Dance with the Devil (14 page)

Drew disagreed with her rationale about the killer's intentions, but before he could argue, Mick interrupted.

'And I don't yet have evidence to confirm that whoever firebombed your house was the same person who kidnapped you and killed Dario. Different M.O. They could be unrelated.'

'You'd have to concede,' Drew switched his gaze from Emma to Mick, 'that it would be a pretty big coincidence that another would-be killer just
happens
to choose the same night as Dario was murdered,
and
the same night I'm back home after two weeks away.'

Mick shrugged. 'The odds are against it. We don't have any clues as to who kidnapped you. The local officer up there has fingerprinted your cabin, but he didn't come up with anything useful. And the stubby you drank from had disappeared.' He fell silent for a minute before speaking again. 'Do you think you might have been followed when you drove here?'

Drew shook his head. 'I don't think so. Not a lot of traffic around at this hour.'

'Where did you park?'

'In the police car park behind the station.'

'Good. Leave the back way. I'll follow at a discreet distance for a while to make sure you're clear.'

'Now that's settled, Detective Landers, can we leave?' Emma's voice betrayed her tiredness.

'Mick can make sure you get safely to your mother's, Emma. I'm not putting your life at risk by going with you.'

'Rubbish. Until a week ago, we were complete strangers. If the killer had known where you were, I'm sure he would have found you before you returned to Cairns, so obviously he still has no idea about me.

'Besides, how would he know where my mother lives? She doesn't even have the same surname. And you still need a doctor to dress your wounds.' She smiled, a little lopsidedly and without real humour. 'They're not exactly easy to explain to your average G.P.'

Drew hesitated. All his instincts told him Emma would be safer if she had nothing to do with him, but her argument was logical. Although the wounds on his hands and feet were healing well, he needed to stay somewhere safe where they wouldn't be cause for comment. His back still troubled him, the wounds re-opening with any exertions. Even now he could feel blood trickling down and sticking to his T-shirt.

If the killer didn't know about Emma, it would be safe for Drew to stay with her. If he
did
know about her, and assuming he knew she'd survived the fire, then he could already be working on another way to kill both of them. Drew felt the weight of either scenario bearing down on him. He made his decision. If he stayed with her, at least he could keep an eye on her.

He just hoped his heart wasn't ruling his head and placing her life in danger.

Mick lumbered off the desk he'd been using as a seat, and Drew could swear he heard the timber groan. 'Give me your mother's name and address, Dr Randall, and I'll make sure a car patrols the area.'

'If you want to, Detective, but it probably won't be necessary. My stepfather has a Rottweiler with an attitude. He's a miserable dog if you're looking for affection, but he won't let anyone within cooee of the property.' She stood up. 'But I will give you Mum's details in case you need to contact us.'

She walked to the door. Drew spoke swiftly, quietly, to Mick, then followed.

'Why, Emma?'

'What are you talking about?'

Emma turned off the northern highway. Eucalyptus trees stood silent witness to their passage on the deserted Redlynch road. In the deep hush of night, the growl of the engine seemed somehow out of place.

'For the past two days, you've acted as though I was an unwanted house guest you were forced to be polite to until you could be rid of me. Now you're offering me a place to stay. Is it just part of your need to save the world?'

'No.'

'Then why?'

Emma sighed. She really didn't know why herself. She would have offered help to anyone in trouble, but the thought of Drew alone in a motel room, knowing someone was trying to kill him and believing he could have been the cause of his friend's death, was more than she could bear.

But she wasn't prepared to acknowledge, not even to herself, that she was beginning to care for him on a level that wasn't in the least professional.

'It seemed the best solution. You don't even have a pair of shoes, for pity's sake!' She shook her head. 'How the hell do you think you're going to book into a motel room looking the way you do? No shoes, your clothes don't fit you properly, and your back's bleeding…' She clamped her lips together but a tiny sound escaped.

Hell! She must be tireder than she thought. Getting this emotional about a patient wasn't her usual style. But, she reminded herself wryly,
sleeping
with a patient wasn't her normal style either. For the past few years sleeping with
any
man hadn't been an option. It wasn't as though Drew was a normal patient, and their doctor/patient relationship certainly didn't qualify as normal. Under
normal
circumstances she would never have allowed the intimacy that had developed. Now, she told herself, he was a friend who needed her help.

Drew's hand rested on her shoulder and squeezed gently. Her eyes didn't leave the road but she knew, if she turned towards him, she would see the caring in his eyes, and she felt oddly comforted.

Emma's mother was waiting for them as they drove in. The house, a rambling L-shaped timber-and-stone log cabin, with verandas on all sides, was set in the middle of four hectares of bushland, partly cleared around the house and driveway. Drew breathed the night air deep into his lungs, its clean crisp scent dispersing the lingering bitterness of smoke and Mick's stale coffee.

Bruno, the Rottweiler, growled at Drew, baring his fangs in a vicious snarl until Emma introduced him, then he turned away with a disdainful look and acknowledged Emma with well-controlled enthusiasm.

'I'm Trish Farmer,' Emma's mother held out her hand to Drew, but hesitated as she saw the wound in his. 'Don't mind Bruno,' she continued, 'he'll be all right now he knows you're accepted by the family. My husband, David, is away for a few days at a conference and Bruno is twice as protective when I'm here by myself.'

Trish shared her daughter's high cheekbones and rich sherry eyes, but her hair was a lighter shade of toffee, cut short, and looking as though it had been hastily brushed. A white towelling robe nearly covered her rose-patterned satin pyjamas.

She hugged Emma, and Drew saw the tension in Emma's shoulders ease as she returned the embrace. There were a thousand questions in Trish's worried frown, but she made no comment, simply led them inside.

'I've made up beds for you both. You look like you need them.' She locked the front door, and led them through a spacious, grey-tiled living room and down a hallway.

As they stopped at the doorway to the first bedroom, Emma indicated the medical kit she'd brought in from the Land Cruiser. 'I'd better change the dressings on Drew's back first, Mum.'

Drew wanted to protest and tell her to get some badly needed sleep, but he knew she was right.

Within minutes, he was lying face down on a bed as Emma pulled off the dressings. He heard Trish's swift intake of breath, then Emma's calm voice explaining to her mother that the wounds were healing well and only a couple of the deeper ones hadn't closed over yet. He fought hard to stay awake, but the soft lull of Emma's voice and the gentle touch of her hands soothed him into oblivion.

The moment he opened his eyes, Drew realised he'd slept late. His dreams had been filled with blood and darkness and choking smoke and the silent terror of Emma being pulled from his grasp by a faceless giant with long hair. And it was this last part of the dream that had terrified him the most.

He swung out of bed, glanced around at the pale blue walls, and curtains and furnishings in complementing blue, green and white. His gaze stopped abruptly at a large painting on the wall opposite the window.

Breathtaking. It was the only word he could think of to describe it. Tropical islands rose out of a sea that shimmered in an early dawn light. Morning wasn't creeping in slowly in this painting - it was bursting into life over the ocean, showering light at the onlooker with an intensity Drew marvelled at.

He stayed a moment longer, appreciating the beauty of the scene, the talent of the artist. He noted the flamboyant signature, Kirri, slashed in red in the bottom corner, then walked out into the hallway.

'Bathroom's further down,' Trish's voice called out to him from the living room. She was arranging a spray of brilliant cerise bougainvillea in a vase filled with white bougainvillea and palm fronds. The cerise blooms slashed a dramatic contrast against the stark white and green. On the wall behind her hung a large water pastel painting of a waterlily-strewn pool, its muted colours almost translucent, shimmering in an eerie mist.

'There's a towel and a robe on the railing for you and breakfast will be waiting when you're finished.'

'His back's been bleeding again, Mum. He can't have a shower.' Emma walked into his field of vision. Her honey brown hair was washed and gleaming, and tailored white shorts and a fitting emerald green top enhanced her slender figure and high breasts. Drew felt desire rise in him, hot and fast and hard. He breathed a silent prayer of gratitude for the baggy shorts he'd been given, then strode to the bathroom and closed the door.

If he hadn't needed a cold shower before, he certainly did now. He dropped the shorts on the floor, turned on the shower taps - and spun around as the door opened.

Emma stood there, mouth open, blushing to the roots of her hair. Slowly she dragged her eyes up to his face.

'Turn around.' Her voice was even, but very strained. 'I'll take the dressings off for you.'

Drew turned around. Slowly.

He could smell the herbal scent of her shampoo as she stepped closer. Then the unique smell that was hers and hers alone. His arousal rose another notch, and he tried to concentrate on the view of the mountains through the window. His muscles hardened like iron as she prised up the edge of the tape on his shoulder.

Then she ripped it off.

'Try not to get your back wet.' Her voice was husky, and Drew heard its faint tremor. The door closed gently behind her.

Ten minutes later, Drew had given up the unwinnable battle of not getting his back wet as he washed his hair. He shaved with the razor Trish had left beside the robe, and dressed again in his baggy shorts.

Emma was waiting in his bedroom, cool and professional, her medical kit laid out on the chest of drawers.

'I apologise for barging in on you like I did,' she began. 'From now on I'll remember to knock.'

Drew wanted to touch her, reach out and pull her to him. Feel her sweet skin against his, the softness of her breasts against his hard chest. Wanted to, but couldn't let himself. She was as determined not to get involved with him as he was to make her a very important part of his life. But for now he would play it her way.

'As soon as Dario's killer is caught, you and I are going to have a talk, Emma.'

'We have nothing to talk about, Drew.'

'The hell we haven't!' Frustration exploded through him. 'You might be able to pretend the other night didn't happen, Emma, but I can't. Even if you're not pregnant, I still want to see you, get to know you better…'

'Just leave it, Drew.'

He saw the dark smudges under her eyes that betrayed her tiredness, and sighed. No, it wasn't a good time to pursue the matter. But he wondered if there ever would be a good time. He turned and waited for her to dry his back.

'Drew, please try to understand.' Emma's hands worked swiftly, in contrast to the hesitancy in her words. 'I don't want to get involved with you. I want to go back where I'm needed. Where I can make a difference.'

'Doctors can make a difference wherever they are, Emma. It all depends on their attitude.'

'I can
not
go back to treating colds and flu and diverticulitis! There are people dying out there, Drew.
Dying
…' she flung the word at him as she closed up her medical kit, 'because they can't walk to a hospital, and even if they could, they'd still die because the doctors have more patients than they can treat in time.'

Her eyes were blazing with a passion Drew wished was directed
at
him, not against him.

'Are you sure you're not running away, Emma?'

'From what?'

'A marriage that didn't work out, a relationship with your father that you couldn't change. Perhaps you feel it's easier to fix the problems of people you're not involved with, rather than your own.'

'Speaking from experience, are we Mr Hotshot Lawyer?'

Her temper was rising, whether in anger or because his remark had struck a nerve, Drew wasn't sure.

'What would you know about people who can't even afford to put food on their table, let alone pay your exorbitant legal fees?' She was facing him now, hands on hips, all the tension of the past few days exploding, igniting a white-hot fury inside her. She knew she was being unfair, but his remark had hit too close to the truth, a truth she wasn't sure she could handle just now.

She watched Drew's face darken, the brows furrowing together. She was surprised to read sympathy in his eyes, and not the anger she thought would be there.

He didn't reply, just took one step closer, gripped her shoulders - and kissed her.

If Emma had thought Drew wasn't angry, she was wrong.

His kiss surged with controlled fury, gripping her possessively, forcing her mouth to open and surrender to heart-shuddering desire.

Her body remembered him, wanted him, moved with a need all its own. She sighed in surrender and moulded against him. All her good intentions to keep him at a distance vanished. Her body flamed, making her throb with need.

His hand slipped under her top, caressed her left breast, teasing the nipple through the thin bra material, and she moaned into his mouth. She rubbed against his erection, craving its length, its hardness.

Drew eased reluctantly away from her. His blood was pounding in his veins, and the tightness in his groin was almost unbearable. He wanted nothing better than to throw her on the bed, strip off her crisp white shorts and drive himself into her. But this was her mother's house, and he disliked the idea of furtively making love to Trish's daughter, as much as being caught like a love-starved schoolboy making out behind the toolshed.