people out of here, and I won't have them coming back."
"Won't you?" he said quietly.
"Doesn't it matter to you? Doesn't it matter at all? This is our
bedroom. Christ, Drew, look at my things. They've been in my closet."
Enraged, she picked up a heap of silk and linen. "God knows what
they've stolen or broken this time, but that's not the worst. I don't
even know those people and they're in my bedroom doing drugs. I won't
have drugs in my house."
She saw him swing back, but the movement didn't register. The back of
his hand connected hard enough with her face to send her sprawling. She
tasted blood. Dazed, she lifted a hand to her split lip.
"Your house?" He dragged her to her feet. Her shirt tore as he heaved
her away. She landed hard against the bedside table. Her beloved
Tiffany lamp crashed to the floor. "Spoiled little bitch. It's your
house?"
Too stunned to fight back, she cringed when he advanced on her. The roar
of the music drowned out her scream as he picked her up again and threw
her on the bed.
"Our house. You bloody well remember that. It's as much mine as yours.
It's all as much mine as yours. Don't you ever think you can tell me
what to do. Do you think you can humiliate me that way and get away
with it?"
"I wasn't-" She broke off, drawing her shoulders up as he lifted his
hand.
"That's better. I'll let you know when I want to bear you whine. Always
get your way, don't you, Emma? Well, we won't let tonight be any
exception. You want to sit up here all alone. That's fine." He picked
up the phone and ripped it out of the wall. "You just sit up here." He
threw the phone up against the wall before he strode out, slamming and
locking the door behind him.
She sat curled on the bed, breathing hard, too numb to ache from the
cuts and bruises. It was a nightmare, she thought. She'd had other
nightmares. Painfully, she remembered the slaps and shouts she'd lived
with for the first three years of her life.
Spoiled little bitch.
Was that Jane's voice, or Drew's?
Shivering, she reached out. The little black dog from her childhood sat
on the pillow. Curling her arm around him, she cried herself to sleep.
WHEN HE UNLOCKED THE DOOR the next morning, she was asleep. Standing in
the doorway, Drew studied her dispassionately. The side of her face was
swollen. He'd have to make sure she didn't go out in public for a
couple of days.
Stupid to have lost his temper, he thought, rubbing his palms on his
thighs. Satisfying, but stupid. But then, she was always pushing him.
He was doing his best, wasn't he? And it wasn't easy. A man might as
well take a dead fish to bed as sleep with her. And she was always
talking about her goddamn show, sneaking off for hours in the darkroom
instead of taking care of him.
It was his work, his needs, that came first. It was time she understood
that.