SEVEN

 

Emily woke up slowly, painfully.

The sensations of heat and discomfort were the first things to break through the dark blur of sleep. Then she was aware of a voice saying, “Emily. I’m sorry. Let me get you to bed and you can go to sleep again.”

She knew the voice, of course, but she was too groggy and disoriented to figure out where she was, when it was, and why the voice was talking to her. She felt so hot that her mind jumped to Egypt, and she wondered if she’d somehow fallen asleep next to a pyramid.

“Huh?” she managed to grunt, struggling to open her eyes. Her head ached. Her body ached. Even her eyes ached as she tried to pry them open.

“I’m sorry,” Paul said again. “I just need to get you to bed.”

His fuzzy face gradually sharpened into focus. He was leaning over her. Wearing a suit. Had a gentle look in his eyes.

Finally, Emily remembered where she was. They were back in the apartment in Philadelphia, and Vincent Marino’s trial started this morning.

Jittery nerves had gotten her up early, so she’d showered and dressed in one of the new suits for the trial Paul had convinced her to buy yesterday. She’d had a headache so she’d drunk several cups of coffee and made herself eat a decent breakfast, but she’d still been ready to leave early, so she’d sat down on the couch to watch the news. She must have fallen asleep.

“No, I’m not going to bed,” she mumbled, trying to process what Paul had just said. “I’m going to court with you.”

“You can’t.” Paul helped her sit up. “You’re sick.”

She’d had that headache this morning, but she was sure she hadn’t had a fever. Now, however, even the change in positions made her head whirl, and she was so hot she breathed in little pants. She rubbed her eyes and tried to make herself focus. “I don’t think I’m sick.”

“Your fever must have spiked really fast,” he explained, taking her arm and pulling her up to her feet. “You seemed all right earlier, but I just took your temperature. It’s already almost 102⁰.”

“It is?” she asked, still feeling fuzzy and bewildered, even as she walked slowly with Paul toward her bedroom. “It can’t be. I can’t be sick again so soon.”

“I’m sorry,” Paul repeated, his voice very mild. “I’ve called the nurse, and she’ll be here soon.”

“You’ll be late.” Hit with a wave of hot dizziness, Emily stopped abruptly in the middle of the hall and clung to the lapels of Paul’s suit jacket while she tried to breathe deeply.

Paul wrapped an arm around her for support. “I’ve got time. I need to get you to bed, and then I’ll wait for the nurse to get here.”

When the dizziness faded some, she leaned on him until she’d reached her bed, where she sat down with a sigh of relief. She allowed him to help her take off the jacket of her dark blue suit and then slip off her shoes and jewelry.

“Wait,” she said, after a minute, as she finally realized what was happening, “I need to go to court with you.”

Paul had gone over to the dresser and was pulling a tank-top and pair of cotton boxer shorts from a drawer. He glanced back at her as he replied, “It’s just jury selection today and maybe opening statements if they choose the jury quickly enough. It’s nothing you need to be there for.”

“I need to be there with you,” she said, blinking at him groggily and wishing her head didn’t ache so much. “You can’t go by yourself.”

 Paul returned to stand beside her. “You need to rest—not worry about me. I’ll be fine.”

He reached down to unbutton her top, since Emily hadn’t gotten any farther with her undressing. Relieved to get the hot, confining clothes off, she tugged her top off and unhooked her bra. She automatically held an arm in front of her bare breasts, even though Paul was looking away as he silently offered her the tank-top.

She experienced another wave of heat and was glad to be in cooler clothes. The feverish sensations were familiar, though, and they caused her stomach to twist unpleasantly. “Shit, I don’t want to do this again.” She slid her skirt down her legs.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

After she’d put on the shorts he’d found in the drawer, Emily started pulling out the pins that were holding her hair up, setting them down on the nightstand. Paul went into her bathroom, and she didn’t know why until he returned with two elastic bands for her hair.

She finger-combed her hair into two loose ponytails, which had been the only hairstyle that hadn’t driven her crazy during her last bout of fever. Then she lay down on the bed and pulled the covers up, a knot of dread in her gut.

She knew what to expect this time, and the knowledge of how miserable she would feel for the next twenty-four hours terrified her.

Paul brought her some Advil and a fresh bottle of water. After she’d swallowed the pills, he stood next to the bed and looked down at her.

He was cool and handsome with his black suit and tie. His dark hair and gray eyes were distinct and striking. His expression was controlled and unrevealing.

But as Emily looked up at him, she thought for some reason he looked really young. Almost lonely.

“I should be with you today,” she whispered, even though she knew she wasn’t physically capable of it.

Paul gave her a small smile. “I’ll be fine. Try to rest.”

Emily closed her eyes, fighting the urge to cry. For the last several days she’d felt almost normal, seeing Egypt, laughing and arguing with Paul, dealing with the frustration of growing more and more attracted to him with no outlet for that attraction.

But now she was sick again, and Paul had that gentle look in his eyes again—treating her like an invalid instead of a regular woman.

Plus, Emily had endless hours of pain and suffering to look forward to, instead of being with her husband at a time when he would really need her support.

There was nothing she could do about it, though. She felt absolutely miserable, so she tried to do as he’d suggested and rest.

* * *

The morning wasn’t as bad as it could have been.

Paul had gone through an agency to find professional nurses to care for her, and he’d picked out one to watch her during the days and another one during the nights when she was sick. They’d met and interviewed both of them the afternoon before they’d left for Egypt, and Emily could already tell they’d chosen well.

Amy, her day nurse, was a plain woman in her mid-thirties. She was professional and matter-of-fact, rather than gentle and maternal, but she had a sense of humor and obviously knew what she was doing.

More than once, Emily was surprised when Amy predicted her needs before she could even ask. Emily felt terrible all morning, but her fever never spiked past 103⁰—which she thought might be because Amy was so good at keeping her as comfortable as possible.

Emily was able to doze off for most of the morning, and she was lying in a semi-conscious drowse when she became aware of the nurse wiping her hot face with a cool washcloth.

It felt good. Emily would have dozed off again without stirring, but something felt different about the way the wet cloth stroked her face. It felt softer, gentler. Then a few strands of loose hair were brushed away from her face, the light touch almost a caress.

Emily’s eyes flew open.

Paul sat on the edge of her bed, his eyes uncharacteristically tender as he continued to wipe her hot face with the washcloth.

She smiled up at him without thinking, since she didn’t feel too terrible at the moment and she was glad to see him.

Paul smiled back. “How are you feeling?”

“Okay.” Then she realized what his presence here meant. “Wait. You shouldn’t be here. You need to be at court.”

“They recessed for lunch, so I came to see how you’re doing.”

“I’m okay.” She arched her neck as he slid the washcloth down her neck and then around to the nape, the cool moisture feeling incredibly good. “Where’s Amy?”

“I gave her a break.” Paul rewetted the washcloth in a bowl of ice water that Amy had set on a small folding table near the bed. Then he brought it back to wipe her face again.

“But you need a break too.” Emily was getting a little chilly, so she pulled the blankets up to her shoulders. “You should go have—”

“I’ll grab some lunch on the way back to court. How do you like Amy?”

“I like her a lot. She’s good. She’s quiet and stays out of the way, so she hardly ever bugs me. But she has good ideas to make me feel better. She gave me a bath with lemon and eucalyptus oils that worked really well.”

“Good,” Paul murmured. He must have realized she was getting cool because he put up the washcloth. “You seem in better spirits than last time.”

“I suppose that means I’m not as grumpy. My fever isn’t as high yet, and you’re catching me at a good moment. I wasn’t exactly sweetness and light all morning.”

“I’m glad you’re doing all right. I was worried about you.”

“You shouldn’t be worried about me. You’ve got the trial to worry about. How’s jury selection going?”

“It’s taking a long time, so it looks like opening arguments won’t start until tomorrow.”

The achiness of her body intensified so quickly it almost overwhelmed her, and she had to fight desperately to remain focused on the conversation. “How are you?” she managed to ask. “Are you doing all right?”

“I’m fine.”

“And…and your dad?”

Paul glanced away. It took him a long time to answer, during which Emily suffered from consecutive waves of hot and cold. Finally he muttered, “He hasn’t looked at me. Not once.”

Emily felt a flood of pity, so strong it vied with her physical discomfort. She dragged her hand out from under the blanket and fumbled it around until she found Paul’s arm. She squeezed it. “I’ll go with you tomorrow,” she told him hoarsely, using the last of her strength.

She was suddenly too hot again, so she pushed down the blankets impatiently and tried to breathe deeply.

Paul didn’t say anything, which was a relief. So was the wet cloth he started to wipe her face with again.

* * *

Emily’s fever rose in the afternoon, but it didn’t spike so high that she became delirious. She was exhausted and aching and ready for it to be over by the time Paul returned at five-thirty, but her fever showed no signs of breaking.

She tried to pull it together enough to ask how things went and discover how Paul was doing, but she just couldn’t concentrate for long enough to have a real conversation. Even though she'd been given excellent care all day, everything was getting on her nerves now, and she was cranky with both Paul and Amy.

She tossed and turned and tried to get comfortable, and she snapped at anyone who tried to help her. She wanted desperately to sleep, but she felt too bad to do anything except fall into a hot, restless doze. The approaching night rose up before her like a bleak, endless nightmare.

She just wanted to feel better again.

Paul must have called Dr. Franklin at some point, although Emily wasn’t aware of his doing so. Her doctor arrived at the apartment at about seven-thirty that evening and examined her with brisk efficiency.

Emily did her best to keep her mouth shut during Dr. Franklin’s examination, since anything she said was rude and uncalled for.

He hadn’t spoken to her either, except for an initial greeting, but after he’d done the routine steps, he said, “I’m going to take a little blood, if that’s all right.”

It wasn’t all right. Emily felt bad enough already, and she didn’t want to be poked with a needle. Paul was standing behind Dr. Franklin and watching her steadily, though, and he’d probably bully her into it if she tried to object.

So she held out her arm and let the doctor take her blood.

“Thank you, Mrs. Marino,” Dr. Franklin said, after he was done. “Now I’m going to give you a new medicine, one that I think will help you feel a little better.”

Emily turned back to him, feeling a surge of hope. “Really?”

He nodded and gave her a sympathetic smile. Then he stood up and walked out of the room with Paul.

Emily wondered if everyone thought the fever had done something to her ears. Her hearing worked perfectly well, but everyone had conversations as if she'd gone deaf.

She heard Paul and Dr. Franklin talking about her in the hallway.

Dr. Franklin said, “I know it’s difficult for you to see her suffering, Mr. Marino, but she seems to be progressing as we expected. I’m afraid this won’t be the worst.”

“I know it won’t be the worst,” Paul replied, sounding like he was gritting the words out through his teeth. “That’s why I've asked for something to help her tolerate this better.”

“I’m going to give you something for her. I wouldn’t normally prescribe narcotics for a fever, but I think, in your wife’s case, the most important thing is to minimize the symptoms and make her more comfortable. Given her situation, I’m less worried about the other risks and side effects, and I believe this should ease much of her discomfort. Don’t leave these next to her bed for her to take on her own. And don’t give them to her if her condition is manageable with other methods. And watch her carefully after she takes the first one. If any of her symptoms grow worse, call me immediately.”

“I understand. Thank you. Why did you take the blood sample?”

The voices faded then, as the men must have walked too far away for Emily to hear them.

She tossed around in her bed, pushing the covers down to the bottom. She muttered to herself about Paul, who was too busy chatting with the doctor to remember his poor, suffering wife and return with her new medication.

* * *

Emily was able to sleep for several hours that night. Her fever had gone down a degree or two by the time it got dark outside, and the pill she’d taken had made her feel fuzzily comfortable for the first time all day. She hardly noticed Lola, the kindly nurse who sat with her all night.

When she woke up at about six in the morning, however, she knew immediately she still had a fever, even before Paul came in to take her temperature and told her it was back up to 102.6⁰.

Last time, the fever had only lasted one day, so she’d been counting on feeling better this morning.

She wasn’t. She was still sick. She still couldn’t go to court. She still had another miserable day waiting for her.

And she was still hot, sweaty, sloppy, and achy in bed, while Paul looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a magazine.

When Amy arrived at about seven-thirty, Emily was feeling pretty depressed, but she tried not to whine as the nurse drew her a lemon-eucalyptus bath and then helped her change into a clean top and shorts.

While she was in the bath, Amy changed the sheets on her bed, so it felt and smelled fresh when she crawled back in.

Paul came to see her before he left for the courthouse and gave her one of her new pills to take. He’d been quiet that morning, and a little voice in the back of her mind pestered Emily, telling her that the trial would be really hard for him and she needed to somehow help him through it.

But the fuzziness from the medication hit her almost immediately, and she dozed off into a restless sleep before she realized he’d even left.

The next thing she was aware of was a lot of noise from somewhere in the apartment.

She tried to drag herself out of sleep, but a heavy stupor had settled over her like a weight. Finally, she managed to open her eyes and turn toward her bedroom door.

She was surprised when she saw Ruth, the nice woman who cleaned the apartment, coming into her bedroom.

“Wha—” she tried to ask, but her mouth was too dry to form the complete word.

Ruth’s expression was kind as she walked over, picked up the bottle of lukewarm water, and helped Emily take a sip. “There’s been an accident,” she explained. “Your nurse cut herself real bad as she was helping me make you some broth. She had to go to the emergency room.”

Emily knew she should be shocked, worried by this news, but her brain couldn’t function that way. She just stared at Ruth, feeling hot and dazed.

“I called Mr. Marino, and he’s having the agency send over a new nurse. So I’m going to sit here with you until the new nurse comes.”

“Thank you,” Emily managed to say. She was afraid the good pill was starting to wear off, since her body was beginning to ache dully.

Ruth took the damp cloth Amy had been using on Emily’s face, got it wet in the bowl of cold water, wrung it out, and then wiped it over her face. It was too wet and dripped water all over, but it still felt good.

“I’m so sorry you’re sickly, Mrs. Marino,” Ruth murmured. “You’ve been so good for him. I can see the difference so clearly, and I hate to see you both suffer.”

For some reason, the words and the expression on the older woman’s face made Emily’s dry eyes burn.

Ruth didn’t seem to expect a reply. She just kept wiping Emily’s face—not as efficiently as Amy or as gently as Paul, but as if she meant it. She continued in a low voice, “I’m so sorry for you both. But I’ve been praying. And I’ll keep praying for you, dear.”

For no good reason, tears slipped out of Emily’s eyes and streamed down into her hair.

“Now, don’t you cry, dear,” Ruth said, wiping away the tears with the washcloth. “God is good. God is always good, even when we don't see it. I believe in miracles.”

Emily had never believed in miracles. She knew she was going to die, and she knew she was going to suffer horribly before she finally did.

But Ruth’s deep sympathy—for both her and Paul—meant a lot, just the same.

* * *

Emily didn’t like the new nurse.

The woman looked to be around sixty and had graying hair that was pulled back in a severe bun. In Emily’s fever-addled brain, she halfway believed the new nurse was a cruel schoolmarm from an old story, a strict disciplinarian with her hapless students, pitiless in her harsh pursuit of order and obedience.

She did everything she was supposed to do—gave Emily her Tylenol, wiped her face with a cool cloth, and helped her sip water—but she seemed to do it by some sort of schedule, rather than before Emily knew she needed it the way Amy had. She never helped Emily in little ways like adjusting her covers or changing her water out for a colder bottle.

Emily was sure the woman was a consummate professional, well-trained and well-experienced. The agency wouldn’t have sent her out to them otherwise.

But Emily didn’t like her at all.

She told herself it was only temporary. The new nurse was just a substitute until Amy was able to return or Lola arrived tonight. Emily managed to keep from moaning or complaining, since every time she did the new nurse gave her condescending looks of disapproval.

So Emily suffered in silence, tossing uncomfortably and waiting impatiently for the early afternoon, when she could take another one of the good pills and hopefully doze off.

She’d dropped off in a hot, restless drowse when the nurse woke her up by saying in a grating voice, “Your husband is on the telephone and insists that he speak to you.”

Emily blinked and tried to process why a phone had been thrust into her limp hand. For some reason, the nurse’s abruptness was as painful to her as a slap in the face.

Finally, Emily managed to get the phone to her ear. Her head was aching terribly again, and she was sweating so much the phone almost slipped out of her fingers. “Paul?” she said into the speaker, her voice cracking on the one word.

“How are you?” Paul voice sounded strange, although there was no way she could make her mind work enough to unravel why that might be.

“Okay. Are you okay?”

“I’m fine. I can’t get home for lunch, but I wanted to make sure you were doing all right. How is the nurse they sent over? She sounded kind of brusque.”

Emily swallowed over her dry throat and tried desperately to think. Paul seemed strange, like he was exhausted or upset or something. He wasn’t coming home for lunch. Something must be wrong.

A wave of dizziness washed over her, and there was no way she could pursue the subject. He wouldn’t tell her what was wrong. She knew it. She barely had the energy for this conversation—much less an argument about his not sharing things with her.

But she wasn’t going to add to his problems. She could deal with an unsympathetic nurse for one day. If she complained, Paul would probably come home until he was able to arrange for someone else.

He didn’t need to deal with that. He had enough on his plate without her whining.

All this Emily figured out in a few seconds of muddled reflection. “She’s fine. I’m okay.”

“All right. Good. I’ll be home by five.”

“Okay.”

Emily thought Paul would say goodbye and hang up then, but he didn’t. He stayed on the line and didn’t say anything.

She was worried about him, and she felt so terrible. She almost started to cry.

“Okay,” Paul said at last, still sounding so strange.

“Okay,” Emily repeated.

Her vision blurred over and a flood of heat overwhelmed her. The phone slipped out of her hand, but she shifted her head so her ear was still close to it on the bed.

She didn’t know when Paul hung up the phone. She never did hear the call disconnect.

She must have just dozed off, and the new nurse must have come in and picked up the phone from the bed, because it was gone the next time she was aware enough to look for it.

* * *

Emily felt worse and worse as the afternoon progressed.

She knew her fever was going up because the world became a hot whirl of noise and pain. At one-thirty, Emily tried to ask the nurse for one of the new pills Dr. Franklin had left for her the evening before. She was disconnected and disoriented, but she was sure it was time for another one. It might not bring down her fever, but at least it would mask some of the pain with that fuzziness.

But the new nurse didn't know where the pills were, since they weren't at her bedside with everything else, and Emily didn't know where to tell her to look for them.

So Emily didn’t get her pill, and her fever kept rising.

Eventually, her awareness started to blur into a succession of horrifying, surreal images.

She was burning up in her old house, but for some reason Paul was there with her, consumed by the blaze before she was. She saw his lean body and handsome face scorch into blackness.

The new nurse was a cruel, old-fashioned schoolteacher in a bun, shirtwaist, and pince-nez, making her stand outside the schoolhouse in the scorching sun and lecturing her about laziness and insubordination.

She and Paul were Hansel and Gretel who had found the gingerbread house, and the new nurse was the witch who lived there. She pushed Emily into the oven while poor Paul had to watch helplessly.

Emily knew she needed to fight off the witch so she could get back to Paul. She tried. She tried. But she couldn’t.

She couldn’t get away at all. She couldn’t even move.

When conscious awareness slammed back into her muddled mind, Emily realized she still couldn’t move. She was trying to toss and turn but could only lie flat on sheets damp with her perspiration.

Something cool and wet was wiping her face, which should have felt good, but her inability to move sent a flare of panic through her that overwhelmed any feeling of relief. She cried out for help, her voice cracked and broken.

There was water in her mouth then, which was good, which she needed, but she was so scared and upset she almost choked on it.

Then the coolness wiped over her face again, but she was still too, too hot. She still couldn’t move her arms.

She struggled helplessly, finally aware enough to open her eyes. The new nurse was leaning over her, cooling down her face with calm efficiency.

Emily didn’t want to see her. Everything in the world was clawing at her, and the new nurse just made it worse.

She tried to change positions so she could cool down a little and think more clearly, but she was trapped. She was literally trapped. She tossed her head around until she was able to see that her arms were bound with Velcro straps, the kind that were used to restrain patients who were out of control and a danger to themselves or others.

Emily panicked at the realization, frantically fighting the restraints, begging for the nurse to let her go. She didn’t think she was a danger to anyone, and she desperately needed her arms free. Her voice wasn’t working, though, and the words just choked in her throat.

She tried to calm down, somehow knowing, even in her heated confusion, that if the nurse realized she was lucid again, that she was no longer delirious, then Emily would be released from the straps.

But she couldn’t calm down. It felt like she was still in a nightmare. She writhed on the hot bed and cried out pitifully, drenched in sweat and still subjected to the woman wiping her face to bring down her fever.

Emily choked and whimpered and thrashed helplessly.

“What the fuck is going on?” a familiar voice demanded in almost a roar from the doorway. “Get away from her!”

The voice was very loud, and it grated on her ears and head, but nothing in the world had ever sounded so good.

Emily started to sob in relief as Paul strode over in his suit and tie. He shouldered the new nurse out of the way and started to release the straps.

“Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “She was out of control from her fever. She struck me more than once. It’s standard procedure to restrain a patient if—”

“Be quiet,” Paul cut into the explanation, his voice harder than Emily had ever heard it. His eyes, though, were haunted as he gazed down at Emily and finished releasing the straps.

Her arms finally free, Emily strangled on helpless sobs, each one wracking her body with pain. She reached out for Paul, and he pulled her into his arms.

“Mr. Marino,” the nurse said, “You need to know that—”

“I didn’t say you could talk yet.”

Emily was bawling and couldn’t stop—all of the pain, fear, and trauma shoving her into a total emotional collapse. She clung to Paul, and he pulled her even closer. His arms around her were so tight she could barely breathe. But she wanted it, needed it. His expensive suit was cool and soft against her skin, and she buried her face in it.

“I’m here,” he murmured against her hair, “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”

After a minute, when Emily’s sobs had lessened, Paul loosened his embrace. “Can you talk to me for a minute?”

She felt for a moment like she was going to pass out—from heat and pain and the release of too much emotion—but she breathed deeply and wiped at her face with her hands. Then nodded up at Paul.

“Did she do anything else to you?”

“She tied me down.” While, in a different moment, her rational mind might have understood how and why such a thing had happened, right now it felt like an unbearable violation. She couldn’t remember ever feeling more scared in her life, not even when Vincent Marino had burned down her house.

“I know,” Paul said, his features twisting briefly. “Did she do anything else? Did she…hurt you?”

The nurse made a sound of outrage, but something stopped her from speaking.

Emily shook her head and buried her face against Paul’s suit again. The fabric was messy and damp now, but it still felt cool against her hot skin.

She wasn't looking, but Paul must have turned back to the new nurse. “Get out.”

“Mr. Marino,” the woman said, with impressive composure, given the situation, “I realize this has upset you. But medical ethics have always considered it appropriate to restrain patients who pose a danger to—”

“Get out!”

She must have left, but Emily didn’t see her. She could barely move now, on the verge of blacking out completely.

She felt Paul’s hand on her forehead and then her wet cheek. “You’re burning up, baby. I’m going to get a bath ready for you, if that’s okay.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

When Paul got up to draw the bath, Emily curled up into the fetal position, using all the energy she had left to breathe.

She couldn’t speak, and thankfully Paul didn’t try to make her. In silence, he pulled off her clothes and carried her into the bathroom. It smelled like lemon and eucalyptus so he must have used the oils Amy had brought over yesterday.

Emily sighed hoarsely in utter relief when he lowered her into the bath. Then she sighed again when he wet a washcloth and stroked it over her hot, messy face.

“Thank you,” she managed to mumble, as her body started to cool down.  “Feels good.” She closed her eyes as she let the pleasant sensations ease her pain and tension.

Paul kept wiping her face with the cool cloth, and it felt so good. The scent from the oils seemed to cool her from the inside out, and the water embraced her hot, aching body.

She either fell asleep or passed out before the bath was over because she had no memory of getting out.

* * *

Emily’s fever finally broke that evening.

She was utterly exhausted when it was over but blissfully not hot or in pain, and she was able to have a lucid conversation at last.

Evidently, Ruth had overheard Emily crying out in her delirium and had come to the bedroom to see if she could help. The nurse had told her that she had it under control. Although Emily hadn’t been strapped down at that point, Ruth had been worried and had called Paul to tell him.

Paul had left the courthouse to come check on Emily. He told her the prosecution was just presenting the evidence from the forensic accountants, and there was no reason he’d needed to be present. He’d arrived before two-thirty that afternoon, which meant Emily had been delirious for less than an hour.

It had felt like an endless nightmare at the time, but it hadn't lasted long at all. Now that it was over, she could rationally assess and conclude it hadn’t been the end of the world. The whole incident seemed to have faded into a fuzzy blur of heat and fear.

She tried to explain that to Paul, who was still treating her like she was made of crystal and sometimes looking agonizingly guilty.

“The nurses you found for me are both wonderful,” Emily told him. They’d eaten a late dinner in her room, and now he was sitting in a chair next to her bed. “This didn’t happen because you did anything wrong. You've taken care of me perfectly. Even that…even that probably wasn't as bad as it looked. It probably just felt so horrible because I was sick. If I actually struck her when I was delirious, maybe she really did need to—”

“I saw you, Emily,” Paul interrupted thickly. “I saw how much she’d scared and upset you. No one gets to do that to you.”

Even though she was sure he was somehow being unreasonable, she was touched by his words. She wanted to reach out and touch him, but he was too far away, so she just gave him a hazy smile.

He smiled back faintly.

“Are you all right? What’s going on with the trial? Why weren’t you able to come home at lunch?” She remembered how strange he’d sounded on the phone and was starting to worry about it again, now that she was physically recovering.

He tightened his mouth and glanced away from her. “It’s nothing for you to worry about.”

“Paul,” she prompted, a warning in her voice.

“They’re a little worried about the defense's strategy, and they needed some background information from me.” When she started to question him more, he continued, “It’s complicated, Emily, and you’re exhausted. I’ll go into it all tomorrow. I promise.”

She just nodded. She was tired, and she could see Paul was too. He looked battered. “Why don’t you go lie down? I'm okay now, and you need to rest."

He shook his head. “I’m fine.”

She started to argue, but she could tell he wasn’t going to budge, so she thought of another way to handle it. “Then why don’t you lie down with me?” she suggested, patting the bed beside her. It was fresh and neat now, since Ruth had changed the sheets again before she'd left. “I’m not hot and sick anymore, and there’s no reason for you to sit in that uncomfortable chair all evening. If you won’t go to bed, at least lie down with me.”

Paul hesitated but eventually relented. He still wore his suit and tie, although he’d taken off the jacket. He toed off his shoes and climbed into the bed with her.

Too tired to be self-conscious or worried about rejection, Emily scooted over and nestled against him, relieved when he wrapped an arm around her. He smelled like Paul, like he'd had a really long day.

She rested her cheek on the side of his chest, draped an arm over his flat belly, and listened to him breathe. Gradually his breathing slowed down. Gradually his body softened, relaxed.

So did Emily's.

She hated being sick. She hated it. Paul had needed her, and she hadn’t been there for him.

He’d always been there for her.

***

Emily woke up feeling really good.

She was immediately aware that she wasn’t achy and feverish, which alone would be cause for celebration. Even before her eyes opened, she realized she must have slept well. She felt fresh, like she'd had a long night of unbroken slumber.

She also felt warm and toasty. Not hot like a fever—just nicely cozy. It was partly from the pleasant weight resting on her belly.

When she opened her eyes, she realized the weight was Paul’s arm. He was still sound asleep beside her, still wearing the white dress shirt, red tie, and black trousers from yesterday’s suit. Sometime during the night, she must have rolled over from where she’d been cuddled up at his side, and he must have rolled with her, since he was now on his stomach with one arm slung over her middle.

She liked how it felt.

In Egypt, he’d always woken up before her, so she never knew how they had ended up in bed. She liked the fact that Paul was still asleep now, that he’d been able to relax so much with her last night, that he’d instinctively moved with her when she rolled over in her sleep.

She liked being close to him, in any way she could get.

Emily looked at him as he slept, the rumpled dark hair, softened features, and thick eyelashes incredibly appealing. She felt a slow rising of an emotion that was tender, protective, almost maternal. She wanted to stroke him, cradle him, somehow ease the wounds of his so sensitive soul. Most people in the world had no idea who Paul Marino really was. But she did. She did now.

She shifted her arm slightly so she could see her left hand, and the sight of his rings there still gave her a silly little thrill.

Paul was her husband. She’d chosen him mostly because he was convenient, but she'd made the right choice. She never could have found a better one.

He would never let her be his wife for real.

She was his special duty, his responsibility, and she knew he genuinely cared about her, but he just didn’t want her as a woman. She could understand that. She’d never been his type. They only had a couple more months of marriage anyway. Just because she thought about having sex with him almost every night didn’t mean he’d want her the same way.

That was okay. She could still be a wife to him in any way he’d let her, for as long as she was alive to do it.

He needed her, whether he realized it or not.

That thought made her remember that the trial continued today. She turned her head to look at the bedside clock and saw it was almost six-thirty in the morning.

She couldn’t believe Paul had slept so long. The poor thing hadn’t even gotten out of his clothes. He must have been so tired last night.

An itch on her thigh started to bother her, so she shifted very slightly to try to scratch it, not wanting to wake Paul up yet. Her motion must have woken him anyway. His eyelids fluttered slightly before they lifted.

She was looking in his direction, and her face was only several inches away, so the first thing he saw was her.

He smiled at her groggily. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she replied, her smile deepening with something tender at the uncharacteristically sweet expression on his face before he oriented himself.

She saw on his face the moment he realized where he was. “Damn,” he breathed, rolling over onto his back and retrieving the arm that had still been slung over her belly. “I can’t believe I fell asleep. Are you all right?”

Emily gave a little snort at his predictable inquiry about her health. “I feel great. Not sick today.”

“Good.” He rubbed his face with his left hand, obviously trying to wake himself up.

For some reason, Emily was distracted by the sight of his wedding ring on his finger—her ring—and something she hadn’t noticed yesterday. He’d undone his cuffs and pushed the sleeves of his dress shirt up his arm when he was helping her in the bath. But the cufflink was still attached to his sleeve. He’d been wearing the Damascene cufflinks she’d given him on their wedding day.

For some reason, the sight of the wedding band on his hand and the cufflink she'd picked out on his sleeve made her chest tighten.

He dropped his hand, completely unaware of her diversion. “I should get up.”

“It’s still pretty early,” she murmured, surprised when her voice came out thick. She cleared her throat. “They don’t start up until nine-thirty, right?”

“Right.”

“Even I have enough time to be ready by then.”

Paul turned to look at her, his eyes sober. “I don’t think you should try to make it to court today. You haven’t had any time to recover.”

“But they’ll probably get to my testimony today. I have to come!”

“I talked to Hathaway, since we didn’t know when you’d be well. He said we could rearrange the witnesses so that I’d testify before you do. That way, you wouldn't need to be there until tomorrow.”

Emily rolled over on her side, frowning at him. “But Hathaway thought I should testify before you, didn’t he?”

“Originally, yes. But he can make it work this way, and it would give you another day to recover.”

“I don’t need another day to recover. I want to testify whenever it will be best for the case. I’m really all right, Paul.”

His eyes scanned her face with that scrutiny that left not the tiniest detail unobserved. “They still have to get through several other witnesses. There’s no way they’re going to need you until mid-afternoon. Why don’t you rest some this morning and come after the lunch break?”

Emily started to argue, mostly because she didn’t like to feel weak. Then she remembered that the last time she’d had a bout of fever, she’d slept for most of the following day. She might not be prepared to give articulate testimony after she’d gotten exhausted from sitting in court all day. So she said reluctantly, “I guess that would be all right, if you don’t think they’ll need me before then.”

“They won’t.” He relaxed on the bed again, obviously having no pressing desire to get up and start the day.

She scooted over a little and fit herself against his side, reaching to stroke his chest over his shirt. She didn’t know if he really liked it—he was always a little stiff when she initiated any touches—but at least he didn’t jerk away like he used to. She couldn’t help but think it might be good for him to open himself up to being close to someone again.

“I should get up,” Paul murmured, after a few minutes. His arm wasn’t really holding her, but it had ended up draped around her. “I need a shower.”

He did kind of need a shower, but she wasn’t about to tell him that. He also needed to shave. “It doesn’t take you long to get ready,” she said, “You have plenty of time.”

He let out a long exhalation, which she could feel in his chest. “They’re coming after me.”

Emily raised her head to look down at him, her hand growing still, her fingers spanning one side of his ribs. “What do you mean?”

He met her eyes. “My father’s defense team. They’re going to come after me. Decimate me to save my father.”

Her heartbeat had accelerated as she processed his words. “But that doesn’t make sense. You have nothing to do with his trafficking, smuggling, drug-dealing, and everything.”

“It doesn’t matter. They’re going to argue that I’m pursuing some kind of vendetta against him and have created this entire case because of my childish need to get back at him.”

“That’s ridiculous!” She was outraged by even the thought of it and horrified at the idea of Paul having to suffer through such a cross-examination. “How could you have fabricated the entire case? I thought they would try to cast doubt on my credibility, since I’ve got more direct evidence than you do. That’s what they did at the deposition.”

“I’m sure they’ll do the same thing. They’re not going to take it easy on you, but I’m going to be their real target.”

“But I don’t understand. They should go after me, not you.” Her hand was still resting on the curve of his ribcage—his body warm and substantial beneath her hand, the thin fabric of his shirt soft as it stretched over his skin.

“They’re going to use our marriage as evidence of my ongoing manipulations. They’ll argue that I convinced you to lie for me.”

“But you didn’t. We’ll just tell the truth. You haven’t done anything wrong, Paul!”

His eyes, for just a moment, were open wounds. “But I have. I’ve done so many things wrong in my life. And they’re going to dredge up every one of them.”

“But none of them have to do with the case,” she insisted, her voice growing slightly shrill in her absolute indignation. “Anything else will be irrelevant.”

“It won’t matter. They’ll make it relevant.” He gave her a little smile. “At least this means they won’t be as hard on you. I’d rather go through it than have you go through it.”

She choked on her outrage. “I’m supposed to be going through it. Not you.”

She sat up, breathing heavily and trying to think through what Paul had just told her. She hated Vincent Marino. Hated him. Not just for what he’d done to her, but for what he was still doing to his son.

When her eyes rested on Paul again, she saw he was gazing up at her with something soft in his eyes. “You look like you could strangle him,” he murmured, the corner of his lips twitching slightly. “Although I’m not sure your hands would fit around his throat.”

She wanted to smile back, but she frowned at him instead. “I’ll have you know my hands aren’t that little.”

Paul’s smile widened, and he reached over to pick up her left hand. He held it against his much larger one and gave her a significant look. Her hand did look small and pale next to his.

She just scowled at him. Then she couldn’t help but smile. She lay back down, wrapping an arm around his belly. She loved how the flat, firm muscles felt beneath her forearm and how it rose and fell slightly with his breathing.

“I should get up,” Paul said again, still giving no indication of actually moving. “I never stay in bed this late anymore.”

“It’s not even seven,” she murmured, idly stroking his belly the way she’d been stroking his chest earlier. She really liked how he felt this morning—relaxed, masculine, real, human.

The covers had slipped down when she sat up, and now they were pushed down to Paul’s thighs instead of his hips. As she was watching her hand slide over his abdomen, her gaze slipped lower, and she noticed a bulge at the front of his trousers.

She swallowed hard and managed not to jerk in surprise, sustaining her light caress.

Paul was hard. The knowledge gave her a thrill of delight and hope before she could talk herself down with logic.

It might not mean anything. Probably didn’t. Men woke up hard all the time, evidently. It was likely just an incidental thing and didn’t have anything to do with her. Paul had never shown any interest in her physically.

She’d offered herself to him, and he’d refused.

She’d tried to be as attractive as possible on the first night they shared a bed in Egypt, in the hopes that maybe sex would just happen naturally. For a moment, as they’d been talking in bed, she’d actually thought it would. He’d just wanted to go to sleep, though. She'd been very disappointed.

Paul was gorgeous, sexy, experienced, and charismatic in every way. And Emily wasn’t. She knew how much he cared about her now, but he just didn’t think about her that way.

He wouldn’t have gotten hard because she was pressed up beside him, stroking his belly.

Quite involuntarily, her hand slipped a little lower on his belly, just above the waistband of his trousers. She never would have been daring enough to move it even lower, but she wanted to. She really wanted to.

“Okay,” Paul said, a resonance to his voice she didn’t recognize, “No more procrastinating. I really do need to get up. I’ve got some work to do before court.”

She rolled over and pulled back her hand, feeling ridiculously rejected but trying to hide it. She watched as he got out of bed and headed out of her bedroom.

If he wanted her—if he wanted her even a little—it would have been so easy for him to make a move.

He must have just woken up hard.

* * *

It was late in the afternoon, and Emily had been in the witness stand for almost two hours now.

She was starting to feel like she might faint.

She was just so ridiculously tired. Two days of fever must have taken more out of her than she’d realized, and it was much harder than she’d expected to keep from getting angry when the defense attorney’s questioning became more and more aggressive.

Plus, she had to deal with it all in front of Vincent Marino, who was sitting quietly behind the defense table, his cold eyes never leaving Emily's face. She'd looked at him directly once, and his grizzled face and smug expression had deeply disturbed her, so she avoided looking at him again.

Hathaway's direct examination had gone fine. They’d practiced all of her answers, and she was able to express herself clearly, calmly, and convincingly. Even when the defense attorney, a smarmy man named Edgar Barton, got up to cross-examine her, she’d still felt fine. She’d responded to all of his questions—even his rude and inappropriate ones—without faltering.

But she was starting to feel really tired now. The room seemed to be getting hot, even though she’d felt perfectly comfortable for most of the afternoon. She’d gotten so thirsty that she’d finished the glass of water that Hathaway's assistant had poured for her when she’d taken the stand.  No one seemed to care that her water was gone, but she still had a lot of talking left to do.

“So you’re telling me, Mrs. Marino,” Barton continued, “that you overheard evidence of a crime and were just going to keep it to yourself?”

“I was threatened by Mr. Marino, and I was scared. So, yes, for a while I kept it to myself.” Her mouth was dry now, and she tried to swallow to conjure up some saliva. There was an almost full pitcher of water on the defense’s table. And another one on the prosecutor’s table. And another one near the jury box. She would have thought that someone would be considerate enough to refill her glass.

“So you just woke up one morning and suddenly decided that justice was more important than fear?”

“No, I didn’t just wake up and decide that,” she said, coughing a little on the last word. She wondered if she could just ask for more water. Surely that wouldn’t be out of order. “He burned down my house.”

This statement got an objection, and there was a brief discussion until the judge sustained the objection.

“My house was burned down,” she rephrased. “And I was sure he was the one who did it. That’s what changed my mind.”

Barton must have finished with this particular line of questioning, since he moved suddenly to an entirely different topic. Hathaway had warned her that the sudden shift was one of the attorney’s most effective strategies, but she still had trouble orienting herself when he jumped to something entirely new.

“Did you know Mr. Marino before you overheard this alleged conversation?”

She blinked. “Yes. I’ve known of him all my life. Everyone in our neighborhood knew him.”

“But did you know him personally?”

“Personally?”

“Personally, yes,” Barton continued, as if she were not quite mentally competent. “Other than by reputation, did you know him personally?”

“I’d never had any personal conversations, but I’d seen him in person,” she said slowly, trying to figure out what he was getting at. “He came into my dad’s store a few times.”

This was evidently what he’d been waiting for, since he pursued it. “As a customer?”

“He might have bought something. I don’t remember.”

“What other reason would he have for coming into your father’s store?”

“He wanted to buy the store. He was trying to buy up the whole block.”

“And your dad sold to him?”

“No. He wouldn’t sell.” That was what she tried to say, but her mouth was so dry she could barely speak, and the room spun a few times as a wave of heat and fatigue washed over her.

She glanced over to where Paul was seated. He’d been watching her with a calm, steady gaze, but his brow lowered now, as if he recognized something was wrong.

Briefly terrified that she was actually going to pass out, she turned to the judge, since she didn’t know who else she was supposed to ask. “I’m sorry, your honor. Is there any way I can get some more water?”

The judge—an attractive black woman in her fifties—looked surprised but then nodded to the bailiff, who walked over, took Emily’s glass, filled it with water from one of the pitchers, and returned it to her.

Emily gulped it gratefully, feeling better as soon as she’d swallowed the water.

Barton hadn’t looked at all pleased with the interruption to his momentum, but he knew what he was doing. He closed the gap between the questions by repeating, “Did your dad sell the store to Mr. Marino?”

 “No. He wouldn’t sell.”

“Why not?”

“His father had bought the property and opened that store. My dad thought it was his birthright, and he didn’t like the defendant.”

“Didn’t he?” He looked like she’d said something revealing, and Emily started to worry she was falling into a trap.

She took another gulp of water and tried to clear her mind, but she felt so weak her hands trembled a little.

“So your father and Mr. Marino fought?”

“I don’t think so. I mean, not real fighting. All my dad did was keep saying no.”

“So Mr. Marino continued to make purchase offers to your dad?”

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“I don’t know. It went on for a while.” Emily knew she was too affected by her illness when her eyes burned at the memory of those last months with her father, when he’d been so incredibly stressed with trying to keep his store above water and too proud to even consider selling to Vincent Marino.

“Did you resent the defendant for that?”

 “What?” Despite the water, Emily’s mouth and head still felt cottony.

“Did you resent Mr. Marino for the pressure he put on your father?”

“Why would I?”

“Did you love your father?”

“Of course.”

“So did you resent it when Mr. Marino started to squeeze him out of business in an attempt to persuade him to sell?”

Hathaway objected to something about the questioning, but Emily was too blurry to follow the details. She used the brief pause to try to pull herself together and get her mind to work better than it was.

When Barton started to question her again, he asked, “How did you feel when the defendant used his influence in the neighborhood to keep your father’s store from turning a profit?”

Emily stared at him, bewildered. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“I don’t know how I can ask the question any clearer. How did you feel when Mr. Marino used his influence in the neighborhood to squeeze your father out of his business?”

“I didn’t know he did that.” She was absolutely horrified by the idea—by what Vincent Marino might have done to her poor father.

“How profitable was your father’s store in the last months of his life?”

“Not profitable at all. He was trying to keep it from folding.”

“And who did you blame for that?”

“No one. It was just one of those things.”

“You didn’t blame Mr. Marino?”

“I didn’t know he was doing anything.” A few embarrassing tears streamed from her eyes. “My dad never told me. I thought it was just one of those things.”

“You didn’t resent Mr. Marino for it?”

“Objection,” Hathaway interrupted. “Asked and answered.”

The judge sustained the objection, and the brief pause gave Emily a chance to hurriedly wipe away the tears. She was a wreck. She was doing a terrible job. Talking about her father like this—learning the truth about what he’d had to go through without her ever knowing—was heartbreaking. She didn’t dare look over to Paul. He would be so disappointed in her.

“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”

The shift in topic was so abrupt that Emily couldn’t follow it. “What?”

“Had your husband shown any signs of romantic interest in you before he married you?”

“No,” she admitted, “But he didn’t—”

“So your courtship and marriage were…sudden?”

“Yes.” She sniffed a few times, desperately needing a tissue.

Barton didn’t give her time to explain further. “Did you find it surprising that a rich, attractive, older man would be willing to marry someone like you?”

The question hurt and surprised Emily so much she gasped.

When it looked like Hathaway was about to object, Barton added, “I mean, marry a teenage girl he'd never shown any interest in.”

“There were certain circumstances,” she began, trying desperately to think clearly, even though her hands were shaking helplessly and her eyes still blurred with tears.

“Ah, circumstances,” Barton interrupted. “Was your testifying in this trial part of the marriage agreement you made with your husband?”

Emily gulped, understanding where this was going. “Yes.”

“Do you believe that your husband is in love with you?”

It was awful. Absolutely awful. That Paul didn’t love her, and that she was ruining him now by speaking the truth. She choked, more tears sliding down her cheeks.

“Please direct the witness to answer the question, your honor.”

“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer.”

Emily managed to force back the emotion. “No. He’s not in love with me.”

“Did your aunt recently die, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Is your father dead?”

“Yes.”

“Where is your mother?”

She shrugged. “On the street somewhere.”

“Have you been diagnosed with a terminal illness?”

“Yes.”

“Are you seventeen years old?”

“Yes.”

“Mrs. Marino, has your husband taken advantage of you?”

“No!”

“You wouldn’t consider it taking advantage if a man marries a vulnerable girl in order to get her to testify against his father?”

“That’s not how it happened.” She was washed with heat again, hating her weakness, her illness, her stupidity, everything that had led her to make such a mess of this now. “That’s not why he married me.”

Barton arched his eyebrows. “Do you care for your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes.”

“Would you try to help him whenever you could?”

“I wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Please answer the question.”

“Yes, I would help him when I could, but I wouldn’t lie for him.”

“Do you like to please him?”

The room was spinning again, and it was too hot. Emily clutched at the seat of her chair, desperately trying to breathe. She couldn’t pass out. She just couldn’t.

“Please answer the question, Mrs. Marino.”

She opened her mouth. Tried to answer. But the room darkened around her.

“Your honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mrs. Marino,” the judge said, “You need to answer the question.” Her voice had been gentler than normal, but it changed when she turned her head and said, “Please sit down, Mr. Marino.”

Emily nodded. Tried again to answer. But she felt herself swaying on her seat.

“Mrs. Marino?” the judge asked. Then, “I said sit down, Mr. Marino.”

“Your honor,” Hathaway jumped in. “We request a short recess. The witness has spent the last two days with a high fever. It’s obvious she’s not yet fully recovered.”

“You have thirty minutes,” the judge said. “But then we have to move on.”

Emily wasn’t sure what happened after that. Maybe she actually did pass out for a few seconds. The next thing she was aware of was Paul’s arms around her, his helping her out of the room, then his settling her on a loveseat in some sort of small conference room.

She leaned against him, shaking desperately although she didn’t have any tears. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry, Paul. I messed everything up.”

“No, you didn’t,” he said, his arms still holding her tightly. “You didn’t mess anything up. You did fine.”

“No, I didn’t. I was terrible.” She stared up at Hathaway, who was looking down on her with a surprising sympathy in his eyes. He hadn't seemed to care that much about her before. “Wasn’t I?”

“No, you really weren’t,” he said. “In fact, I think stepping into you was a mistake on Barton’s part. Marino had obviously told him what buttons to push, but he didn’t expect you to be so fragile or he wouldn’t have pushed so hard.”

“I’m not fragile,” she gasped, offended by the word despite the circumstances.

Paul stroked her hair and murmured dryly, “Let’s try to focus on essentials.”

The faint irony in his tone actually helped. “How could my breakdown have helped? Didn’t it look like I was overwhelmed by how Paul had taken advantage of me? Or maybe they thought I was faking to earn sympathy.”

“There's no way you were faking—you turned dead white. We can clear up the circumstances of your marriage in redirect,” Hathaway said. “The incident made Barton look like a bully. Several of the jurors looked like they wanted to jump up and help you themselves. You did fine, Mrs. Marino. You did just fine.”

She nodded, something easing in her chest. She looked up at Paul. “Sorry I’m such a wreck.”

“You’re not a wreck,” he objected gently, wiping lingering tears from her face with his thumb. “You’re sick.”

Emily was really tired of being sick.

* * *

Emily was exhausted but steady again when she took the witness stand one more time.

Barton, evidently realizing any further cross-examination would cast him in a negative light, declared he was through with her as a witness. Then Hathaway asked for a redirect examination.

He began, “Did you agree to testify against Mr. Vincent Marino after you married your husband?”

“No. I had agreed to do so before.”

“Did your husband originally suggest you testify?”

“No. It was my idea from the beginning. He didn’t know anything about it until my aunt and I had already gone to the FBI.”

“Who proposed the marriage between you and your husband?”

“I did.”

“Why did you ask Mr. Marino to marry you?”

“I had three months to live. I wanted to get married before I died.”

“Why do you believe he agreed?”

“Because he’s a good man, and he felt sorry for me.”

“Do you trust your husband, Mrs. Marino?”

“Yes. Absolutely.”

“Have you known him to lie to you?”

“Never.”

“Has he ever taken advantage of you in any way?”

“No,” Emily said, looking over at Paul, who was sitting in his seat again, watching her steadily with an expression she was too far away to read.

Feeling an outpouring of affection, she continued, “He’s never taken advantage of me. He’s never been anything but caring, considerate, generous, and good to me. He’s given me more than I could ever dream of—and not asked for anything in return. He has selflessly sat by my bed when I was sick for hours to take care of me. Except for my father, no man has ever treated me better than he has. He wants justice for his father, not vengeance. He’s the best man I’ve ever known.”

Something twisted on Paul’s face. He put a hand over his mouth, like he was rubbing his chin, and glanced away from her.

Emily’s eyes returned to Hathaway, who concluded, “That’s all, your honor.”

The judge dismissed her and announced that the trial would resume the next morning.

As Emily walked shakily past the defense table, she couldn’t help but finally glance over at Vincent Marino.

He arched his eyebrows and smiled at her—mockingly, tauntingly—as if he couldn’t believe she’d just said what she’d said.

But she had meant it. She’d meant all of it.

* * *

That evening, Emily took a long bath and pulled on her pajamas. Then, feeling restless and at loose ends, she’d wandered around looking for Paul.

He hadn’t said anything about her redirect testimony, but she hadn’t expected him to. He was a private man, and he wouldn’t know how to respond to her earnest declaration.

Emily didn’t want to make him uncomfortable, so she wasn’t about to bring it up herself.

He wasn’t in his office, and he wasn’t in the kitchen or main living area. She eventually found him in the media room, stretched out on the sofa and working on his laptop. He was wearing jeans and a white t-shirt, and his feet were bare.

He usually worked in his office, so she was surprised to see him in this room. She was actually glad, though, since it meant she had an excuse to join him.

She walked over to the couch and lifted up his feet to make room for herself to sit down. Then she replaced his feet in her lap.

He cocked an eyebrow at her questioningly.

“Well, I wanted to watch TV, and you were taking all the room,” she explained.

“How are you feeling?” he asked, closing his laptop and putting it on the side table.

“I’m fine. Tired, but fine. What about you?”

“I’m fine too.” He clicked on the television and started to flip the channels.

She wasn't sure he was telling her the whole truth. Tomorrow, he would have to take the witness stand and be ripped to shreds by Barton in front of his father. Since his feet were in her lap, she took one of them with both hands and started to massage it.

Paul jerked in surprise.

“I give good foot rubs,” she said, although she wasn’t entirely sure if her foot rubs were good or not.

But who would turn down even a mediocre foot rub?

He looked dubious, but he didn’t pull his foot away, so she massaged it as skillfully as she could. Paul kept flipping the channels, but she could hear his breathing slow down as she kneaded his foot. Then it felt like his body was relaxing.

After several minutes, she switched to the other foot. Eventually, Paul landed on a cable news channel and left it there. When she looked over again, his eyes were closed.

He wasn’t asleep though. Occasionally his breathing would thicken to almost a groan.

His feet were like everyone else’s feet—not the most beautiful things in the world. But she loved them. She loved how Paul’s body had softened. She loved that she had the power to make him feel better.

Finally, her hands got tired, so she let them drop by her sides. She looked at Paul’s face and wondered if he'd fallen asleep after all.

Then his eyes opened. He smiled at her, looking drowsy and content.

Her heart surged with tender possessiveness at the thought that she might have made him look that way.

She wasn’t sure who moved first. Maybe they moved at the same time. But he reached down the couch toward her and she climbed up toward him. She ended up stretched out beside him, nestled between his body and the back of the sofa.

It was so nice. All her life, she’d never known how nice it was just to cuddle up next to a man, have him hold her against him, feel his heartbeat beneath her ear.

She might have died without ever knowing it.

She wasn’t sure who fell asleep first, but eventually both of them did—because they were still on the couch together when she woke up the next morning.

***

Emily’s stomach twisted anxiously as she rode in the back of a chauffeured car to the courthouse the following morning.

She was even more nervous now than she’d been the day before. Her part of the trial might be over, but Paul’s would start today.

She was so worried for him.

He’d barely said a word all morning, except for his normal greeting and inquiry about her health. His face was calm, stoic, as he sat beside her in the back of the car. He stared out the window, and someone who didn’t know him as well as she did would probably think that he was perfectly composed, perfectly at ease.

But he wasn’t.

When she noticed him absently rubbing the back of his neck, she was concerned enough to break the silence. “You didn’t get a crick in your neck or anything from sleeping on the couch, did you?”

He looked over at her, faintly surprised. “No. I’m fine.”

“Are you sure? Because I know it was kind of cramped and—”

“Emily, the couch is huge. I was perfectly comfortable.”

“Okay,” she said, eyeing his calm face. She had no idea how he did it, how he masked his emotions like that. She’d always found it so hard to hide what she was feeling.

“Emily, I’m really all right. You don’t have to look like I’m on my way to the gallows.”

The dry note in his voice was a relief. She relaxed into a smile. “I’m sure you’ll do a lot better than me and not break down in tears or faint or anything.”

Paul actually chuckled at that. “I sure hope I don’t faint.”

“You’ll do great,” she murmured, leaning her head back against the seat as she gazed over at him. “And it will be over by lunchtime.”

His face sobered, and he looked at her reflectively. She could tell he wanted to say something, but he didn’t say it.

“What is it?” she asked.

He cleared his throat. “What if…what if you leave the courtroom during my testimony?”

She gasped and stiffened her back. “No! Why would I do that?”

“There’s no reason you have to hear all of it.”

“I want to hear it. I want to be there for you.”

“I know you do, and I appreciate it. But it’s not going to be pleasant. I’d rather you not hear the whole, ugly rehearsal of every sin I’ve ever committed.”

“I don’t care if it’s not pleasant. I’m not going to leave. It would look like I’m…like I’m ashamed of you or something. I’m not ashamed.” She glared at him, daring him to challenge her on this. “I’m not going to leave.”

Paul just nodded and glanced away.

They sat in silence for a few minutes until Emily asked, “Did you look at the newspapers this morning?”

He turned back toward her, his expression changing. “Yes. I did.”

“I was too scared to look. What are they saying?”

In response to a defense motion about how media coverage of the trial would expose confidential corporate information to the public, the judge had closed the courtroom to the media for most of the hearings, including both Emily’s and Paul’s testimony. But naturally word would get out about trial proceedings anyway.

“They’ve got that we’re married and that you’re sick, so they’ve concocted a tragic love story for us,” Paul said. “They’ve got that my dad was threatening you, but not the reason, and he doesn’t come off well in the headlines trying to threaten a teenage girl. Overall, they seem to be on our side. That may change at any moment, of course.”

It didn’t sound as bad as Emily had feared. “Maybe it won’t. I think we’re a lot more sympathetic than your dad is.”

Paul gave a soft huff of amusement. “No argument here.”

She reached over and squeezed his arm. “You’ll do great today.”

“We’ll see.”

* * *

Emily shifted in her uncomfortable seat, praying Paul’s cross-examination would be over soon. Hathaway’s direct examination had been simple and brief, merely establishing what Paul knew of his father’s illegal activities and how he knew it.

The cross-examination was something else.

It seemed to have gone on forever, and Barton showed no signs of wrapping it up. Paul was doing a much better job than Emily had done—he’d been cool, clear, and articulate in his responses to every question, and he gave no obvious signs of being under stress or even of being particularly concerned by the nature of the questioning.

But, to Emily, he looked a little pale around the mouth, and there was a tension in his jaw that shouldn’t be there. This was hard for him. Really hard. She wanted it to be over.

Barton had done exactly what Paul had predicted—dredged up every act of questionable morality or dubious legality in his entire history. It wasn’t any fun for Emily. She didn’t want to hear about every stupid, reckless thing Paul had done as a teenager. She didn’t want to hear about all of the women Paul had fucked, the drugs he’d taken, the cars he’d wrecked. She didn’t want to hear about the things he felt guilty about, the things he knew he’d done wrong. But Barton asked about them all.

Hathaway jumped in several times to object to certain lines of questioning, and some of those objections the judge sustained, but there was still too much that Paul had to admit.

Paul hadn’t looked at her. Not once. He hadn’t looked at his father either. His eyes focused on Barton whenever the man was speaking, and then he would sometimes move his gaze to the jury as he answered. Emily thought he was doing a remarkable job—admitting his faults but not faltering on his testimony.

But it was just going on for too long.

Then Barton did one of his sudden shifts. “Do you have scars on your back, Mr. Marino?”

“Yes.” Paul didn’t look tense or surprised, but Emily was sure he was.

She held her breath, appalled by this new line of questioning.

 “When did you get them?”

“When I was seventeen.”

“How did you get them?”

“I was arguing with my father, and I fell backwards into a china cabinet. The glass panes broke and cut me up.”

“He hit you?”

“No. He pushed me back from him, and I fell backward.”

“So you were attacking him?”

“No.”

“Then why did he need to push you back?”

“I don’t think he needed to, but I was in his face, and he didn’t like it.”

“Why were you arguing?”

“I’d just been arrested for drug possession.” Paul said the words matter-of-factly, but she knew how much this incident haunted him, and she couldn’t imagine how hard it was to have it all laid bare in a public courtroom.

“So you were at fault?”

Paul lifted his eyebrows. “For possessing drugs?  Yes, I was at fault for that.”

“That was the reason for the argument, wasn’t it?”

“No, it wasn’t. The argument wasn’t about the drugs.”

“What was it about, then?”

“What it was always about. I wasn’t the son that he wanted.”

“So it was his fault?” Barton made the question dubious, as if he couldn’t believe Paul’s pettiness.

“We were both at fault.”

“But you’ve always resented him for what happened?”

“Yes, I’ve resented him.”

“But you were the one who broke the law?”

“Yes, I broke the law.”

“And you were going after him in the argument, and all he did was defend himself?”

Since that wasn’t a question, Paul just stared at Barton steadily and didn’t answer.

“You’d asked him for help with—”

“No,” Paul interrupted curtly. “I hadn’t asked him for help. I haven’t asked him for anything since I was thirteen. I’ll never ask him for anything again.”

Barton looked nonplussed by the reply—far more forthcoming than anything else Paul had said during the cross-examination. He must not have thought of a way to use it, however, since he moved on. “Let’s talk about August 23—four years ago. You crashed your car that night, didn’t you?”

Before Paul could respond, Hathaway broke in, “Objection, your honor. As I have pointed out several times now, the witness is not on trial. Whether or not he crashed his car is immaterial to the case.”

“It goes to establishing a pattern of conflict between Mr. Marino and his father,” Barton explained.

The judge shook her head. “That pattern has been sufficiently established. Dial it back, Mr. Barton. The objection is sustained.”

Emily released her pent breath.

“Mr. Marino,” Barton said, turning back to Paul, “Did you manipulate your way into your current position?”

“Excuse me?” Paul asked. Emily couldn’t tell if he was really confused by the shift in topic or just stalling on purpose.

“Your current job. Did you get that job through manipulation?”

“Yes, it was a kind of manipulation. I didn’t break the law. I just applied an unorthodox kind of persuasion.” Emily was so proud of Paul. His voice and expression never wavered, and he wasn’t letting Barton fluster or confuse him in the slightest.

Barton continued, “If you were willing to go to such unorthodox lengths to get a job, why should we believe you aren’t doing so now in fabricating a murder case against your father?”

“You can believe it because I haven’t done so.”

“You were the one who approached the authorities with the detailed information about your father’s alleged illegal activities. Not the other way around.”

“Correct.”

“But you only did this after Mrs. Marino had gone to the authorities first with her story about being threatened?”

“Correct.”

“How did you know she’d gone to the authorities at all?”

“It was quite clear that my father had been threatening her for some reason, and then it was quite clear that the FBI had some basis for a case, since they’d started sniffing around. I put two and two together.”

“You weren’t in collaboration with your wife before she went to the FBI?

“She wasn’t my wife at the time. And, no, I wasn’t in collaboration with her.”

Emily held her breath again, certain that Barton was going to pursue the same line of questioning he had with her—painting Paul into a heartless, manipulative seducer of teenage girls.

But he didn’t.

Maybe the dramatic conclusion of her testimony had convinced him that it wasn't an effective card to play with the jury.

Instead, Barton began, “Hating your father as you do—”

“I don’t hate my father,” Paul interrupted.

“I’m sorry,” Barton said, feigning confusion, “I thought you just testified that…”

“I said I resented my father. I never claimed to hate him.”

“Ah, I see.” Barton smiled. “Resenting him as you do, would you be happy if your father was convicted in this trial?”

“I would be pleased that justice was done.”

“You wouldn’t be happy?”

Paul met Barton’s eyes evenly. “I don’t think any scenario regarding my father has the power to make me happy.”

“Why not?” For once, Barton seemed to be asking an honest question, as if he really wanted to know the answer.

And, for the first time, Paul looked away from the defense attorney. In that moment, Emily knew why.

“Mr. Marino?” Barton persisted, looking faintly pleased that he’d finally managed to flap this unflappable witness.

Paul didn’t respond. He briefly moved a hand to his face, covering his mouth in a characteristic gesture. His eyes were focused on an empty spot in the air.

“Your honor?” Barton prompted.

“Mr. Marino, please answer the question,” the judge instructed.

Paul looked back at Barton. His eyes were absolutely heart-breaking, even from as far away as Emily was sitting. His voice was hoarse when he spoke, and there was no way not to believe him.

“Because I still love him,” Paul admitted. “But he’ll never love me.”

The courtroom was dead silent for a long time.

Emily’s eyes burned, and she raised a hand to her chest—instinctively trying to hold her heart in place because it just hurt so much. She could only imagine how hard those words had been for Paul to say. They must have been ripped out of him.

Barton asked Paul a few more questions, but Emily barely heard them. They didn’t matter. They weren’t important. And she was so relieved when Barton concluded his examination, and Hathaway said there would be no redirect.

Paul got up from the witness stand and walked back to where Emily was seated. He was wearing another sleek black suit—and he held himself with the same confidence as always, his shoulders straight, his eyes steady.

Emily was almost shaking with emotion when he sat down beside her. He hadn’t really even looked at her. He hadn’t looked at anyone.

His body was tense beside her, and his eyes focused blankly on the courtroom proceedings. She wanted to hug him. She desperately wanted to hug him, but she knew she couldn’t do it.

Paul would never be able to accept her affection openly, in public like this—not after what he’d just been through.

But she couldn’t bear not to do anything, so she reached over and picked up the hand that he’d rested on the seat beside him. His hand had always been really warm, but it was cool right now. Far too cool.

She squeezed his hand, focused forward, not wanting to make him feel awkward by even looking at him.

She almost cried when he squeezed her hand back.

She didn’t let go of his hand, and he didn’t pull his away. So she held his hand—the only thing she could do—until the judge announced the trial would recess for lunch.

* * *

Emily took a long bath that evening and then pulled on a white camisole and pink cotton pajama pants. She felt restless and upset, and she wanted to just hibernate. But Chris called, so she had to talk to him.

She ended up crying on the phone, since she was already emotionally exhausted. He was her friend, but he didn’t understand any of her choices, and she couldn’t make him understand.

When she finally hung up, she went to find Paul. She needed comfort, even just from his silent presence. She found him in the media room, but this time he didn’t have his laptop. He was sitting on the couch, wearing the black trousers to his suit and the French blue dress shirt without the tie or jacket. He was staring at the television, but she didn’t think he was really seeing it.

“Are you okay?” he asked, when she came into the room.

She gave her head a little nod and sat down beside him, folding up her legs beneath her. She was afraid if she said anything, she would start to cry again.

“You were talking to Chris?”

She nodded again.

He didn’t reply, and when she turned to look at him, his expression was far away. His shoulders were tense, and that muscle was twitching in his jaw. “How are you doing, Paul?” she asked. When her voice came out too hoarsely, she cleared her throat.

“I’m fine.”

“Don’t tell me that. I don’t believe you.”

Paul met her eyes, and his mouth lifted at one corner, almost bitterly. “It’s nothing new, Emily. It’s just the same stuff I’ve dealt with for years.”

“But that doesn’t mean it’s not hard.”

He didn’t reply. He just stared at the television. Emily wanted desperately to hug him, to comfort him, to show him that she was there for him.

But he still looked so stiff and guarded. She was afraid he would pull away, reject her, and that would hurt.

She sat for a while and tried to decide what she should do. She just didn’t have any experience in dealing with men, particularly with someone as profoundly private as Paul.

But she was sure—she was absolutely sure—he needed something, and she was the only one here to give it to him. If he rejected her, he rejected her. She didn’t have very long left to live with memories of rejection anyway.

So she pulled herself up on her knees and reached over to wrap her arms around him.

He froze, as if he were surprised or reluctant, but then, after a tense moment, his arms went around her too. Then they tightened, like he’d let down some sort of barrier, let himself go.

He felt so warm and hard and needy that she couldn't pull away, and she ended up halfway in his lap, with her legs draped over his thighs and her upper body pressing into his chest. They hugged for a long time, tightly, nakedly needy. Then Paul’s arms loosened some and she relaxed against him, resting her head on his shoulder.

The television was still on—it sounded like sports—but Emily was barely aware of it.

She breathed in the smell of Paul, warm and masculine, and took comfort in the fact that he seemed to need her as much as she needed him.

After a long time, she kind of wanted to say something, but she had no idea what to say. She idly stroked his side over his soft shirt and looked up at his face.

He was gazing down on her, and his eyes were so tender they took her breath away.

Her lips parted. She was trapped by his gaze, and something deep inside her started to shudder.

Paul lifted a hand to her face. He brushed her hair back and then cupped her cheek. His eyes were the most beautiful, hypnotizing things she’d ever seen.

A rush of feeling swept through her body and then rose up in her chest. She thought—she thought—he was going to kiss her. It looked like he wanted to, like he thought she was precious to him.

And Emily desperately wanted to kiss him.

So, without thinking, acting only by instinct, she stretched up and pressed her lips against his, very lightly. Then she pulled back just slightly, letting her mouth hover in front of his, feeling his breath on her skin.

Then they were kissing again, deeper and more hungrily. Paul’s hand slid backward to cup the back of her head, tangling in her hair and holding her steadily against his mouth. She fisted both of her hands in the fabric of his shirt, reeling from emotion and sensation, needing to hold onto something.

Paul’s mouth moved urgently against hers—more hungry than skillful—and now his tongue slid beyond her lips, licking the underside of each in turn. It felt so good she gave a silly moan at the back of her throat, and then his tongue was all the way inside her mouth. Stroking. Fluttering. Tangling with hers.

Her eyes squeezed shut, and her back arched instinctively, pressing her breasts against his hard chest. She could feel the kiss so deeply—in her mouth, all through her body—that she started to squirm.

Paul’s mouth tore away from hers without warning, and she let her head fall backward, gasping for air. He immediately took advantage of the exposure of her neck and mouthed a hungry line down her throat.

“Oh God!” she gasped, clutching, almost clawing at his shirt. The sensations overwhelmed her, pulsing through her body with her blood.

Paul slid his hands down to span her ribs, holding her steady and easing her into a deeper arch of her spine. He was sucking the pulse at her throat, and it felt so good she moaned helplessly.

She could feel her nipples tighten and rub in delicious torment against the cotton of her camisole. One of Paul’s hands shifted to stroke over the swell of her breast, teasing the shameless peak of her nipple with the heel of his hand.

“Eh heh!” she gasped out as the stimulation tugged with exquisite pleasure between her legs. She let go of his shirt and wrapped her arms around his neck, trying to hold on and hold his head in place at the same time.

He made a rough sound against her skin that absolutely thrilled her and caused the throbbing to intensify between her thighs. She squirmed eagerly in his lap, trying to feel as much of him as she could.

“Oh fuck,” Paul rasped, raising his head and drawing back. When she tried to pull him toward her again, he said, “I’m sorry. Emily, wait.”

She was so disoriented from the sensations and so disappointed in the abrupt interruption that she gave a little whimper. She blinked at him, her skin flushed red, her body aching with arousal. “You don’t want to?”

Very carefully, he eased her off his lap and back over to the seat of the couch. “I’m sorry, Emily. I shouldn’t have…I can’t do this.”

She’d fallen into an awkward flop, but she managed to sit up. Her body was still hot and pulsing, and it was all she could do not to grab Paul’s tense body and pull him down on top of her. “Oh.”

“I shouldn’t have done that,” he said again, sitting stiffly and staring down at the floor. His skin had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

“But I wanted to,” she told him, hoping it would make a difference.

“I know. I’m sorry.” He’d been breathing heavily, and she could see him trying to even out his breath. “But we can’t…I don’t want to do this just because we both had really bad days.”

“Oh.” She swallowed hard, finally understanding. “Okay.”

He looked over at her searchingly. “I’m sorry.”

She nodded at him, fighting not to look as crushed as she felt. “It’s okay.”

She understood. He’d been weak. He’d needed solace, company, somebody’s warm presence. And she’d been there to give it to him. It hadn’t mattered, at the moment, that she wasn’t the kind of girl he was attracted to. It was a weak moment, and he’d succumbed to it.

But she wasn’t someone he really wanted that way.

Paul stood up with a strange, low groan and started to leave the room, but he looked back at her one more time. “I’m really sorry. Are you…”

“I’m okay,” she finished for him, giving him the best smile she could. He’d done so much for her. She wasn’t going to let him feel guilty about this. “I understand. I’m okay.”

Paul left.

Emily collapsed onto the couch and lay in a hot, frustrated heap. She was brutally disappointed, and she felt utterly rejected. She breathed deeply, though, and talked herself down from the feelings.

It wasn’t fair to Paul for her to place such expectations on him. He’d given her absolutely everything he could, and she just couldn’t expect him to want her the way she wanted him. She couldn’t—she just wouldn’t—let this get in the way of their relationship.

She only had two months left, and she wasn't going to spend them feeling sorry for herself.

When she felt emotionally level again, she got up and went back to her bedroom. Her body was still overly heated, still pulsing with arousal. She’d never in her life felt this way. She’d been aroused before, of course, although usually by something she read or by her own sexual fantasies. More and more, when she was around Paul, she found herself responding viscerally to his physical presence.

But she’d never felt like this—like she might actually erupt.

She closed her bedroom door and lay down on her bed, rolling over onto her stomach. Then she slipped one hand under the waistband of her pajamas. She rubbed herself in tight circles over the fabric of her panties, feeling the tension clench in her body almost immediately.

She kept her eye on the door, although she was sure Paul wouldn’t walk in tonight the way he had while she’d been doing this in Egypt. She still remembered her shock and embarrassment, although fortunately he'd just thought she had a fever.

Her breathing quickened as her fingers worked and she thought about Paul, about how he’d been kissing her, holding her, touching her.

She came with a muffled groan, panting hotly against the pillow and still rubbing herself urgently, trying to feel all of the pleasure she could.

When her body finally relaxed, she stayed sprawled out on her stomach for a long time.

Eventually, though, she felt basically normal again, and she managed to get up, wash her hands and face, brush her teeth, and go to the bathroom. It was time for bed, and she was really tired. But she wasn’t really sleepy.

She tried to read some Shakespeare in bed. Then she put Shakespeare away and tried to watch TV. She just couldn’t focus on anything.

She pulled out her list. It was half done now but, once the trial was over, she would need to start working on the remainder of the items on her list. She tried to decide what she should do next. Finally, she put the list away too and just lay on her bed, thinking about Paul.

Nothing really had changed. He’d still had an agonizing day. He still needed her, and he was lying in the dark by himself.

Emily’s heart ached for him. Finally, at about midnight, she couldn’t stand it anymore.

Maybe she would be rejected again, but she’d passed the point of caring. She only had two more months. She was going to do what she thought was right while she could.

So she walked barefoot through the hall of the apartment and stood in front of the door to the master bedroom. Her heart racing wildly, she tapped on it lightly.

“Yes?” Paul called out immediately. He obviously hadn’t been asleep.

She opened the door and stepped in. The lights were off, and the room was lit only by the flickering light of the television.

Paul had been stretched out on his bed, staring at the television screen. When he saw her, he sat up with a jerk. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine.” She walked over to stand next to his bed. Swallowed hard. “I just…I didn’t want to be alone. Is it all right if I stay in here with you tonight?”

Paul stared at her. He wore what he always wore to bed—just a pair of soft pajama pants.

“Just to sleep,” she added, in case he’d misunderstood. She wasn't trying to jump him. She just wanted to share his bed.

She shook with anxiety and felt like this person couldn’t really be her. She couldn’t believe she’d just asked Paul Marino if she could sleep with him tonight.

“Of course,” he said, a little hoarsely. “Of course you can.”

With a thick exhale, Emily crawled into the king-sized bed beside him, feeling like she might collapse with relief. “Thank you,” she murmured, pulling the covers up over her and rolling onto her side to face him. She really wanted to snuggle up next to him, but she thought that might be pushing it, after what had happened between them earlier.

Paul rolled onto his side to face her too. He reached out to stroke a few strands of hair off her face. His touch wasn’t intense and hungry now. Just gentle. “Are you all right, Emily?”

She nodded and smiled at him. “I’m fine. I really am. I just felt kind of…lonely.” She didn’t say it, but she was pretty sure he’d been feeling lonely too. “Are you all right?”

“I am. I’m fine. It’s just been a really long day.” He smiled at her, almost poignantly, and then rolled over onto his back. He closed his eyes, as if he were relaxing at last.

Then he murmured one more thing, low words she barely heard, words that caused the tightness in her chest to release at last. “I’m glad you’re here.”