Public Secrets Part 202

more. Though she felt, somewhere in her heart, that there should be

more than the rapid groping in the dark. The mattress was cold on her

back. But his body, as it entered hers long before she was ready, was

hot. She wrapped her arms around him, clinging to the warmth and

waiting for the starburst she had only read about.

She shivered when he was done. From the cold, she told herself Moments

later, Drew echoed her thoughts.

"Christ Almighty, it's like an ice box in here."

"It won't take much longer to heat up. I've got some blankets in the

chest."

She reached for her sweater, but he closed a hand over hers. "I like

looking at your body, Emma. Such a sweet little body, just this side of

ripe. There's no need to be shy in front of me anymore, is there?"

"No." Awkward, she rose to lift the top of the chest. He fumbled in the

pocket of the jacket that was tangled on the floor and found his

cigarettes.

"I don't suppose there's any food in this place, or a bottle of

something to ward off pneumonia."

"There's some cognac in the kitchen." She remembered the bottle she'd

opened for Luke. Luke, who was back in Miami, fighting to hang on to

life. She laid the pile of sheets and blankets on the foot of the bed.

Already she'd shared nearly all her secrets with Drew-except about

Johnno, and Luke.

"I didn't even think about food." She saw him frown as he brought the

cigarette to his lips. "Why don't I run around the corner to the

market? Pick up some things. You can have some cognac and a hot bath.

I'll fix us some dinner."

"Fine." It didn't occur to him to offer to go with her. "Pick me up

some cigs too, will you?"

"Sure." He didn't stop her when she reached for her sweater again. "It

won't take me long."

He got up when she left, tugging on his jeans more for comfort than

modesty. He poured the cognac first, and though he was annoyed there

wasn't a proper gla.s.s for it, he approved the brand.

It amazed him that she'd expected him to applaud the silly barn of a

room. A downtown loft, he thought and drank more cognac. He had no

intention of living downtown. He'd been waiting to move up all of

his life. It was laughable to think that now that he was on his way he

would settle for anything less than the best.

He'd grown up in worse, certainly. Sipping, he studied the mural of

Emma on the plaster wall and thought of where he'd come from, and where

he was going. He couldn't claim a life in the slums, digging in

poverty. But he'd been only shades above it.

A rented house, a muddy yard, mended jeans. He detested coming from the

working cla.s.s, and the father who had kept them there because he'd never

had an ounce of ambition. Stoop-shouldered old man, he thought. No

spine or b.a.l.l.s. Why else would his wife have walked out on him and her

three children?

So she'd wanted something better than just eking out a living, Drew

mused. How could he blame her? He detested her.