'What did you have in mind to place on the altar, Emmy? Your body? I refused the offer of that once before,' he reminded her crudely. 'I feel sure all this emotional excess has exhausted you.' He flung a sleeping-bag at her, which she automatically caught. 'I've only got around to making one bedroom habitable. Don't look so stricken, infant,' he sneered. 'There's a folding thing in the dressing-room, just about your size.'
The reminder of her youthful indiscretion made her wince. Subtlety had not been high on the agenda; her imagination had taken over completely that summer to the point where she had convinced herself that her feelings were fully reciprocated. He had to have noticed, of course, but this was the first time he'd referred to it. That in itself, now she came to think about it, was surprising. She lowered her eyes to conceal to what extent the memory could still mortify her.
'Where?' she asked stiffly.
'Top of the stairs, bathroom's to the left.' He watched her climb the stairs, her back stiff, the drift of honey hair across her face hiding her expression from his view. Once she was out of sight his shoulders sagged, the lines of exhaustion on his face deepening. He reached into a cupboard, pulled out a bottle of malt whisky and covered the bottom of a tumbler with the liquid. He drained it in one gulp, grimacing, and stood watching the staircase, his expression one of frustrated self-disgust.
CHAPTER FOUR
By the time Emily had made up the bed she could barely keep her eyes open. Not bothering to search her overnight bag for a nightdress, she slid out of her clothes and, wearing only a pair of brief pants, slipped inside the sleeping-bag. She embraced the dark oblivion of sleep as it washed insistently over her.
She dreamt, and it was disturbing enough for her to surface, her throat raw with screams that rent the silence with jagged, serrated tears. The content had vanished, leaving only profound fear. As a child, and then again in her teens, she had often woken this way; but not for a long time now. Her body shook spasmodically as if gripped by a fever.
She sat up, her skin slick and clammy, and, fumbling, she reached for an unfamiliar switch in the darkness. Her hand touched something warm, human, she gave a fresh shriek and the room was illuminated in subdued light that seemed intense to her night vision.
'Calm down.' Luke loomed over her, tall and dark, his face harsh and taut in the shadows.
He sounded angry, probably at having his sleep interrupted, she thought, reality seeping through the miasma of nebulous dread.
In a flash the essential details of her nightmare were upon her. Luke making love to the blonde, herself unable to move in the doorway, her juvenile fantasies disintegrating around her, the sound of their laughter like sandpaper on her nerve-endings. She'd felt deeply betrayed, humiliated. The present had in some way thrown her into a time warp, at least while she slumbered and her subconscious came out to play. It would have been easy to dismiss the reminder of a youthful crush, but not so easy to dismiss the taste of pain and humiliation this ghost from the past could still summon after all these years. The passion, the obsessive craving, it had faded over the years, leaving behind an antagonism, a wariness of Luke she no longer traced to its source. Had she permitted herself to experience anything as strong since?
A scream was still caught in her throat like an aching solid thing. She fought for composure, her lungs making a laboured bid to draw oxygen. The bed creaked as Luke lowered himself on to the edge. Emily opened her eyes, which seemed too large in her drawn, finely boned face, the sweep of dark lashes throwing a shadow across her cheekbones.
'Sorry I woke you.' Her voice was husky; the effort of appearing normal was physically painful. She wanted Luke to go away and leave her to give in to the avalanche of misery that demanded release. She couldn't do so in front of him—through the pain that one fact remained uppermost. It was very important not to let Luke see her pain, use her weakness to form his weapons of ridicule and scorn.
His brows drew together in a fierce, violent frown. 'For God's sake, stop looking so damned noble and let go,' he snarled with brutal impatience. He grabbed her by the shoulders and pulled her towards him. She was too shocked to protest as she found herself drawn roughly against his chest. It wasn't tenderness, but it was enough to liberate her feelings. He allowed her sobs to run their course until only an occasional hiccup of misery shook her limp frame.
Feeling him shift made Emily aware that his tolerance was wearing thin. Almost at the same instant as she squirmed to push herself away she became aware of other previously overlooked details. She was the next best thing to naked and her breasts were in close contact with a hair-roughened chest. The sensation was a first; she couldn't believe it had taken her this long to appreciate the abrasive contact. She felt her flesh acknowledge flagrantly the intimacy of her situation.