hide anything.
He’d used the refrigerator door as some sort of barrier, and he didn’t think she’d noticed his response.
Paul took a deep breath. He was over that now. He wasn’t going to react that way to her again. She was sick and only seventeen years old.
For thirteen more days.
He stared at the big bed, the only bed in the suite. He imagined Emily climbing into it with him tonight, wearing next to nothing. He imagined rolling over and feeling her lush curves pressed against him in the dark. He imagined her hands on his skin, stroking him, caressing him. He imagined her looking at him the way she was looking at the view, with the same uninhibited passion.
His body clenched with the kind of deeply physical interest that was supposed to have been snuffed out. He felt a familiar tightening in his groin.
He swallowed hard.
Maybe he would just sleep on the couch.
***
Paul was propped up on the bed with his laptop in his lap. He was pretending to work, but he was mostly just waiting for Emily to come out of the bathroom.
He’d suggested he sleep on the sofa in the sitting room, but Emily had been astonished and appalled by the idea because the antique sofa was too short for his height. He’d had to drop the subject completely when she started to make noises about sleeping on the couch herself, if Paul was so uncomfortable about sharing the bed with her.
After a delicious dinner from room service on the terrace, Emily declared herself exhausted. She was going to take a bath and go to bed.
He’d tried to busy himself in the sitting room, thinking it might be easier to come to bed much later than Emily, when she would hopefully already be asleep. However, she’d apparently found his procrastination strange and asked again if she should just sleep on the couch.
Paul was not about to let Emily sleep on anything except a bed, so he’d told her he was coming into the bedroom momentarily.
She’d been in the bathroom for twenty-five minutes now, evidently enjoying a leisurely bath, and Paul was having a very hard time not imagining what she looked like, naked and sensual, relaxing in hot, fragrant bubbles.
When he heard her moving around behind the closed door of the bathroom, he knew she’d gotten out of the tub. He felt his heartbeat speed up a little, and his skin broke out in a faint sweat. He tried to force down the reaction. His body was responding as though he were about to have sex as soon as Emily got into bed with him, when he knew very well that wasn’t going to happen.
He stared fixedly at his laptop as the bathroom door opened and the spicy, pleasant scent of ginger and vanilla
wafted over to him.
“Do you always work in bed?” Emily asked, stopping in the middle of the room to look at him.
At the sound of her voice, he couldn’t help but shift his gaze over to where she stood. His body tightened with interest as soon as he saw her.
He’d been hoping she would be a little self-conscious about sharing the bed and would thus choose one of her less revealing sleep outfits. No such luck. She looked lovely and utterly tempting in a little tank-and-short set in a smoky purple satin. There was nothing overtly sexy about the simple cut of the top or shorts—he knew she wasn’t trying to turn him on. But the color highlighted her fair skin and her shiny, tousled hair. The soft fabric looked like it wanted to be touched and clung to the curve of her breasts. One thin strap was slipping down her shoulder, and the slight flare of the shorts emphasized her hips.
“Do you?” she prompted, since he hadn’t answered her earlier question. She lowered her eyes.
Paul tore his hot gaze away from her, reminding himself with ruthless determination that she was seventeen, she was sick, and she wasn’t for him. “Sometimes,” he said, finally answering her question. “But I was just going through some email until you were finished in the bathroom.”
“Oh,” she said, slanting him a shy little look that was irresistible, tantalizing.
He cleared his throat and was glad the laptop covered his groin. His body had leapt to attention in every way. “I need to shower after the flight too.”
“Oh,” she said again, this time with a different resonance. “I’m sorry. I should have let you use the bathroom first, since I took so long with my bath. Was I too slow?”
“No, no. You weren’t slow at all. This worked out well. I wanted to clear out my email anyway.”
Emily had walked over to her side of the bed and turned down the covers. “I’m going to get a bottle of water,” she said, “Did you want one too?”
“Sure.”
She padded out of the bedroom to get the bottles of water from the refrigerator in the kitchen, and Paul took that opportunity to set down his laptop and get into the bathroom before Emily could notice his physical condition.
The bathroom smelled like Emily—strongly like ginger and vanilla from her bath but also a faint whiff of the herbal scent of her shampoo and the mint of her toothpaste.
Listed: Volume II Page 8
