Desert Rose

by Laura Taylor

  "Emma, your innocence is your best defense."

  "I hope so."

  He resumed his guidance in a measured deep voice, and she slowly responded to his patience and rational advice. She would try, she promised herself, to imitate his calmness even though she felt anything but calm.

  "Your training was thorough," she observed sometime later.

  "Survival school. It’s mandatory for all aviators."

  He paused. She sensed that he was carefully weighing his words. She wondered why, but she didn’t press him. She also wondered about David Winslow, the man. Because she couldn’t see him, she gave into the impulse to speculate. His voice implied that he was a large man. Not a pretty man, she decided, but rugged and big and broad shouldered. Emma sighed. She felt safer somehow with his sturdy image forming in her mind.

  "Look, I’ll teach you as much as I can, but I doubt you’ll need the lessons. Keeping a woman in this hellhole isn’t real bright, but then I’m not too impressed with their concept of military behavior. Half of the people I’ve encountered here are inept or inexperienced. The rest are just plain mean, and they’re the ones you’ll need to survive." David exhaled, the sound weighted by the experience of his own captivity. "But it’s more likely that they’ll just feed you poorly for a few days, try to intimidate you, and then release you to one of the embassies on good terms with the U.S. Probably the Canadians or the Brits."

  She flashed on what they’d already done to her. "What about you?"

  "Don’t worry about me." His voice sounded flat. "There’s no percentage in it."

  "But I know you exist. If they put us next to each other, perhaps they have other plans for us. Maybe they intend to use us as the star attractions in some horrendous media event." She made a choking sound. "These people televise beheadings, for God’s sake!"

  "Don’t anticipate the worst. Just plan for it."

  "An old Montana saying?" she snapped.

  "Just common sense."

  She relaxed incrementally. "I’ve been told that I lack that particular characteristic."

  "Really."

  "Yes. Sam thinks I’m hopeless, but then I suspect he believes that all women are hopeless."

  "Sam?"

  "The bane of my existence."

  "Sounds like a strange relationship," he observed.

  "Your typical love–hate, but I secretly adore him."

  "I don’t like the guy already."

  Emma laughed with soft affection. "He’s alright, just opinionated."

  "You deserve better."

  Startled by his sharpness, she pointed out, "You don’t know me well enough to know what I deserve. Sam’s like any…"

  "You’re right," he cut in, "I don’t know you at all."

  "… big brother," she finished in a whisper as she shrank back from David’s sudden brusqueness. She felt tense and frightened again. What had she said to provoke such an abrupt change in him?

  "Try to rest, but don’t use sleep as an escape from what’s happening in here. When you’re awake, get up and move around your cell. Exercise is crucial for a positive state of mind. Keep your circulation flowing and your body strong, even if you aren’t given decent rations. It’ll help to distract you when the hours drag."

  "I’m hungry," she admitted in a small voice as she absently smoothed her long black hair away from her face.

  "Ditto. Don’t expect too much. The menu is limited to boiled vegetables in a watered–down broth, crusts of bread, that kind of thing. I’ve had rice a few times, but not with any regularity, so don’t count on it, either. Service is erratic, but someone usually shows up with what passes for food around here at least once a day. I’ve lost some weight. You probably will, too, unless your people can get you an early release. Who are they, by the way?"

  "Child Feed. It’s part of the Samaritan Foundation. We focus on humanitarian issues that impact children across the globe, especially if there’s a situation involving warfare or natural disaster population displacement."

  "I know the outfit. One of the few organizations that actually uses all of its donations for the people it serves, which is saying something in this day and age."

  "That’s why I work for them."

  As they talked she worked her hair into a loose braid that trailed down the center of her back to her waist, appreciative of the information he provided in his steady, matter–of–fact voice. She found herself liking him and his willingness to share his strength.

  "How long have you been here?" she asked when he finally fell silent.

  "Too fucking long!"

  She flinched. "How long, David?"

  "Fifty–seven days."

  Stunned by his reply and amazed by his endurance, she released a ragged sigh. Nearly two months of captivity, and David Winslow still possessed courage and the ability to be compassionate to a total stranger.

  Emma finally found her voice. "Have you been allowed to speak with anyone from a friendly embassy?"

  He didn’t respond.

  "David?"

  "No," he ground out. "They haven’t let me speak to anyone. You’re the first…" An odd sound escaped him. "… the first person I’ve spoken to since I was captured and brought here."

  "Thank you."

  "For what?"

  She smiled. "For being so patient with me. You could have ignored me, and I wouldn’t have blamed you."

  "Not my style, Emma."

  His gruff voice made her want to hug him. She promised herself that she would someday. "I’ve already sensed that about you. You’re a…"

  "Christ! Not the N word."

  She laughed, and then she clapped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. "No, not the N word. Actually, decent was the word that popped into my head."

  She heard him clear his throat, then the sound of his footsteps as he paced back and forth in his cell. Uncertain what to say next, she shifted and tried to find a comfortable position while she waited for him to speak to her again.

  Because her jeans and blouse were already filthy, Emma didn’t dwell on the grime embedded into the cell’s floor. Instead, she tugged her cape around her shoulders like a shawl to ward off the damp winter chill. And she reminded herself to take deep breaths each time she felt a wave of fear start to crash over her.

  "Emma?"

  "Yes?"

  "They didn’t… you weren’t…"

  She understood what he was asking. "I wasn’t raped, although… although for a while I expected to be. As things stand, I know the possibility still exists. I won’t pretend it doesn’t. The guards just tried to terrorize me by hauling me around like a sack of grain, slapping me, or knocking me off my feet when I wasn’t tied to a wooden chair in the interrogation room."

  She heard him exhale. Relief? Worry? She couldn’t quite define the sound, but she definitely understood the crude word he uttered a heartbeat later.

  "What about you? Did they hurt you?"

  "Doesn’t matter."

  "Of course, it matters!" she exclaimed despite his dismissive comment. "Tell me the truth. Were you mistreated? I heard other people being tortured during my interrogation. So don’t think lying to me will make me feel any better, because it won’t."

  "They used me for a punching bag during the early days, but I’ve pretty much healed."

  His negligent tone served to arouse her concern. "What did they do to you?" she pressed.

  "What you’d expect in this type of a situation… just the usual shit."

  "The usual," she echoed in disbelief. "Perhaps it’s ‘the usual’ with some back–alley criminal element or terrorists, but not among civilized people capable of talking to each other. I don’t care how different cultures are," she insisted heatedly, "violence isn’t necessary and shouldn’t ever be condoned. Were you given medical care?"

  "Emma, relax." His voice reflected his amazement at her outburst. "You can’t change what’s already happened. Besides, a medic took care of me. He reset my dislocated shoulder, sutured the
worst of the cuts, and gave me some pills. Hopefully, they were antibiotics."

  "How are you now?" she questioned in the determined tone she used on intransigent government officials when they tried to thwart her efforts on behalf of refugees.

  "Fine, so change the subject."

  She sensed that he’d suffered far more than he was willing to admit. And she also sensed that she had just entered into an oddly intimate relationship with David Winslow, despite the fact that they couldn’t see or touch each other.

  "With a little luck, the scars will fade and I won’t scare all the kids in my neighborhood when I get home," he muttered.

  She laughed at the wry note in his voice. "I like your attitude."

  "Self–pity won’t cut it in here. I figured that out right away."

  "Remind me of that if I start to act like a big baby."

  She shivered, suddenly aware that the old adage—only the strong survive—would undoubtedly be tested in the hours and days ahead. Emma offered a silent prayer that she would find the strength within herself to endure the hour to hour uncertainty of imprisonment.

  "You may be untested, but you don’t strike me as the baby type. Besides, if you’ve survived the hotspots I think you have, starvation rations and filth won’t take you down."

  "I hope you’re right." She rubbed at the gooseflesh on her arms, shivering beneath her cape. "I really hope you’re right, because I certainly wouldn’t want to become the weak link on this team."

  2

  Unable to sleep despite the late hour, David listened to the sporadic bursts of gunfire from automatic weapons and the periodic grenade explosions that punctuated the night. He no longer felt alarmed by the sounds of violence, just a weary kind of resignation at what passed for normal in so much of the Middle East.

  He suspected that the skirmishes between troops loyal to the government and the various political factions that controlled segments of the capital would continue until the country’s dictator was overthrown and replaced by elected officials. Until then he expected to remain a prisoner, a potential bargaining chip to be used, or perhaps eventually disposed of, depending upon the ever–shifting political winds of this part of the world.

  He exhaled heavily and closed his large hands into fists, frustration gnawing on his nerves as he racked his brain yet again for a means of escape. Barring a minor miracle, he already knew that no successful route existed. Diplomacy would be his sole savior, even if he preferred and prayed for a covert military op. But nothing could happen unless someone even knew he was still alive.

  Restless and on edge, David abandoned his pallet and paced. He allowed himself the luxury of thinking about his family for a few moments, although he understood how self–destructive it was to linger on the emotional stress his missing–in–action status had to be inflicting on his mother and sister. Deeply concerned about them, he knew they wouldn’t give up hope and wouldn’t stop praying for his safe return.

  He shifted his thoughts to Emma Hamilton, and he experienced once gain the unexpected hunger she aroused in him. He didn’t know the reasons for her imprisonment. He simply assumed that she’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. He intended to learn the facts, but he wanted to give her time to adjust to the situation before he broached the subject with her.

  Emma.

  Not a common or contemporary name, he mused, but he already knew that she possessed uncommon qualities. He’d heard the compassion and gentleness in her voice, as well as her understandable fear. He also sensed her warmth, and he silently craved a large dose of it for himself.

  An air–raid siren screamed in the distance as David paused at the thick wall that separated their cells. He pressed both hands flat against the rough–textured surface, as though to absorb the essence of her for a few moments. Pressing his forehead to the wall, he closed his eyes and whispered, "Emma." He savored the very sound of her name.

  He half smiled as he recalled her genuine outrage that he’d been harmed by their captors. She brought to mind the image of a fierce, spitting feline. She also renewed his hunger for laughter and sex, although he grasped the futility of wishing to satisfy that latter, more elemental impulse.

  Still, he wanted to hold her, to soothe her with more than words. He also longed to be soothed and satisfied by her, to lose himself, however briefly, in what he felt certain would be her consuming, burning heat. Desire hardened his body, and he breathed a low, lethal–sounding word as he struggled with his frustration.

  Because their alliance was founded on uncertainty and fear of the unknown, and because of a man named Sam, he couldn’t expect anything more than friendly conversation from Emma Hamilton, even if the dense wall of mortar and stone blocks separating them somehow magically disappeared.

  He groaned quietly and threw back his head. Unable to dismiss the desire flowing relentlessly through him and infusing his imagination, he wondered how he could feel so hotly aroused by the voice of a woman he’d never even seen. But what little he knew about Emma prompted him to imagine her as a shapely, slim–limbed woman of medium height with yards and yards of long, coal–black hair.

  Her voice hinted at her age. Twenty–five, no more than thirty. Her skin had to be sun–kissed and as soft as satin. He tortured himself with thoughts of what it would be like to trace the curves and hollows of her body, to linger at pink–tipped breasts that would fill his hands and seduce his lips before his fingertips traveled lower to measure the width of her rounded hips.

  Trembling, he jerked away from the barrier that separated him from Emma and began to pace his cell again. He couldn’t allow himself to indulge in such fantasies. He tried to force himself to ignore his awareness of her, but he failed. Miserably.

  Lost in thought, David flinched when he heard Emma’s cry of distress. He paused in mid–stride, tension straightening his spine and tightening every muscle in his body.

  Emma screamed again, the sound chilling David’s blood. Had she lied to him? Had the guards or interrogators done more than shove her around and question her for endless hours?

  "Help me," she moaned in her sleep.

  "Emma! Wake up. You’re having a nightmare."

  "Help me," she pleaded.

  David gripped the iron bars of his cell and called out, "Emma, listen to me. I can’t get to you. You have to wake up on your own. Fight the nightmare, and wake yourself up. Do it now!" he ordered.

  She continued to groan and mumble.

  David couldn’t make out the words. "Emma! Come on, babe, fight the nightmare," he coaxed, his voice steady despite his worry that she would draw the attention of the guards. "Fight back, Emma. Do it for me, please. Don’t give in to your fear." He paused to gauge the impact of his words.

  "I’m… alright," she finally gasped.

  "Talk to me. It’ll help."

  "I can’t."

  He heard her sobbing and understood how alone she felt. Still gripping the iron bars, he said, "I’d hold you if I could."

  "I… I warned you I’d be a big baby."

  "You’re not a baby."

  "You’re just trying to make me feel better."

  "I wouldn’t lie to you, Emma."

  "I woke you, didn’t I?"

  "I wasn’t asleep. I think I’ve turned into an insomniac since I’ve been in here."

  "Is it always so dark?" she asked.

  David recalled how much the constant darkness had bothered him at first. He empathized. She still had so much to learn about captivity.

  "I’m afraid so."

  She sighed, the sound sad enough to make a grown man weep. David very nearly did, and then he swore at the circumstances that thwarted him from holding and comforting her.

  "I was having a nightmare."

  "I suspected as much."

  "I’m really sorry."

  "No sweat, Emma. It happens. I didn’t sleep too well my first few nights in here either."

  "You’re so damned patient and understanding!" she charged, her emotions
seesawing back and forth.

  "Is there another choice?" he asked in a voice as hard as granite. He couldn’t let her tumble into an ocean of self–pity. He knew the risk of drowning in it.

  "Sam would approve of you."

  "I take it that wasn’t a compliment," David teased, although the mere mention of the man in her life set his teeth on edge.

  "As superior as Sam can be, I miss him."

  He sidestepped the dismay her remark inspired. "Focus on getting out of here and going home to him."

  Sounding bewildered, she asked, "Why would I go home to Sam? He lives in Paris, and I live in San Diego. Besides, it’ll be a cold day in hell before I admit to my brother that I got myself arrested in a foreign country. I’d never hear the end of it."

  Brother? David felt a wave of relief slam into him. Sam wasn’t her lover.

  "Take a deep breath, why don’t you? You’ve had a nightmare, but you’re okay now. You’re probably feeling a little disoriented at the moment, but that’s perfectly natural."

  "David?"

  He heard her uncertainty, and he ached to gather her into his arms. "I’m here," he assured her. "Did you save some of the water the guard brought with your meal?"

  He waited for her to respond. A minute of silence passed. David felt his patience flee in the face of his concern for her well being. "Answer me, Emma. Your head doesn’t rattle when you shake it, so I don’t know when, or if, you’re nodding."

  "Yes!" she snapped, obviously stung by his criticism. "I saved some of the water. That’s what you told me to do, so I did it."

  "Good girl," David said. "Have a sip and then move around your cell. Exercise is the key to your survival and your sanity. I wasn’t kidding about that when we talked earlier. Your brain will go mushy on you if you let your body get weak."

  "I’m not some brainless twit who doesn’t have the sense to come in out of the rain. Furthermore, I’m not a girl," she flared, her footsteps punctuating each word as she briskly paced back and forth in her cell. "I’m twenty–six years of age. I own my own home, I vote, I can legally drink myself into a stupor if the spirit moves me, and I’m old enough to use good judgment where men, sex, and condoms are concerned. Any more questions, Major Winslow?"