So tell me what really happened."

The doctor's eyes widened, and he stammered, "I d-did everything correctly. It wasn't a mistake on my part."

"If you did everything correctly, you have nothing to worry about. Now tell me what went wrong."

"Oh." The doctor pa.s.sed a shaky hand through his hair. "I had trouble opening the bone to withdraw the marrow. It took three tries." Setting his jaw, he added, "I did say you should fly out to one of the cancer treatment centers that specializes in these transplants, instead of trying to do it here. They'd have had the equipment to deal with a contingency like that."

"She'll be all right, though, won't she?" Desmond fought back the urge to shake the answer loose. That would only scramble Dr. Laurence's thoughts worse than they were already.

"Yes. She'll probably hurt like h.e.l.l, but other than that, the operation was a complete success. As far as complications go, it was a minor one. But painful. That's why I'm recommending keeping her on codeine until the worst of it is over."

"Do it then." Desmond used his command voice, refusing to let the doctor sidestep his next question.

"Is there any possibility Gillian might have a similar complication?"

"No. Hers is a completely different procedure. It'll be just another shot."

"You're positive?"

Dr. Laurence shifted his weight from foot to foot, refusing to look Desmond in the eyes.

"Doctor," Desmond snapped, his voice jerking the man to full attention. "Is my daughter in danger?"

"There is always a possibility, with any kind of transplant, that the host body will reject the graft.

We've taken every precaution, and type-matched Ms. Morgan's cells with your daughter's to minimize the risk. She's in more danger if she doesn't have the transplant."

Desmond nodded, letting the doctor relax. Finally, an answer he could use. He looked in the direction of the waiting area, where Philippe sat with Gillian. Did she understand anything of what was about to happen? Was she scared? He needed to be there with her, to comfort her. But he owed it to Rebecca to be with her, too. Torn, he took a single step toward the waiting room, then stopped.

"Go get the codeine," he told the doctor. "I'll tell Rebecca you'll be bringing it."

He'd tell Rebecca her medicine was coming, and make sure the nurse had brought her coffee. Then he'd go back to Gillian. REBECCA STRUGGLED back to consciousness. Bits of dreams clung to her perceptions, but she shook them off. She lay on a firm mattress, with crisp new sheets below and above her. A thin foam pillow barely cushioned her head.

She opened her eyes, blinking to clear her vision. White walls, white sheets. The hospital. The operation must be over. But it was supposed to be outpatient surgery. Why was she in a hospital bed?

And why did she feel so out of it?

"Rebecca?" Desmond's voice. To her left.

She turned her head, slowly. He sat by the side of her bed, looking out of place in an ugly plastic chair.

She'd never seen him use anything but the best. He should be seated in one of those leather armchairs from his study. They suited him. Not ugly plastic. Then again, those plastic chairs didn't really suit anyone.

Hospitals only used them to encourage visitors to leave quickly. She hoped he wouldn't leave quickly.

She liked looking at him.

"How are you feeling?" His voice rumbled, reverberating in his chest. If she placed her hand against his chest, would she hear his voice through her hand? She remembered something about shock waves, and how they traveled through air and earth at different speeds. Would his voice through her hand match the voice she heard? Or would it be like a badly dubbed j.a.panese movie?

She smiled, and reached out a hand toward him. Or tried to, anyway. Her hand didn't seem to be obeying the orders of her brain. It flopped a little, but didn't come close to the graceful arc she'd envisioned. She tried again.

He slid his chair closer and enfolded her hand in his own. The warmth of his palms spread up her arm, and she curled her fingers around his.

"Doctor Laurence said you might be disoriented for a little while. And you may feel weak. But the operation was a success."

A success? Then why did she hurt so much? He must mean it was a success for Gillian. Gillian. Why wasn't Desmond at his daughter's bedside?

"Gillian," she croaked. Her mouth felt like it was lined in cotton, and her throat felt cracked and dry.

Never mind the question. "Water."

Desmond let go of her hand to pour her a cup of water from the ewer on the bedstand. Perching on the edge of her bed, he put an arm around her shoulders and lifted her to a sitting position. With his arm a warm weight around her shoulders, he picked up the cup and guided it to her lips.

She reached up and rested her hands against his. Her muscles obeyed her directions now. But she didn't take the cup from him, she merely pressed his hand to tip it. The cool water poured into her parched throat, and she gulped it greedily. He tried to lower his hand, but she held tight, refusing to let him go.

When she'd drained the cup, she kept her hands around his. He radiated gentle warmth, soaking into her hands, her arms. Her shoulders and neck warmed beneath his touch. She wanted to absorb all of his heat, and melt her pain away.

He lifted the cup from her lips, and this time she let her hands drop away. But when he turned to place the cup on the bedstand, she stopped him before he could slip his arm from around her shoulders.

"No. Don't go just yet."

"Very well. But let me find a more comfortable way to sit." He swung his legs up onto the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and curled his arm more securely around her shoulders. She rested her head against this new and preferred pillow.

"Now, will you tell me what's going on? Why am I in the hospital?"

"You came in for the operation to donate bone marrow for Gillian."

"I know all that." She dismissed his answer with a wave. "I remember arguing with Nurse Peters over my coffee, and asking you to get my notes. Did you get them?"

"Yes. They're on the table. And then?"

"Thank you. Anyway, then Doctor Laurence said he was giving me a little something for the pain. Next thing I know, I'm out cold."

"It seems the good doctor erred on the side of comfort, and overmedicated you. You slept allafternoon and straight through the night."

"Huh. I don't think he's a very good doctor, then."

He refused to comment, instead changing the subject.

"You asked about Gillian," he reminded her. "Her part of the procedure was much easier, a simple injection. Once they were sure she wasn't going to react to it, they sent her home."

"How come you aren't home with her?" She liked having Desmond warm and close beside her, but under the circ.u.mstances, he probably shouldn't be here. She inhaled the earthy tang of his cologne, and studied the hint of shadow along his jaw. No, he definitely shouldn't be here. She hoped he wouldn't leave.

He chuckled, a rich rumble that tickled her ear and vibrated through her from their connection.

"Mrs. Waters decided to celebrate by baking chocolate chip cookies with Gillian. They haven't forgotten the disaster I created the last time I tried to help bake, and banished me as far from the cookies as they could." He turned to her, his lips inches from her face. She wished he'd close the distance between them, and claim her mouth with his own. The memory of their explosive earlier kiss filled her thoughts, blocking out everything else.

Desmond's voice recalled her to the present. "I can never thank you enough for what you've done."

Reliving that kiss would be thanks enough. She lifted her gaze from his lips, to find him staring into her eyes. As if he'd read her thoughts, he dropped his gaze to her lips. If she didn't stop him, he would kiss her. Her world seemed to pause, and everything hung in the balance.

Nothing could come of deepening their relationship. He wouldn't leave his Inst.i.tute. And she had her career. They'd probably never even see each other again. But as she'd told him, no one could ever really know the future. And as long as there was a possibility for a future between them, her choice was clear.

She parted her lips in invitation.

He leaned over her, his hand at her waist, and bent his head. When he touched his lips to hers, an electric thrill coursed through her.

She leaned into him and returned his kisses, flames licking her senses. He tasted of shadow and mystery, a tantalizing familiarity she almost recognized. She opened her mouth, hungry for a deeper kiss, but he pulled away.

Pa.s.sion flushed his face, making his eyes seem almost to glow. When he spoke, his voice had a husky sound that sent shivers of desire chasing across her skin.

"I want you, too. You're making it hard to think of anything else. But this isn't the time-"

"The nurse?"

"Won't be back for hours."

"Doctors? Other patients?"

"Deserted. Not even monitors."

"So...?"

She pulled his head down for another kiss, cutting off his answer. Twining her fingers in his thick curls, she pressed her lips against his, hard. Harder. She wanted no boundaries. She wanted to breathe his breath and fuse their spirits. She wanted to be one with him.

A faint tremor shook him, and he almost pulled away. Instead, he surrendered to her kiss. He slid his lips to the corner of her mouth, pressing a light kiss there, then started a nibbling, kissing exploration along her jaw. She closed her eyes and smiled, reveling in the sensations he sparked. It felt like a parade of b.u.t.terflies brushing against her skin. Warm, moist b.u.t.terflies, with lascivious intent.

He guided her back down onto the bed, so she rested on her uninjured hip. She snuggled closer, wrapping her arms around him. When he found the opening of her hospital gown and slid one hand beneath the flimsy cotton, she moaned with pleasure. His touch felt so right.

She tugged at his shirt, hungering to touch him the way he was touching her. He rubbed her back and shoulders with warm strokes, pressing the tender tips of her b.r.e.a.s.t.s against his firm chest. She sighed and gave up her efforts at loosening his shirt, instead focusing on the hot rush of pleasure flowing from his hand.

With his other hand, he brushed the hair from her eyes, sweeping around her brow and cheekbones ina soft caress that made her feel as pampered and adored as a Siamese. She nestled her face into his hand, pressing kisses against his palm and the pulse point of his wrist. He caught his breath sharply, then let it out on a shaky moan.

"Rebecca," he whispered, his ragged breath hot and moist against her skin. "I don't want to hurt you."

She laughed, deep in her throat. As if the pain mattered. All she cared about now was getting closer to him. She wanted to feel his bare skin against hers, hot and slick with pa.s.sion. She wanted to feel his strength as he plunged into her. And she wanted to blur the edges of their ident.i.ties, so that for a brief moment, they would become one.

She arched against him, pressing her hips against the swelling evidence of his desire, and breathed into his ear, "Nothing could hurt me now."

With a harsh sound, equal parts moan and growl, he claimed her ear, nipping and sucking the lobe.

She felt him struggle to pull aside the sheet pinned between them. He could've removed it easily if they weren't pressed so tightly against each other, but neither of them would back away.

Her hands ached to feel the silky heat of his skin beneath them, and she yanked his shirt free from his pants. Sliding her hands up beneath the fabric, she caressed the length of his back, each stroke pressing them closer together. He arched his head back with a cry of delight, and she followed up her advantage by pressing kisses on the exposed skin of his neck. She tasted his spicy-sweet cologne, and the salty moisture of his aroused sweat. But mostly, she tasted the musky, rich flavor of him.

She swept her tongue across his neck, following a bead of sweat, then pressed a hungry kiss to the spot just below the pulse point where it lingered.

He trembled beside her, his breathing coming in short gasps. She heard fabric tear-the sheet? Her hospital gown? His clothes? She didn't care. Neither did he.

He pulled off his shirt, ripping it in his haste. Her flimsy gown shredded beneath his hands. They pressed together, skin to skin, rapidly beating heart to rapidly beating heart. It still wasn't enough. He kicked off his shoes, and she helped push his pants away.

He rolled over, lifting her above him, and settled her against the strength of his arousal. He captured her lips in a savage kiss, all heat and explosive desire, and she opened her mouth, drawing him in, welcoming their union.

His tongue plunged into her open mouth, tasting her, caressing her. She pulled, demanding more. She dug her fingers into his back, fusing herself to him. He answered her demands, wrapping his arms around her in a tight embrace and thrusting his tongue deeper.

More. She needed more. She needed him.

Antic.i.p.ating her request, he slid his hands down to her hips. The tips of his fingers brushed the edge of her bandage, and he paused, twisting his head aside. His hesitancy struck her like an arctic wind, and she shivered with need. Bracing her weight on her hands, she lifted her hips and pressed herself against the heat of his arousal, rubbing against him when he still lingered.

"You're sure?" He had barely enough breath to talk, his words little louder than a thought.

She moved against him, letting her actions speak for her, but he refused to go on until she answered him in words. "I'm sure. You won't hurt me."

He thrust into her, pulling her down in a shattering explosion of heat and light. She wouldn't let him take the time to go gently, grinding against him and clutching him deep within her. Darkness filled her vision, but she didn't care, straining toward a blinding light.

He glided his lips over her neck, nipping and sucking in the same pounding rhythm. He touched the pulse at the side of her neck and she moaned in ecstasy. It was if her soul were leaving her heart and being drawn directly to his lips. She'd never experienced anything like it.

Tremors shook her body, and with heart and soul, she reached for him. Sensations flooded her. His hard strength filled her, and she pulsed and clenched over his arousal. She felt his lips, moist on her neck, and also her sweet warmth against his tongue.

She arched, every muscle straining for release. He thrust one last time, lifting her with the force of his stroke, and hot fire filled her. Like a wildfire burning out of control, a rush of thoughts and feelings swept over her, consuming her in a blaze of pa.s.sion. She spun into s.p.a.ce, whole galaxies whirling past her in acrazy dance. And amid all the light and movement, one sun burned brighter than all the rest. Desmond.

With him as her lodestar, she found her way home.

"REBECCA?" DESMOND'S out-of-focus face peered down at her. He brushed his hand across her cheeks and forehead in a lingering caress. She blinked rapidly to clear her vision, and focused on his face.

Desmond breathed a fervent, "Thank the G.o.ds." Then he gently kissed the corners of her eyes. "You gave me one h.e.l.l of a scare. I didn't know what I'd done to you."

He didn't know what he'd done? A sleepy smile pulled at the corners of her lips. If he didn't know, she couldn't tell him. She had no words to describe the wave of emotion that swept through her at their union.

She'd never experienced anything like it before, and still felt shaken by its power.

"Thank you," she whispered. He had to know what she meant. He couldn't have rocked her to her very foundation without feeling something, too.

"Marry me," he answered. His eyes glowed with an echo of the light that had blinded her, and moisture glimmered in their corners. He'd been as affected by their lovemaking as she had.

"I'll take that as a compliment."

"I mean it." He cupped her chin in his hand and looked deeply into her eyes. "Marry me."

His sincerity stunned her. People just didn't propose marriage to relative strangers, no matter how incredible they were together. If she'd succ.u.mbed to momentary insanity by making love with him, what sort of madness prompted his suggestion? She had to reintroduce a dose of reality to this conversation.

"We hardly know each other."

"I know you more deeply than I've ever known anyone. And you know me more than you'll admit."

His velvet voice caressed each word, blanketing the statement in s.e.xual innuendo. Rebecca tore her gaze from the hypnotic intensity of his eyes. Desmond Lacroix might be many things, but she'd never yet known him to be obvious. His words couched a deeper, hidden meaning. She was sure of it. But the way her wits had been scattered by their lovemaking, she couldn't puzzle it out.

"What are you talking about?"