Desert Rose

by Laura Taylor

  "Only in our dreams, and only if we don’t object to being blown up along with the damn building."

  "It’s a risk I’d be more than willing to take if I thought it would mean getting out of here and making a run for freedom."

  His tone sobered even more, if that was possible. "I share your sentiments, but I don’t want you hurt."

  "No more than I want you to be injured, David, but the longer we remain here, the weaker we both become. I’ve probably lost ten pounds, as you predicted, and I know you’ve dropped at least twenty, probably more."

  "Closer to thirty," he conceded.

  "We need an out, and some crazy political faction trying to undermine the current dictator of this godforsaken sandlot is our best hope."

  David laughed. "You’d make a great W.M."

  She didn’t recognize the term. "A what?"

  "Woman Marine. You’ve got the grit. I also think that you’re the strongest, sexiest woman I’ve ever known, whether or not you realize it. I’m very glad we’re on the same side."

  "Thank you, I think." She paused. "Promise you won’t laugh at me if I tell you a secret?"

  "Sure."

  She admitted, "I fall asleep every single night wishing for two things. That you were holding me and that someone would blow out that damn cellblock wall."

  "Someday soon," he vowed, "I’ll hold you all night long, and we’ll look back on this entire experience as nothing more than a bad memory."

  "That first part is a promise I intend for you to keep, Major Winslow, but for the time being you should eat your orange. You need the vitamin C."

  After squeezing each other’s hands one final time, they eased apart and returned to their pallets. They continued to talk as they savored the gift of a nameless and compassionate old man who’d taken pity on them.

  ** ** **

  Forty–eight hours later their hoped–for miracle began to happen when a violent blast shattered the stillness of the night and shook the walls of the cellblock.

  Stunned out of a sound sleep, Emma struggled up to her knees and squinted through the mortar dust sifting down from the ceiling and obscuring the walls of her cell. Then, she heard a strange screaming sound somewhere off in the distance.

  David shouted, "Incoming!"

  She crawled to the nearest wall and crouched there, arms over her head as exploding grenades and rocket shells sent repeated shudders through the cellblock walls. She gathered her scattered wits, silently blessing Sam for having dragged her along with him to countless war movies during their childhood. The violent explosions assured her, of course, that this wasn’t simulated warfare in a movie. This was real, and potentially deadly. Mortar dust continued to float down from the ceiling and the walls, clogging the air with gritty debris.

  Emma squinted up at the window of her cell. She saw strange flashes of light and heard the shrieks of additional incoming rounds. The resultant explosions briefly deafened her and sent her sprawling across the hard–packed dirt floor of her cell.

  "Emma!"

  "I’m okay!" She struggled back up to her knees.

  "Whoever they are, these guys aren’t too far away. And they obviously mean business."

  "Do you think…" She broke off as a rocket exploded in the adjacent courtyard, the floor seemed to tilt, and she fell flat on her face.

  "I don’t know what the hell to think!" David shouted back at her. "That last one was too close for comfort. If you haven’t already done it, move into the corner of your cell. Get as much distance as you can between yourself and the outside wall. Cover your face and keep your head down. These guys don’t have the greatest aim in the world."

  Emma hurriedly crawled into the corner farthest from the back wall of her cell. The acrid stench of exploding bombs and the dense rain of mortar dust stung her eyes and filled her nose. Coughing, she wedged herself tightly into the corner and shielded her face with the burqa. And then she prayed.

  A sudden silence settled over the cellblock. Emma thought it as ominous as the sound of exploding grenades and rockets. "Now I know how those plastic ducks at the county fair must feel."

  David laughed, but Emma almost missed the sound. Instead, commands shouted in Arabic and rifle fire eclipsed the silence of just moments earlier.

  "I’m sorry I hoped this would happen," she called to David. "I really don’t want either one of us to die."

  "We won’t. With any kind of luck, this might be our ticket out of the hotel from hell."

  Blast after blast shook the cellblock.

  Emma kept her head bowed, and she remained wedged into the corner of her cell. During a ten–second respite a few minutes later, she peered through a gap in the burqa she’d draped over her head. Disbelief flooded her when she spied a small hole in the wall of her cell.

  "David!"

  Several successive explosions hurled her across the floor, twisted the barred door of her cell, and widened the hole in the rear cell wall. Emma gasped for air. Tendrils of flame licked and danced along the overhead beams as she tried to scramble back to her original position.

  She gagged on the dense smoke. Yet another explosion sent rubble tumbling across the floor. She felt a chunk of stone slam into her hip, and she couldn’t smother her cry of pain.

  Ceiling timbers cracked and splintered overhead, nearly drowning out David’s voice as he shouted her name. A length of wood crashed to the floor, missing Emma’s head by only a few inches. Heart racing, she bit back a scream.

  Additional rubble cascaded across the backs of her legs. Still sprawled on the floor of her cell, she peered into the smoke and darkness, but she couldn’t see anything.

  Emma moaned, desperate to find a way to protect herself. She pitched aside chunks of stone and splintered pieces of wood, struggled to her knees, and began to crawl across the floor, praying all the while that the ceiling wouldn’t cave in on her. The deafening chaos of guerilla warfare continued to shriek and wail in her ears.

  "… answer me, damn it!"

  A heartbeat later, strong hands seized her shoulders and yanked her upright. Terror filled her. She cried out and began to struggle.

  "Emma… stop struggling… it’s me." David’s hands gentled as he stroked her arms.

  She went still with shock. And then she sank into him, her arms sliding around his waist, her forehead falling against his shoulder.

  "This is our shot." He hugged her, his embrace fierce and protective. "We’ve got to make a run for it now."

  She eased back, coughing again. "Whatever we do, we do it together."

  "That’s my girl." He hugged her one last time, grabbed her hand, and cautioned, "Don’t let go, no matter what happens."

  Another rocket attack began, the assault on the prison compound growing more intense and deadly with each passing second.

  David guided Emma through what had become a gaping hole in the seam of the cell’s rear wall and the common wall that had separated them for three terrifying weeks. The ceiling of her cell caved in a heartbeat after they stepped out into the adjacent courtyard.

  Emma kept pace with David, trusting him to protect her. They dodged armed soldiers shouting at one another, ambulances speeding into the courtyard to collect the wounded, exploding mortar shells, and a seemingly endless series of shoulder–launched rockets that exploded all around them.

  Zigzagging through the sprawling compound, they finally spotted the front gate. They ducked into the shelter of a darkened doorway in what appeared to be an abandoned structure in order to survey their options.

  "It looks too easy," she whispered to David as they huddled together and studied the now unguarded prison entrance.

  "I agree, but it’s all we’ve got."

  Emma glanced up at David. She registered the smudges of fatigue beneath his hazel eyes, the tension visible in his angular facial features despite his beard, the frown that marred his brow, and the dirt and mortar dust that covered him from head to booted feet.

  He loomed over her, rugged,
heavily muscled, and almost profanely masculine. Not a pretty man by any means, but the safety she felt just being at his side trumped everything else. She’d never been into the smoothly polished diplomats or the power brokers of the international community she’d encountered during her time with Child Feed, and she never would be. She wanted a real man, and David Winslow was all man. Best of all, he was real.

  He met her gaze. Pressed against his body, swathed from shoulders to ankles in the shapeless Islamic abaya and her head still covered by the burqa, and heavily dusted with her own share of mortar dust, she was still everything he’d imagined and then some. As if unable to stop himself, he leaned down and dropped a hard kiss on her parted lips.

  She blinked in surprise when he drew back. Then, she grinned at him. "What now?"

  "We’re going to have to take a chance and get the hell out of this compound."

  She nodded, ready to follow him into the fires of hell. Hadn’t they managed to survive —at least up until now—their own personal versions of hell as the political prisoners and potential sacrifices of a rogue Middle East state and its dictator?

  A convoy of heavy tanks, followed by a half dozen jeeps and trucks, rumbled through the open gates and roared past them. Still hidden in the shadowed doorway, Emma and David clung to each other. Their hearts raced in concert while they waited for their chance to make a break for freedom.

  Once the area cleared of vehicles and personnel, David eased his grip on Emma and looked down at her. Vivid blue eyes stared up at him. His thoughts scattered with the realization that a man could easily drown in those huge, bottomless blue pools.

  He found his voice. "Ready?"

  Emma squared her shoulders. "Yes. Shall we try to make it to my friend’s house?"

  "Yes, but only if you’re certain she won’t turn us over to the authorities."

  Emma shook her head. "She absolutely will not do that. Mary’s a Canadian. If she’s in the country, she’ll help us. If not, we can wait until she returns. I trust her, David. She would never betray us."

  "Let’s get going then."

  "Her place is about three miles northeast of here." She swallowed against the anxiety that thrummed inside her. "I’ve driven there at night, so it won’t be hard to find."

  He cupped her face with his big hands and titled it upward. "We’re going to be alright."

  Tears stung Emma’s eyes, but she managed a nod.

  Her shattered little smile nearly drove David to his knees. Leaning down, he tenderly pressed his lips to hers. She clutched at his forearms, drawing strength from him until he drew back and released a ragged breath.

  "Trust me," he said. "We’ll get through this."

  "I do trust you." And I always will, she realized. "There is no one I trust more, David."

  7

  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.