She lay asleep against the white pillow, her black wavy hair stirring in the sunlight, as if there actually were a ghost of a breeze coming from somewhere through this infernally hot room.
If he had ever seen a woman this beautiful, he couldn't remember it and frankly didn't want to be reminded of it just now. It was almost painful to look at her, she was so beautiful. And it wasn't a china doll prettiness she had; her features were strong though exquisitely proportioned. Her rippling hair, parted in the middle, made a great shining pyramid of darkness beneath her head.
As he came round the side of the bed, she opened her eyes. How remarkable that they should be so startlingly blue. Then the miracle of miracles. She smiled. He went weak looking down at her. Words like "fate" and "destiny" came to his mind, idly, yet persistently. Who in the world could she be?
"What a handsome man you are," she whispered. Perfect British accent. One of us, he thought, hating himself instantly for the snobbish thought. But her voice was purely aristocratic.
The nurse mumbled something. There were whispers behind his back. He drew up the camp chair and sat down beside her. As casually as he
could he lifted the white sheet up over her half-naked breasts.
"Get this woman some clothing," he said without looking up at the nurse. "You gave us all quite a scare, you realize. They thought you were burned."
"Did they?" she whispered. "It was kind of them to help me. I was in some close place where I could scarcely breathe. I was in the dark."
She blinked up at the sunlight coming in the window. "You must help me up and out into the sunshine," she said.
"Oh, it's much too soon for that."
But she sat up, clearly undeterred, and started to wrap the sheet about her like a gown. The fine dark eyebrows gave her a distinct look of will and determination, which he found oddly exciting in a very direct physical way.
Like a goddess she looked, with the thing draped over one shoulder as she rose to her feet. Again that smile flashed at him, subduing him utterly.
"Listen, you must tell me who you are. Your family, your friends, we'll send word."
"Walk outside with me," she said.
He followed her almost stupidly, taking her hand. Let them whisper! They'd come running with stories that she was burnt like overdone beef! There was nothing at all wrong with this woman! Had the world gone mad?
She went across the dusty yard, leading him through the gate into the small garden, which was his actually, not for the patients, just adjacent to his bedroom and his office doors.
She sat down on the wooden bench, and he sat beside her. She threw back her hair as she looked up into the hot sky.
"But it's no use your being out in this terrible heat," he told her. "Especially if you have been burned." But this was stupid. Her skin was flawless and radiant all over; her cheeks were beautifully flushed. He'd never seen a healthier human being in his life.
"Is there someone I should contact?" he tried again. "We have a telephone and a telegraph out here now."
"Don't concern yourself about it," she said, lifting his left hand and playing idly with his fingers. He was ashamed suddenly of what this aroused in him. He couldn't stop staring at her, at her eyes and then at her mouth. He could see her nipples through the sheet.
"I have friends, yes," she said almost dreamily, "and appointments to keep. And accounts to settle. But tell me about yourself, Doctor. And tell me about this place."
Did she want him to kiss her? He could scarcely believe it and he had no intention of passing it up. He bent to touch her lips, hmmm. He didn't care who was watching. He ran his arms around her, and gathered her against him, stunned by the manner in which she yielded completely, breasts hot against his chest.
In another second he would drag her to the bed, if she wouldn't come of her own free will. But he knew she would.
"There's no great hurry to contact anyone," she whispered as she ran her hand inside his shirt. They were on their feet, moving together across the flags towards the bedroom door. She stopped as if she could not even wait for that. He picked her up and carried her.
Sinful, wicked, but he couldn't stop himself. She clamped her mouth on his and he almost dropped in his tracks. He set her down on the mattress, and shut the wooden blinds. To hell with everyone else.
"You're sure you ..." he faltered. He was ripping off his shirt.
"I like men who blush," she whispered, gazing up. "And yes, I'm sure. I want to be prepared before I see my friends again." She unwound the sheet. "Very well prepared."
"What?" He lay down beside her, kissing her throat, running his hand down over her breast. Her hips rose against him as he climbed on top of her. She was undulating like a serpent in the bed, but she was no serpent. She was warm and fragrant and ready for him!
"My friends ..." she whispered, staring at the ceiling as if faintly dazed, a tiny spark of distress in her blue eyes. But then she looked at him--all hunger suddenly, voice dropping to a monotone as she stroked him, her nails deliciously grazing his shoulders. "My friends can wait. We have time to see each other. All the time in the world!"
He hadn't the slightest idea what she meant. And he didn't care.