Grand Slam (36 page)

Jack put his arms around me and, with a relieved sigh, pulled me close. My fingers clung to the front of his shirt like they never wanted to let go; I lay my head on his chest. We stayed like that while police moved around us. From behind me I heard Senior Detective Bill Lucas tell Jack he needed to speak with me. Apart from a slightly tighter squeeze of his arms, I didn't know what signal Jack gave to send Bill away.

Jack took me to the hospital. He didn't tell me we were going there, probably in case I tried to leap from his moving vehicle to avoid it. I spent four hours in emergency department with a
lot
of attention from female doctors and nurses, presumably because of Jack, who didn't leave my side, holding my hand, kissing it, stroking my face.

To check for concussion, brain haemorrhages, whatever, every half-hour a nurse shone a light in my eyes and asked simple questions like, ‘What's your name?' and I said, ‘Emily Jesus' just to be funny but no-one thought I was funny, especially Jack. Bill Lucas stopped by and asked me police questions until Jack thought I'd had enough. Finally, a nurse looked deeply into my eyes with the help of a torch and said, ‘Who's the prime minister of Australia?' and I said, ‘Some wanker who couldn't give a shit about people or the environment,' and she said, ‘Okay. You're good to go.'

The nurse left and Jack sat on my bed, took my hand. ‘I'm taking you to my place for a shower. Wash that stinking river off you.'

‘You were in the stinking river too.'

‘Which is why I'll be in the shower with you.'

Goody! ‘And then?'

‘And then I'll tuck you into bed and you'll sleep.'

‘Oh, no. They said I'm fine. Really.'

‘You're traumatised, if not concussed. You need rest.'

‘I'm not!' I sat up. ‘I don't need rest and I won't.'

‘You do and you will.'

I punched his arm. ‘You'll chase me around your bedroom and have sex with me!'

Jack smiled, seemingly not concerned with the attention I'd drawn from the various emergency department staff and patients, who possibly thought I was having some sort of psychotic episode.

‘For two hours,' I said.

Actually, it was two and a half hours because after the shower there was a lengthy massage which involved me lying face-down on his bed and moaning so loudly I was glad the windows were closed, in case the neighbours got the wrong idea. Or the right idea. I hadn't realised how much my body hurt, and how exhausted I was.

Jack had driven us to his house, taking his time. On the way, in anticipation of any disruptive issues that might arise during shower/bedroom time with Jack, I'd called my mother to remind her I was staying at the hotel and she said that was just as well because Mrs Booth and Minx were now living in my room. I'd also called Rosalind and told her I needed to be on-call for Emilio all night, and so she'd have to attend to my official duties at the tennis. Well, I didn't tell her that directly. I left a voicemail. I told Jack he needed to give Andrew a fat bonus, plus send him and his partner out for a disgustingly expensive dinner somewhere, plus a holiday somewhere nice, plus he had to reimburse me for the hotel room I'd used and he said, ‘Why do I have to pay for that?' and I said, ‘Because,' and he said, ‘All right.'

I also asked what he knew about Martin McGann and Teresa. ‘Do you think they were bonking?'

Normally he'd frown at my coarse language but he just nodded. ‘Yep. All she wanted was money. Didn't care how she got it or from whom.'

‘Probably why she was with Emilio's father and then Emilio.'

‘Probably.'

‘But Emilio didn't pay her.'

‘Which is why she needed money.'

‘What about Martin McGann? What will happen to him?'

Jack glanced at the clock on the car's dashboard. ‘I'd say police are picking him up, right about now.'

‘He and Shane have a lot of catching up to do.'

He nodded. ‘I couldn't be happier for them.'

‘Do you think Martin paid the Russians to blow up the oil rig in WA?'

‘Yep.'

‘What about Bass Strait? Aren't you supposed to be there?'

‘Handballed that one back to JD.'

‘Nice return.'

Jack looked at me, gave me a small smile. ‘My priorities have changed.'

When Jack opened his front door and we stepped inside, I turned to him, pouted sexily. ‘You know what I want.'

He gave me a questioning look as I backed slowly away, then a big smile spread across his face. ‘You get a five-second head start.'I took off with a squeal, sprinting into the living room, knowing I couldn't outrun him for long. He was behind me in a flash.

‘That wasn't five seconds!'

I ran behind the sofa and he stood on the other side, eyes shining with laughter. I edged left and right, and he mirrored me. He hurdled the sofa and I raced into the kitchen, going round and round the bench, then round and round the dining table, pulling the chairs out to block him, and as I bolted for the stairs, screaming with giggles, he caught me, spun me into his arms, whipped me into a dip. I panted, laughing, and he put his mouth to my ear, murmuring something in French, and my heart thumped from the thrill of whispered promises I couldn't understand.

‘Did you say something naughty?'

‘
Oui
.'

He gently bit my earlobe, and my bottom lip, and his beautiful, smiling eyes gazed into mine while he said more things in French.

‘Did you say what you're planning to do with me?'

‘Oh, yeah.'

My body quivered with anticipation. ‘And that is?'

Jack threw me over his shoulder and carried me up the stairs. I laughed, breathless, whacking his backside, telling him, ‘This is not romantic!'

In his room he put me down, and something more serious settled around him. He lifted my palms to his mouth, kissing each one, and each fingertip, the heat from his lips zapping up my arms, swirling around my chest, standing my nipples erect. He lingered with the de-clothing process. The buttons of my shirt – one at a time – the zip of my skirt eased down, straps of my bra carefully slipped off each shoulder. My undies encouraged to the floor. He took my hand and led me to the shower where, standing with an arm around my waist and his body against my back, he held his hand under the water to make sure the temperature was just right. He pushed me gently under the soft flow and in that warm, sensuous space – all soft light and chocolate stone – I let the water wash over me, watching Jack through the swirling steam as he undressed. He was quicker with his own clothes: T-shirt flung over his head while he kicked off his shoes. Jeans, undies and socks discarded together.

When he stepped into the shower I reached for him but he said, ‘No touching.'

‘No?'

‘Not yet.'

Jack washed my hair, massaging the shampoo then conditioner into my scalp, taking his time, sending equal waves of longing and fatigue through my body, leaving me too weak to do anything but stay barely upright.

‘Why are you allowed to touch?' I said.

‘Because I'm the boss.'

‘All right. But just for tonight.'

‘We'll see.'

He moved me under the water and I closed my eyes, arms limp at my side. He cradled my head in one hand; with the other he worked the water through my hair, rinsing it. With his breath on my cheek and his thigh against mine I was aware of him, how close he was, and I opened my eyes, blinked the water away, held his gaze, held my breath. He stopped all movement except a very light stroke of fingers down my cheek, and in a moment of lost control he kissed me hard. There was a deep, distant groan in his throat and I turned so we faced each other, slick bellies together, my hands on his hips.

He stepped back with a weak gasp. ‘Wait.'

He took the soap and lathered my body, massaged my tired and aching arms and back. I leaned against the cool stone wall and watched him crouch, lifting one foot then the other, washing them with a soft cloth and kissing each toe in turn. He placed my foot on his knee; kissed my grazed shin and bruised knee and a deep scratch on the inside of my thigh. He looked up at me and I gave him a big smile.

So now I lay sprawled in Jack's bed, temporarily sated, having finally been allowed to touch as much as I wanted. I was propped up by just enough pillows so I could comfortably watch the tennis. It was a close match. But Emilio was a shining star; Sharon cheering him on from the love seat. I saw Mum and Dad there in Jack's expensive platinum, kryptonite, whatever, seats. I hoped they wouldn't look for me after the match – they'd be looking a long time.

Jack lay with his head on my chest, arm securing my waist; no chance of escape. I twirled my fingers in his hair. ‘What are you doing tomorrow?' I, for one, had no intention of going to work and hoped he didn't have plans either. In light of recent developments, I expected Shazza wouldn't be around.

‘I'm locking you in my bedroom.'

‘All day?'

‘Until your renovation's finished.'

‘You don't need to lock the door, you know. I'll willingly stay.'

He rolled away and pulled me on top of him. ‘I can't trust you not to run off.'

I sat up, straddling him, admiring his chest and shoulders, running my hands over them, sighing with happiness. ‘I won't run off. Unless you're not planning on being here. In which case —'

‘I'll be here, feeding you and —'

‘Loving me.'

‘Yes, loving you.'

With a hand behind my head he pulled my face down to his, and it was another half-hour before I got to see more tennis.

Jack dozed and I slipped out of bed, padded across the room to his cavernous walk-in robe where I rifled through the neatly ironed (by Joe) collection of T-shirts for my favourite. Really, I loved every one of them because they all smelled like him. I pulled on a pair of his boxers.

‘Are you running off?' He lay on his back now in the expansive bed with one arm behind his head, the sheet low and creamy against his perfect, bronze body. The whole scene looked like an ad for
Cleo
magazine. Or Sheridan sheets.