Dance with the Devil (11 page)

Tom was Mary's anchor, her rock in a stormy sea, Emma mused. Then she thought of Drew. There was solidness and dependability in him, but for her he was the storm - wild and turbulent, buffeting her emotions, forcing her to flee from the needs she had long-ago buried.

Was it only twenty-four hours since she had sat in this very chair sharing coffee and sandwiches with him? So much had happened in such a short time.

Her world had been thrown into chaos by the events of the previous day. The crocodile attack had been the catalyst, she acknowledged. The realisation of how close she had come to being killed had been the final straw in a long year of tension and heartbreak.

Emma had tried to convince herself that it was the explosion of emotion that was to blame for the mind-shattering intensity of her reaction to Drew's lovemaking. But she knew it wasn't true.

She'd tried to deny the attraction between them. Tried to ignore her hunger for the warmth and tenderness Drew had shown to her. But his caring had finally broken down her barriers, allowing her to seize what she so desperately needed.

Waking in his arms this morning was pure delight. So much so that she had left his room as quickly as possible so she wouldn't give in to the compulsion to rouse him to her desire. Damn the man! He was becoming extremely difficult to resist. The sooner she could get him out of her life the better.

Drew reached the river at the same time the Land Cruiser started its slow journey back across the bridge. The floodwaters had retreated to just below the crossboards.

He reined in the mare, conscious of the knot of worry in his gut twisting a notch tighter. Now he knew Emma was safe, he was apprehensive as to what her reaction to him would be. He had a horrible suspicion his actions of the night before could have destroyed any hope of her listening to his viewpoint, or her explaining why she had acted as she did.

The Land Cruiser came to a halt. Emma stormed out of the cabin. 'Just what the hell do you think you're doing?'

'I was worried about you. I thought you'd be back before lunch if you'd managed to cross the river.' Drew's tone was deceptively soft.

'I'm talking about riding Quest! She's a thoroughbred. Breeding stock. Worth too much to have some amateur riding her.'

'I might not be jockey material, Emma, but I do have enough sense not to ride a horse like this unless I can handle her. And now that we've established you're perfectly safe and your temper has survived the night intact, I'll take Quest home.'

Drew wheeled the horse in a tight turn and dug his heels into her flanks. She surged forward, hoofs digging into the soft earth, powerful muscles responding to his command.

Blood rushed through Drew's veins as Quest galloped up the rise, and he let her have her head along the winding road.

By the time he reached the homestead he was caught up in the exhilaration of the ride. It had been a long time since he'd ridden a horse like that, and it brought back memories. Memories that were now good ones.

Emma stoked up her anger by imagining all the things that could go wrong with Quest on Drew's impassioned ride. Anger was easier for her to deal with than the fierce ache of desire that had kindled inside her at the sight of him sitting astride the magnificent horse.

She'd tried to pigeonhole him as a stuffy city lawyer, money-orientated and self-interested. It was easier to think of him that way than have to admit the reality of the man who'd turned her world upside down. He was as hard and tough as the rugged country he rode through, but his tenderness had caught her off balance, pierced her heart.

She drove into the shed, pocketed the keys and padlocked the shed door. As she turned the key, it struck her forcefully that the need to do so no longer existed. Her father was beyond the vague impulses of his damaged mind now. Grief washed over her, negating her self-imposed anger. Then she remembered that a would-be killer might be lurking somewhere in the area. She checked the padlock.

Drew was wiping Quest down as she walked into the stables. As he did so he talked softly to the horse, and Emma noticed the smile that lightened his features, making him look younger. She leaned against the wall, shoving her hands in her jeans pockets.

'Where did you learn to ride?'

'It's a long story.'

'I'm a good listener.'

Drew shrugged. She might as well know. Better sooner than later.

'When I was a teenager I got into bad company. I had a chip on my shoulder that nobody could dislodge.' He waited for Emma's reaction, but she simply nodded. 'I wanted to be accepted by my peers and I thought I could gain that acceptance by joining in their, shall we say, less than legal activities.'

Now her eyebrow raised.

'I left home, lived on the streets. Fortunately for me my heart wasn't really in it, and I never did anything to warrant a conviction, but I had a pretty low opinion of myself and was too ashamed to go home. I'd heard about this part-Aboriginal bloke who ran a cattle property on the western slopes of the Great Dividing Range. Apparently he'd had a tough upbringing so he tried to help troubled youngsters by teaching them all about working with horses and cattle and building their self-esteem.'

He led Quest into her stall, made sure she had feed and water. She nuzzled his chest and he stroked her long, proud neck.

'You're a beauty, girl,' he murmured. 'It would have saved me a lot of boot leather if I'd had you to ride over the range.'

'You walked? From Cairns?'

'I needed what little money I had to buy food. You can walk with sore feet, but not if your stomach's empty.'

Emma shook her head. No wonder he'd learned to ignore pain.

'So this man took you in?'

Drew nodded. 'During the year I was there, the number of teenagers he and his wife looked after fluctuated from six to ten. Black, white, country kids, city street kids. There was even a young girl from Sydney…'

Emma's interest quickened at the wistful tone in his voice. 'You…you liked her…'

Drew walked to the window and stared out.

'Yes. She was only seventeen but she'd been a prostitute for about a year to support her drug habit. When she couldn't take it any longer she left Sydney, found her way to the property and dried out.'

He fell silent, his gaze unseeing, his mind turned inwards.

For a fleeting moment he wondered why he was telling Emma something that was so intensely private. But the need to connect with her, to share a part of himself, to touch her soul, was compelling.

'She was tiny, with short blonde hair and fine blue veins under pale, pale skin.'

Emma realised he was describing the girl in detail that betrayed their intimacy. He looked across at her now, the blueness of his eyes startling, obviously matching the depth of his feelings.

Had he searched for fine blue veins as he'd made love to her last night? A fist seemed to clutch at her heart at the thought.

'She taught me about sex. For all my bravado that was one area I had yet to gain experience in.' He caught Emma's quick intake of breath and read the concern in her eyes. 'Don't worry, I've been tested for AIDS. I'm negative.' A wistful half-smile touched his lips. 'And then she taught me to make love. She showed me all the ways a man could show his love for a woman. All the tender caresses, the thoughtful caring touches. All the things she longed for and had never received.'

Silence fell between them again. Emma felt it stretch out, rubber-band tense.

'Did you…did you love her?'

'No. I liked her a lot. I cared about her. I tried, but I didn't love her. I doubt I was mature enough to know what love really meant.'

'What happened to her?'

'She went back to Sydney. To her family. Tried to start a new life. We wrote to each other for a while. A year later I received a note from her sister saying she'd died of an overdose.'

Sadness etched tiny lines around his eyes. Emma felt an almost overwhelming urge to touch him. Her hands trembled as she pushed them deeper into her pockets. 'And you?' she asked.

He shook his head. 'I went home,' he said brusquely. He turned away. 'I'll bring Solomon in from the paddock.'

Emma watched him walk away, vaguely disturbed by his abruptness. For all her wish to have him out of her life, she yearned to know more about him. Had his friend's death been the reason he had returned home?

She wanted to know.

Drew stood in the kitchen doorway. Since her return several hours ago, Emma felt she was walking on eggshells, that he was expecting something from her. He hadn't mentioned why he had taken her back to his bed last night and she had been grateful for his silence. She didn't want to talk to him again about what had occurred between them. Didn't want him to burrow any further into her feelings, her psyche.

The thought of being pregnant with his child had both horrified and tantalised her all morning. There was a possibility, though not a strong one, that conception may have occurred, but in the end she'd dealt with it like she'd dealt with most other problems in her personal life that she could do nothing about. She'd simply pushed the idea away and refused to think about it.

'How's Mary? And the baby?' he asked.

She shoved a tray of scones into the oven. 'Both fine,' she smiled. 'Doing remarkably well, considering.'

Drew nodded, still tense. Emma felt if she bumped him he would spring apart like an overwound watch.

'Why are you shutting me out, Emma?'

Emma gasped at his words, stunned by the accuracy with which he had read her. He walked over to her, took hold of her arms. She felt the dressings on his palms rub against her skin, felt her body respond to the nearness of his, her nipples harden, thighs tighten, betraying what her mind tried to repress.

'Just because we…we made love, Drew, it doesn't mean there's anything between us. I've already explained that what happened last night was the culmination of stress - stress almost beyond what we could tolerate.'

'You're lying, Emma.' His words bore into her, but she was held captive by his eyes, by the deep surging emotion in their depths. 'You know there's something between us, something good. And you're afraid.'

Emma pulled away from him, rubbing her arms where his heat had branded her.

She was a woman who didn't play games. Dealing with death on a daily basis had left no room in her life for the emotional intrigues some people revelled in.

'I was married once before. I have no intention of making the same mistake twice.'

Only a slight frown betrayed his reaction.

'What did he do to you, Emma?'

She wiped down the bench and washed the cloth under the tap. 'He was a doctor - we met in my last year of med school. Before we were married I thought he shared my dream of joining Médecins sans Frontières. But when we'd been married two years, he told me he wanted to stay in the city and become a specialist. He said he'd thought I'd grow out of my
fanciful ideas
, my
immature need to save the world
.'

'But it was more than a fanciful idea to you, wasn't it?'

'Yes. It was something I'd always wanted to do - ever since my brother's death - become a doctor, help those who needed it the most. It was never just a career to me.'

'Surely you could have reached a compromise. If you'd loved each other enough…'

'I don't think we did. I think I was trying to prove to my parents that I could have the happy marriage they hadn't achieved. But it turned out I was guilty of the same mistake - lack of communication.'

'It's not an easy thing to learn if you don't see it practised around you.'

'My mother tried - it got her nowhere. My father died lonely and unhappy because he couldn't express his feelings to her…or to me.' Determination lit her eyes. 'I have a dream, Drew. Until my father's illness, I was fulfilling that dream. Nothing and no-one is going to stop me from going back to it.'

Ice shivered again in the pit of Drew's belly. He wanted this woman. More than anything he'd ever wanted in his life before. Except maybe for one thing…

'What if you're pregnant?'

Emma lifted her chin. 'I'll deal with that
if
I have to.' She picked up the oven mitt and tossed it to him. 'I'm going to have a shower. Don't let the scones burn.'

The tension between Emma and Drew hummed through the air like a living entity. Even though the walls divided them, Emma could feel Drew's presence as she lay in her bed that night and fought for sleep.

The next morning she returned to check on Mary and the baby, anxious for a few hours break from the temptation Drew posed.

She examined Mary, and expressed her delight at her patient's progress. Mary had blossomed with the birth of her daughter, as though all her uncertainties and fears had been washed away in the joy of creating the innocent life that now depended on her.

As Emma cradled the baby in her arms, the warm sweet smell created a curl of longing in her heart. And the thought she could be carrying Drew's child teased her with a hope she refused to acknowledge.

When her husband had given her the ultimatum of staying with him or divorce if she followed her dream, there'd been no agony of indecision. Only the agony of knowing the man she'd thought loved her had never really considered her dream to be of importance. The dream that was a quintessential part of her.

No-one was ever going to take that from her again.

The phone rang.

The sound was so startling, so unexpected, that Emma sprang from the armchair, her medical magazine slipping from her hands, disturbing the dust motes dancing in the late afternoon sunlight.

Drew placed the last card down in his game of patience. He watched Emma as she spoke, her animation, her slim fingers twining in the telephone cord.

Since they had made love two days ago she had appeared almost clinically detached in her attitude towards him, and nothing he had said or done had made the slightest difference.

If he hadn't been acutely observant, he would have missed the betraying quiver in her hands as she had dressed his wounds. He tried to take advantage of this weakness and asked her to rub ointment into the ugly bruise on the back of his calf. He knew her natural compassion would override her need to avoid touching him as much as possible. So it was a small triumph for him to feel the way her fingers lingered on his skin after the ointment had soaked in. Small, but he was becoming desperate.