"You're safe now. I promise."
Michael. She wanted to say his name, grateful not to be alone in the
dark. To be alive. Then a dark red wave rolled in and covered her.
She drifted in and out for most of the night. Michael knew the
doctors had said she would sleep straight through. But it was fear that
had her fighting off the sedatives. He could feel it pumping out of her
each time she surfaced.
He talked to her, repeating the same assurances hour after hour. His
voice, or the words, seemed to calm her. So he sat, and watched, and
held her hand.
He wanted to do something more. None of his training or his years on
the force had taught him this kind of patience. To sit helplessly by
while the woman he loved waged her own silent battle. Her lovely,
elegant face was broken and bandaged. Her slim, soft body, bruised and
battered.
They said she wouldn't die. There would be pain, physical and
emotional, but she would live. The extent of the trauma could only be
judged later. And he could only wait. And regret.
He should have pushed her. Michael cursed himself over and over as he
listened to her deep, drugged breathing. If he had applied the right
pressure at the right time, he could have convinced her to tell him just
how bad things had been for her. He was a cop, for God's sake. He knew
how to get information.
But he had backed away. Wanting to give her time, and privacy. Christ.
Privacy. He rubbed his hands over his face. He'd given her privacy
when she'd belonged in protective custody. He'd given her time when he
should have had the New York cops issue a warrant.
Because he hadn't done his job, because he'd let his feelings get in the
way, she was lying in the hospital.
He left her only once, when Marianne and Johnno arrived from New York.
"Michael." Johnno gave him a quick nod of recognition and kept a hand on
Marianne's shoulder. "What happened?"
Michael rubbed the heels of his hands over his eyes. The lights in the
corridor blinded him. "Latimer. Looks like he got into her room at the
hotel."
"Oh God." Marianne clutched the little stuffed dog. "How bad?"
"Bad enough." An afterimage of Emma sprawled on the hotel carpet flashed
into his brain. "He broke three of her ribs, dislocated her shoulder.
She's got some bruised internal organs, I don't know how many contusions
and lacerations. And her face ... They don't think she's going to
need any extensive surgery."
Jaw clenched, Johnno stared at the closed door. "WUre is the bastard?"
"Dead."
"Good. We want to see her."
Michael knew that the doctors were annoyed enough with him, but he'd
used his badge to persuade them to let him sit in her room. "You two go
ahead. I'll clear it with the nurse and wait for you in the lounge."
Like Johnno, he stared at the closed door. "They've got her sedated."
He gave them time, loitering over a cup of coffee in the visitor's
lounge, going over every movement of his day to try to see if there was