underwear This set she'd bought herself for her last birthday. So expensive. Soft and flimsy and wicked. She took off the bra and rubbed the smooth lace against her cheek. She hadn't worn it in months. Dillon had picked it out.
'Sherlock.'
23
SHE QUICKLYWRAPPED A towel around herself and looked around the bathroom door. He was standing in the middle of the bedroom, a suitcase in his hand.
'On the bed, please, Dillon.'
He thought she looked beyond tired. He probably should have left her at the hospital, tied to the hospital bed. He looked again. He'd never before realized a towel could look so sexy wrapped around someone. 'You need any help?'
That made her smile. 'No, sir. I can brush my teeth without you holding my arm up.'
'Then I'll see you in the morning. There's no reason for you to wake up early. Just sleep in. When you wake up, just holler, and I'll bring you breakfast. Don't forget, Sherlock, you promised to stay put.'
She hadn't, but she nodded. 'Thank you, Dillon.'
'Oh, another thing. I need to run a couple of errands tomorrow morning. While I'm gone, I want you to leave the doors locked and don't open up for anybody, I don't care who anyone says they are. There's lots of food, even some pesto left over for you. You don't need to go out. You open it only for me, you got that?'
'I got that.'
'Your SIG-Sauer is downstairs in my office. Your Lady Colt is in the drawer by your bed. Now, just let me decide what we'll do about this mess. I'll tell you tomorrow.'
'What are your errands?'
He frowned at her. 'Not your business. I won't be gone more than a couple of hours.'
'Would you sing me a couple of lines before you go?'
'You want something down-home?'
'Yeah, real down-home.'
His rich deep baritone filled the room, sounding really twangy this time. 'She ain 't Rose but she ain 't bad. She am't easy, but she can be had. So am I when she whispers in my ear. She ain't Rose, and Rose ain't here.''
'Who's Rose?'
He grinned at her, gave her a salute, then left, closing her bedroom door behind him.
It was dawn when he shot straight up in his bed. He hit the floor running when another scream rent the silence.
She was wheezing, her arms wrapped around herself. She struggled to sit up in bed.
'Sherlock. You're awake? What's wrong?'
She was still sucking air into her lungs. It was as if someone had tried to suffocate her. He sat down beside her and pulled her against him. He began rubbing her back. 'It's all right now. Did you have a nightmare?'
Slowly, so very slowly, her breathing began to steady, but it still hurt to breathe, as if someone had clouted her in the ribs. She couldn't talk yet, didn't want to talk. 'That's it, just relax. I'm here. Nothing's going to hurt you, nothing.'
Her face was buried in his shoulder, her arms limp at her sides. Then, suddenly, she put her arms around his back and held on tight.
'Yeah, I'm real and I'm solid and I'm mean. No one's going to hurt you. It's okay.'
He could feel her harsh breathing against his flesh, then she said, 'Yes, I know. I'm all right now.'
He tried to pull away from her but she still held on tight. He could feel her shivering. 'It's really okay, Sherlock,' he said again. 'I'm not going anywhere. You can let go now.'
'I don't think I want to. Give me a few more minutes.' She tightened her grip around him.
She was still shivering. 'Sorry, but I seem to have packed you the wrong kind of nightgown. You must be freezing.?
'You're a man. You picked it out because it's sexy and sheer, just like my underwear.'
'Well, yes, I suppose you could be right. It feels really soft and nice. Sorry, but my hormones must have gotten the better of me. Listen now. Let me go, Sherlock, and lie back.'
If anything, she gripped him tighter.
He laughed. 'I promise you everything's okay now. Listen, you've got to let me go. Come on now.'
'No.'
He laughed again. He sounded like he was in pain. 'Okay, tell you what. I'm cold too. Why don't we both lie back and I'll keep holding you until we both warm up.'
He knew it wasn't a good idea, but he was worried about her. Truth be told, he didn't want to think about his motives. He was wearing boxer shorts, nothing else. No, this was definitely not a good idea.
He got under the covers with her, lay on his back, and pulled her against him. She settled her face on his shoulder, her hand on his bare chest. He pulled the covers as high as her ears.
She was stiff. 'It's okay,' he said, hugged her against him hard, then eased up. 'You want to tell me about it?'
He felt her jerk, her breath fan over his skin. She was still afraid. He just waited. He began to stroke her back-long, even strokes. Finally, she said, 'It was a nightmare, a stupid nightmare. Talking about Belinda probably brought it on again.'
'What do you mean 'again'? You've had this dream before?'
She was quiet for a very long time. At least she wasn't shuddering anymore. He was hoping she'd keep talking. Getting her to open up was turning out to be one of his toughest assignments. And he was beginning to seriously doubt his strategy for calming her down. In the silence he noticed how uneven his own breathing had become. He began breathing deeply. 'Tell me about the dream, Sherlock.'
It was near dark, she was cocooned in blankets against him, she was safe, her mind wasn't on alert, and so she said, her breath warm and light against his skin, 'I was the one in the warehouse, or I was with Belinda, or somehow a part of her.
I don't know. But in the dream it's as if I'm the one who was there, I was the one in his maze, the one he was supposed to kill, not Belinda. Then I went through the whole thing in Boston. I truly believed it would bring me full circle, but it didn't.'
'I'm not understanding all of this.'
'No wonder. Sometimes I think I'm mad.'
'Talk to me.' He kissed the top of her head. It wasn't a good move. 'Talk to me,' he said again, his voice lower this time, deeper, because he was aware of her woman's body against him, aware of her scent, aware of her hair on his shoulder, tickling his cheek.
'Every time I've had the dream in the past, it's gone a bit further. He hasn't yet killed me, but this time I woke up just as he raised the knife.'
He waited, just held her, and waited. He could feel her tensing, feel her heart speeding up. 'Say it, just say it, Sherlock. What is it?'
'I know, Dillon, I know that when that knife comes down I'll die.'
It was no longer dark in the bedroom. It was a soft pearly gray, yet dark enough so that it was still just two people sharing confidences in the night. He knew she had to tell him all of it now or she might never tell him. She was vulnerable now. He didn't know how much longer it would last. Probably not long.
'The dream began just after Belinda was murdered?'
'Yes. I've thought about it and thought about it over the years. It's as I said before-if I'm not the one who's there, then it's as if I'm actually following her same path, feeling the terror she felt.' Her fingers clutched the hair on his chest and he jerked a bit.
'Sorry, Dillon. Oh my, you're not wearing any clothes. I'm sorry. I hadn't realized before.'
'It's all right. I'm wearing boxer shorts. Ignore it. How long since you've had the nightmare?'
'Well over a year. This time I went through it all the way to the center of the maze and he was there, only it was so dark I couldn't see him, but I saw the silver arc of his knife. Then 1 screamed and it woke me up.'
'Do you think what you did in Boston brought the dream back?'
'I don't know. Probably.'
