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These she had tucked into that box that she stored in the back of her mind, and if she took it out and sifted through them from time to time, well, that was only natural surely.
But permanent sadness like this woman had been feeling?
The slightest of bumps told her they were back at Base, an ambulance waiting to take Ken’s body to the hospital. She’d already learned they only used the hospital landing site for emergencies, sparing patients and staff within the building unnecessary noise disturbance.
She undid the stretcher straps, then stood aside as two ambos came in to take over. She grabbed her bag and clasping the paperwork she’d found—and the photograph—against her chest, she jumped lightly down and walked towards Marty’s vehicle.
And now the memory of ‘later’ returned to the forefront of her mind.
‘My place?’ he said as he opened the door for her, and she’d probably have said no if he hadn’t touched a finger to her chin and lifted her head so he could look into her eyes.
And she into his, so what she saw there took her breath away.
She nodded, and slid in, wanting to be close, to feel his heat and wonder how his skin would feel against hers.
He pulled up in front of a small house, set in a wild cottage garden that would be a riot of colour in the daylight.
‘Hallie does my garden,’ he said as he helped her out, and she knew they were just words to keep him going until they were inside, because the hand that held hers was shaking, and her own body was tight with tension.
They barely made it through the door before they were kissing again, Emma desperate to learn the taste of him, to run her fingers through his hair, across his back—learning the feel of him, needing all her senses to take in this man, needing to drown in him…
* * *
A voice in Marty’s head shrieked warnings, but it was too far away to be clearly heard. Emma was so soft in all the right places, so pliant as he moved towards a wall to give them some support, and he knew she needed this as much as he did.
They fumbled with each other’s clothes, while their lips maintained a desperate contact. Then her breasts, bare, soft and warm, were pressed against his skin, while her hand had slid down his belly, easing down his jeans, to hold him, hard and hot, in her hands.
He found her heat, already moist, and lifted her so her legs clamped around his waist, and he could slide into her, death adding passion to the frantic coupling—the act an affirmation of life.
She cried out as he groaned his own release, and she eased back against the wall, still clasped in his arms, breathing hard, trembling slightly.
So he held her, her head resting on his shoulder, until the trembling ceased, and his own breathing steadied. Then, for a little longer, for this was Emma, and this could not be because—
Because he loved her?
Hadn’t he dismissed that thought way back in their friendship?
So why now had he discovered it anew right now?
The idea was so astonishing he shook his head to dislodge it, but the movement did little more than make Emma move in his arms—still close but not so close she couldn’t rearrange her clothing and do up the buttons on her shirt.
So, he, too, pulled clothes into place, his fingers not quite steady as the enormity of what he—they—had just done hit him with the force of a boxer’s punch.
‘I know there’s no commitment,’ Emma said quietly, moving away from him. ‘It was just something we both needed at the time.’
Yet he read pain in her eyes—knew she needed more…
What could he say?
I love you?
Would she feel she had to love him back?
When he knew full well how much love had hurt her in the past, and how she didn’t want to risk it?
They walked out to the car.
* * *
The short ride home was agony for Emma. She knew she’d want him again—want to make love with him properly next time—want to do it slowly, unhurriedly, delighting in discovering the man inside the clothes, delighting in his discovery of her…
Tiredness, that’s all it was. She’d sat beside him in the vehicle often enough without wanting to rip his clothes off, so of course she could sit beside him again.
Would sit beside him again.
Had to sit beside him again…
She looked down at the photo she’d left in the car, seeking distraction in its beauty and sadness.
Had Ken loved her, this woman with the hauntingly sad eyes?
Had she loved him in return?
And had their love been doomed, as hers and Marty’s was?
Love?
She looked harder at the face in the picture, turning it to show Marty when he got in.
‘I found this,’ she said, and he took it from her hands to look at it.
‘She’s lovely,’ he said, passing it back, no mention of sad eyes or unrequited love.
