"Emma?" The French woman purred the name. "Who is this Emma?" Annoyed
that Brian's attention had shifted, she twisted around. There was
speculation, then interest. "So, you like children, too. (?a va. Come
then, pretty one. Join the party."
"Shut up, goddamn you. She's my daughter." He struggled up. "Emma . .
. I thought you were in bed."
"Yes." Her voice was flat. "I know."
"You shouldn't be down here." He stepped forward to take her
arm. "You're cold. And wet," he said, fighting the sharp-edged buzz of
the coke. "Where have you been?"
"I went down to the beach." Avoiding his eyes, she tried to turn toward
the stairs.
"Alone? You went down to the beach alone? At night?"
"Yes." She whirled back to him, gritting her teeth at the scent of the
French woman's perfume. "I went down to the beach alone. Now I'm going
to bed."
"You know better." He took both her arms now, shaking her. "You know
you're not to go anywhere without the guards. For Christ's sake you've
been swimming. What if you'd had a cramp?"
"Then I'd have drowned."
"Come, chip!, let the child go to bed." The brunette prepared another
line. "This is a party."
"Shut the fuck up," he shouted at her. She only shrugged and snorted.
"Don't you ever do this again," he demanded, toming back to Emma. "Do
you understand?"
"Oh yes. I understand." She jerked away from him, eyes dark and dry. "I
wish to God I didn't, but I understand."
"We'll talk about this later."
"About my walk on the beach, or about this?" She gestured toward the
woman still kneeling at the table.
"This is none of your business."
"No." Her lips curved, but her voice was flat and dull. "No, you're
quite right about that. I'il just go to bed then and leave you with
your whore and your drugs."
He slapped her. His arm swung up before he knew it would. His hand
whipped across her face before he could stop it. He saw the mark of it
on her cheek, the red flag of violence he so detested. Stunned, he
looked down at his own hand and saw his father's.
"Emma-"
She stepped back in a quick, jerky motion, shaking her head. Rarely had
he ever raised his voice to her, and now, the first time she questioned
him, the first time she criticized, he struck her. Turning, she bolted
up the stairs.
Johnno let her pass. He stood, halfway down, shirtless, cotton sweat
pants low on his hips. His hair was disheveled, his eyes tired. "Let
me talk to her," he said before Brian could rush by. He took a strong
grip on his friend's arm. "She won't hear you now, Bri. Let me hold
her hand for a while."
He nodded. His palm stung where it had connected with her face. His
baby's face. "Johnno-I'll make it up to her."