Dark Salvation Part 11

When he came out of Gillian's room after reading her a story, he found Rebecca waiting for him in the living room. She sat on the couch, head bowed and hands clasped between her knees. Praying for salvation? He didn't know if she hoped for a repeat of last night, or feared what might happen between them. And he didn't dare lower his mental shields enough to find out. Especially since he'd yet to make up his own mind.

He cleared his throat to give her warning, then joined her on the couch.

"So," he said, forcing a carefree note of bonhomie into his voice. "How does being a freelance journalist differ from working for a newspaper or magazine?"

"Gillian's asleep," she said, still staring at her hands. "You don't have to pretend to be interested anymore."

Her opinion of him stung. "I wasn't pretending."

"I saw your expression. You looked like you were visiting a dentist, and he found a cavity. Don't worry. I'll spare you the drilling."

"Rebecca-"

"I thought you liked me." She lifted her head and looked at him, her wide gray eyes reminiscent of a small woodland animal watching an eighteen wheeler bearing down on it and unable to do anything to get out of the way. "After last night, I thought.... But being a reporter is more than just what I do. It's who I am. And if you hate reporters-"

"Rebecca, please. You're getting yourself all worked up over nothing." He forced a hearty smile, and covered her fisted hands with a gentle caress. He wanted to pull her into his arms and sear her with kisses, proving just how much heliked her. But he couldn't. He refused to turn her into emotional roadkill by promising something he couldn't deliver. Whatever the nature of the relationship between them was, he couldn't risk letting it develop any further. Not until he was sure of her.

"I don't hate reporters," he continued. "And I don't hate you. It's just that working here in the Inst.i.tute, I'm used to a very high level of security. Some of your comments were...alarming."

Her face could have belonged to one of Philippe's wooden carvings for all the expression she showed.

He let down his mental shields bit by bit, unfolding the layers like tissue paper until they were virtually nonexistent, but not a trace of her thoughts reached him. Her mind was sealed behind a wall as impenetrable as the look in her eyes.

"Why would you say that? Unless you have something to hide? I already know all about Dr. Chen's discoveries, and the new kind of white blood cell."

d.a.m.n! For a shy introvert with all the social skills of an orangutan, the doctor had engaged in a surprising amount of chitchat. Desmond flashed on the scene used in so many old war movies. A beleaguered captain stood on his bridge, water streaming around him, red lights strobing and an angry klaxon wailing, as he shouted, "Damage control!" She'd torpedoed him well below the water line. And he didn't know how many shots she had left.

"What made you decide to become a journalist?" he asked. His counterattack cracked her mental wall enough for him to glimpse an abstract melange of construction equipment and building plans. Before he could probe further, she recovered her composure and sealed the flaw.

"The Great American Dream is just that, a dream. No one really has it. I spotlight the illusion, and show it for the sawdust and paint it is. Too many things are covered up or swept under the rug, under the pretext that it's better if people don't know about them. I think it's better if people know what's really out there." "Rhetoric." He might not understand her mental images, but one thing was clear. They were thoughts of building, of the joy of creating. They didn't match her cynical words.

"What?"

"That might be the party line you think all good journalists are supposed to spout, but it's not true. Not for you. At least, that's not all there is to the truth."

She frowned, her forehead creasing as she studied him. "You're right. I do enjoy the writing, for the writing's sake. I like taking a jumble of incoherent facts and making an easily understood story out of them. But no one's ever seen past the stock answer before. They hear what they expect to hear and move on. What makes you so different?"

He sighed theatrically. "Now I'm the subject of your investigation. Can't you ever just have a conversation?"

"Not when the person I'm conversing with is trying to hide something." She leaned forward, a new spark in her eyes.

"Must you know everything? Don't you realize there are reasons for keeping secrets?"

"Of course there are."

He started to relax.

"And most of them are bad," she finished.

"Even when you're protecting someone? Keeping a secret when you know they couldn't handle the truth?"

"That's exactly the sort of self-aggrandizing hypocrisy I mean!" She slapped the arm of the couch in disgust. "How can anyone ever make that judgment for another person? You don't know what someone can or can't handle until they've tried."

He thought he discovered a c.h.i.n.k in her armor.

"What if telling someone the truth would cause a lifetime of misery? Would you still want them to know?"

Crimson shame flooded her cheeks.

"Oh, G.o.d," she whispered. She squirmed on the couch. "Gillian. I'm sorry. I didn't mean...That is...There are always special cases. Of course you would only tell her what she was old enough to understand."

He hadn't been thinking of Gillian, but of the way things had turned out for Philippe and his wife. Still, as long as the misconception stopped Rebecca's attack, Desmond wouldn't quibble with it.

"You can never know the truth about the future," she said, trying to escape from the corner she'd painted herself into. "By truth, I meant things that have already happened. Things you can prove. But a best guess about the future doesn't necessarily come true. A doctor's prognosis is not a guaranteed outcome."

He sat up straighter, finally seeing a way to keep his secret from her without guilt.

"Then you'd pardon someone for withholding information, if it was only an opinion?"

His gaze bored into her, riveting her with the bright green of his eyes. She swallowed with a suddenly dry throat, no longer certain what they were discussing. As happened in so many of her conversations with him, she sensed that Desmond was layering another meaning on top of his words. She couldn't possibly answer him correctly, because she didn't understand the question behind his question.

Searching his eyes for an answer, she lost herself in their brilliance. So bright. Like green fire, hungering to consume her. And she didn't care. She leaned closer, welcoming the heat. She wanted to be consumed, burned to a cinder in the flames of his embrace.

The thought shocked her to her senses, and she pulled away. Retreating to the far end of the couch, she risked a quick glance back at him. He hadn't moved.

He'd asked her a question, although she didn't remember what it was.

"What's your view?" she stalled.

"On truth and opinions? My opinion is you ought to be in bed. You need to be well rested for tomorrow's procedure."

She heard echoes of her own frustration in his voice. But she didn't want to go to sleep. To sleep,perchance to dream. She'd rather stay up all night than face those nightmares again. Stay up with Desmond.

Her thoughts headed back into treacherous territory, as she imagined sliding closer to him on the couch. She could almost feel the heat of his body pressed against hers as he leaned over and claimed her lips in a sizzling kiss.

She doused the fires of her imagination. She'd go to bed. Alone. Just like always, nothing unusual.

She'd put on her nightshirt, brush her teeth and climb into bed.

But to put on her nightshirt, she'd have to undress. She pictured Desmond unb.u.t.toning her shirt and sliding it over her shoulders, leaning forward to-No. Never mind the nightshirt. She forced herself to think about brushing her teeth, a terribly ordinary and unerotic action. She could almost taste the minty foam as she imagined the toothbrush scrubbing up, down, up, down. Her mind leapt to a vision of the two of them entwined in his sheets, moving in the same driving rhythm.

She wrenched her thoughts back to the present, guilt scalding her cheeks, and snuck another glance at him. Had he guessed the direction of her thoughts?

The lamp light reflected from his eyes, making green flames dance within them. He'd just licked his lips, and they glistened, moist and kissable. She hungered for their touch against hers.

"Yes, I should be in bed," she blurted. "I mean, I should be asleep. Asleep in my bed. That's what I meant. Good night."

She stood and hurried from the room. If he hadn't guessed what she'd been fantasizing about, her last little speech would have given it away. She might be too embarra.s.sed to go to the hospital with him tomorrow.

The hospital. The obvious explanation for her unusual reactions calmed her. She was frightened. Her strong attraction to him was a result of fear heightening her senses. Everything would be clearer in the morning. Once the procedure was finished and her fears dispelled, he'd stop affecting her so strongly.

The morning seemed a long time away, however. It would be a very long night.

Desmond watched her flee the room. Now maybe his equilibrium would return. Her reaction to his comment had sent him reeling. She'd broadcast her interest and availability as clearly as if she'd shouted through a megaphone.

Suddenly, all he could think about was tearing her clothes off, and seeing her bathed by the light of the moon. He pictured carrying her into his bedroom and falling with her into the mound of blankets and silken sheets. He wanted to bury himself inside her, to lose himself completely in her. The only problem was, he didn't know who'd imagined that first, him or Rebecca.

He'd never come so close to completely abandoning his ident.i.ty before, and it frightened him. He kept a tight control over his thoughts and feelings, ever vigilant for the sort of destructive, self-indulgent behavior that led to his father's suicide. If his father hadn't used his wealth and position to all but rape Philippe's mother, there never would have been a curse.

That was one of the reasons Desmond had sworn to never use his mental powers to satisfy his needs without a person's willing consent. He'd meant his cursed needs. But his need for Rebecca was all human, all male. If he made love to her, he knew she would be willing. It would be what they both wanted. But it wouldn't be right.

If he could only put a name to what he was feeling, he wouldn't be so concerned. It wasn't desire, although he certainly desired Rebecca. No, after 150 years he'd become familiar with all the nuances of desire, both human and cursed. This was something more.

It wasn't love. He loved Gillian, had loved his wife, even loved his half-brother, Philippe. Each love was different, and what he felt for Rebecca was like none of them.

No, what he felt for her was something completely new. A hunger to merge his thoughts with hers, to absorb her feelings into him, to see through her eyes and taste with her lips. He didn't understand it. But he had to have her. And with every taste, with every glimpse, his need grew stronger.

He could stretch her visit out a few more days, claiming that she wouldn't be fit for travel. He'd use those days to convince her that she couldn't live without him. Because he was afraid in that time, he'd find out he couldn't live without her. THE NEXT MORNING as Gillian attacked her cereal, he slipped off to Rebecca's room to wake her.

The sight of Rebecca, her long limbs tangled in the sheets, rekindled all the desires he'd banked the night before. He wanted to fall upon her and lose himself in her wonders. He ached to join himself to her, to empty himself into her and to fill himself from her. The new sensations tore at him, and he clutched the door frame until splinters pierced his fingers.

She woke with a gasp, and rearranged the sheets to conceal herself from his gaze.

"What are you doing here?" she asked.

"I came to wake you. We'll be leaving shortly."

"Thank you."

He turned away, leaving tiny drops of blood on the door frame. Of course, she spotted the stains.

"What happened? Are you hurt?"

"I'm fine. A splinter, that's all."

"Are you sure? Splinters don't usually bleed like that."

She thrust her sheets aside and padded over to examine his hand. Her night shirt left her legs bare, something her sudden concern for him kept her from noticing. But he was painfully aware of her semi-dressed state. He let her draw him closer to the light, savoring the touch of her soft fingers against his, and the delicate brush of her cotton covered breast against his upper arm.

She gasped, and he saw his injury as she must. Thick blood oozed from the puncture wounds, already swelling and puffing where the splinters of wood remained. He'd heal as soon as the splinters were removed, but she had no way of knowing that.

"We need to clean those cuts, and pull the splinters out. You don't have any hydrogen peroxide in your bathroom, but warm water should work. I'm more concerned about how we'll pull the splinters. Do you have any tweezers?"

"No, but I won't need any." He dropped his other arm around her waist and gave her a light squeeze, the briefest of caresses, before he broke away. Regrettably, he couldn't linger with her. She needed to get ready.

His touch reminded her of her undressed state, and she hopped back, trying to stretch the nightshirt to cover more of her legs. Taking pity on her, he turned aside. She relaxed, unable to tell he could still see her out of the corner of his eye.

"I'll use the other bathroom," he told her. "You'll need this one. We're leaving for the hospital in twenty minutes. You'll finally get your chance to see the research application wing of the Inst.i.tute."

"Twenty minutes?" She whirled and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door shut behind her.

Alone in the other bathroom, he held his hand over the child-height sink. Thick blood oozed from the wounds, running down his fingers to drip into the sink. Slowly, the blood forced the splinters from his flesh. Thinner blood gushed out, cleaning the wounds, then slowed to a trickle. He leaned down to rinse off his hand and splash the blood off the porcelain. By the time he put down the towel, his puncture wounds were only slightly reddened blemishes. In half an hour, they'd fade completely.

He stepped out of the bathroom, then stopped. Rebecca would notice the sudden change. And she'd demand an explanation.

He kept a box of adhesive bandages decorated with cheerful teddy bears in Gillian's medicine cabinet.

They were silly things for a grown man to use, especially since he didn't need them, but it would forestall any questions.

He rejoined Gillian in the kitchen. She noticed his new plumage at once. A montage of memories slipped through his thin mental shielding, images of Gillian with a skinned knee, cut finger, skinned elbow and other minor cuts and abrasions common to young children. Each time, he or Mrs. Waters had been instantly at her side to kiss her "ouchie" and make it better, as well as applying bandages and disinfectant.

"Did you get an ouchie, Daddy?"

"Yes. I cut myself on a splinter."

"Let me kiss it and make it better." She sat up straight and tall, and held out her hand with the regalgrace of a princess.

Smiling, he placed his injured hand in hers. She bent over his hand and made loud kissing noises over the bandages, performing the magic ritual previously reserved for adults. The opportunity thrilled her.

"All better," she announced.

"Thank you, sweetheart. It feels better already." He ruffled her soft mop of curls. "We're going to make you better, too."

Today she'd get her last shot. The doctor would inject the bone marrow cells from Rebecca into Gillian, along with enough of her normal medicine to keep her immune system functioning until the healthy cells started producing. With luck, Desmond would never have to subject his daughter to the torment of shots again.

But first he had to get her ready to go to the hospital. He picked up her empty cereal bowl and put it in the sink. Then he collected her silverware, and dropped that in. Finally, he lifted her out of her booster seat.

"Don't put me in the sink!"

He laughed. "I won't."

He set her on the counter and soaked a cloth in warm water. Soggy remnants of breakfast decorated her face and hands. Hands?

"Gillian, were you eating your cereal with your fingers?"

"Uh-huh." She grinned and mimed how it was done. "Big flakes!"

They both turned when Rebecca spoke from the doorway.

"Is breakfast over with, or can I have some?"

"The doctor doesn't want you to have any coffee. Because of the anesthesia," he told her.

"No coffee?" Her plaintive tone stopped just short of whining. Rebecca was obviously not a morning person. He tried to keep a straight face as she continued grumbling. "Who scheduled this thing so early in the morning, anyway? The doctor can't possibly be wide enough awake to operate."

"You won't see the doctor right away. There's a good deal of preparation to be done before the procedure."

"At least the doctor will be awake by the time he gets to me. I'll be zonked long before I get any anesthesia, though. Are you sure I can't have any coffee?"