He shrugged. “Maybe you like being Superwoman all by yourself. Maybe you don’t like anyone else saving the bacon.”
“You can save all the bacon you want, Pulaski,” she said wearily. “I’m going to sleep.” She crawled beneath the covers, pulling them over her head to shut out the blue light from the television set.
“That’s all right,” he said softly beside her. “You can save the bacon next time.”
With luck there wouldn’t be a next time, she thought, turning her face away from him. With luck they’d find Van Zandt’s rebel camp in Honduras and she could dump Mack back on him. The sooner that day came, the better.
She had to get away from him. He was having a terrible effect on her, challenging all her hard-won beliefs, seducing her with nothing more than those warm, laughing eyes of his.
He was probably right, she conceded, sinking down lower in the bed and shutting out the noise of the prime-time soap opera. She didn’t like having anyone else take care of things, not unless she asked them to in the first place. But it wasn’t overwhelming pride or the need to dominate. It was much more basic than that. If you had to rely on someone else for help, you were then in their debt and beholden to them. And if you had to rely on them, they would let you down, sooner or later, and break your heart. Far better to be beholden to no one, to be the one who made the decisions, who stayed in charge and kept things moving in the right direction.
She needed that control to feel safe within herself. And now Mack had taken it away from her, leaving her resentful, grateful, and unpleasantly helpless. Damn him.
She opened one eye, peering at him through the darkened room. He was stretched out on the twin bed, seemingly absorbed in J. R. Ewing, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s by his side, his shoes off and his shirt open. He was entirely at ease, and she was
lying there trying to recapture the blissful sleep she needed, feeling guilty and miserable.
He was right, she was wrong. He hadn’t taken control away from her. He’d just done what any sensible person in danger would do—take the opportunity when it was offered. He’d found transportation in a far shorter time than she would have managed it. Damn it, she’d be grateful, and ignore her feelings of uneasiness. And if the chance came again, she’d welcome his taking control, just to show she could do it.
With that noble resolution, she fell back into a much-needed sleep that not even the torments of the Ewing clan could interfere with.
* * *
It was pitch black. The darkness, like a velvet shroud, pressed around her, weighed her down, smothering her in its evil grip. She felt the bed beneath her shoulder blades, felt the cold sweat covering her body, and she couldn’t move. She was paralyzed, darkness all around her, holding her captive.
Desperately, she looked for light. There was none—all was blackness, stealing her breath, stealing her life, leaving her there helpless and alone on the bed. She could hear the air struggle in her lungs, feel her heart pounding so hard it shook the narrow bed. Tremors of panic swept over her, and she was cold, so cold, and so alone. Her mouth moved, but she could say nothing. She was alone with darkness and death, and a thousand hands were grabbing at her, pulling at her, pulling her down and down and down. …
She heard the scream from somewhere up above the pit she was sinking into. And then suddenly light flooded the room, and she was no longer alone in the darkness. Mack had grabbed her, wrapping himself around her, holding her shivering body tightly in a grip that was comfort and safety, his voice soothing, with meaningless, gentle words that were a litany of calm and quiet and clear white light.
Slowly the tremors faded from her body, slowly the tight, panicked muscles relaxed against him. A rasping, tearful sigh caught in her throat and then flowed from her, and she sank against him, against the strong body that was so warm.
His hands were tenderly brushing her tangled hair away from her tear-streaked face. “Are you okay?” he whispered in her ear.
Not quite trusting her voice, she nodded against him. She knew she should move away, say something light and amusing, laugh it off. But she couldn’t move; she could only huddle closer for warmth and comfort and hope this wasn’t as dangerous as the darkness and the death.
He made no move to let her go. If he was wearing anything at all, it was only those absurd Jockey shorts, but there was nothing sexual in his embrace. “I’m sorry,” he muttered against her hair. “I forgot about the damned light, tonight of all nights. Are you sure you’re okay?”
She tested her voice. It came out raw and rusty, a perfect twin to Mack’s ruined voice. “I’m sorry …” she whispered, but his hand moved and covered her mouth, gently.
“Shhh,” he said. “It was my fault. I knew you were afraid of the dark, but I didn’t know it was this bad. Like an idiot, I forgot.”
“It’s not usually this bad,” she said slowly, pressing her face against the warmth of his arm. “At one point I had it beaten entirely. It must have been Peter that set it off.”
His arm tightened imperceptibly. “Were you in love with him?”
She thought about it. Exhaustion had swept over her body in the wake of her panic, and she lay there, dreamy, comfortable. “No,” she murmured. “What we had between us was over, and had been for a while. But we did love each other, as good, dear friends. Damn them.”
“Damn who?”
“Whoever did that to him. Damn them to hell.” She buried her face against him, snuggling closer. Never had she felt so safe, so protected.
“Are you going to be all right?” She could feel his muscles tense beneath her hands, feel his tentative withdrawal.
She raised her tear-streaked face for a moment. “Don’t leave me,” she said, for the second time in her life, and she hated herself for her weakness.
But Pulaski didn’t take advantage of it. “I won’t,” he said simply, pulling her back against him. “Go to sleep, Maggie. Tomorrow you can be Superwoman again. Tonight you can ask for help.”
With the cocoon of Mack’s warm, strong body curled protectively around her, Maggie did as she was told.