Hell Train
Hell Train
“Look, just here. You brute.’ Emma twisted about before the mirror and examined the small blue bruise on the back of her neck. The hotel bedroom was unbearably hot, but they had not been able to turn off the radiator.
‘Show me,’ said Shane. ‘Good God, did I do that? And on your arm. I didn’t mean to. I get carried away sometimes.’ ‘Sometimes?’ Emma arched an eyebrow at him. She was wearing the most extraordinary brassiere, like ribbed white armour plating. He had given up trying to get it off. Perhaps all Englishwomen wore them. Emma was a different species to the kind of women he met in California: paler and calmer, with a confusing sense of privacy that stopped him from knowing which subjects were off-limits. Surprisingly free-minded in bed, though.
She rose and went to the window, sliding it open a little while he lit a cigarette. The wood was damp and stuck in the frame. She could smell the trees, the river, the night. She picked up a dogeared paperback from the table and examined it.
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