"She's staying." Philippe shook his head, as if his ears were playing tricks on him. "Even though all she's wanted to do the whole time she's been here was get out? She's changed her mind?"

"Apparently." Rebecca had fallen asleep by the time he'd brought her dinner in, so they hadn't been able to discuss every detail. She hadn't explicitly said she planned to stay, but how could they get to know each other better if she left? "I asked her to marry me, and she said yes."

"Youwhat ?" Philippe leapt out of his chair. "That's crazy! I know you're grateful to her for helping Gillian, but isn't marriage a bit extreme?"

"That's not it at all."

Philippe gripped Desmond by the shoulders, and stared into his face. "You're not taking Dr. Chen's suggestion seriously, are you? Having a child with her to get a donor for Gillian?"

"Don't be ridiculous." Desmond thrust his arms up, breaking Philippe's hold. "I know you can't understand this, but I've never felt anything like what I feel for Rebecca."

Desmond smiled, remembering the bond between them. He didn't have the words to do the feeling justice, but he tried to explain it to Philippe anyhow. "She's like my other half, sharing my thoughts, my desires. I think we could be happy together. It's not impossible, Philippe. I need to give it a chance."

"Uh-huh. Tell me, in all this sharing, did you happen to tell her about your curse?"

Philippe's words destroyed Desmond's wistful mood. Philippe was too blinded by his own bitterness to listen to anything he said. Fine. He wouldn't waste any more time trying to convince him.

But the worries raised by Philippe's question made Desmond answer more sharply than he intended, "It hasn't come up yet, no."

"It's never going to justcome up . Voodoo isn't generally a topic of casual conversation. How many c.o.c.ktail parties have you been at where people say, 'These canapes are lovely. By the way, are you cursed?'"

Desmond turned away in disgust, but Philippe grabbed his shoulder and jerked him back around.

"d.a.m.n it, Des. You can't hide your head in the sand on this. Think."

"About what?" Desmond clenched his fists, struggling to keep his temper. They'd only just repaired their friendship. Another fight might drive his half-brother away for good.

"About Olivia."

Desmond froze, Philippe's words catching him by surprise. Philippe stepped back, nodding, certain now that he had Desmond's attention.

"What about Olivia?" Desmond asked.

"How long were you married?"

"Five years." Desmond didn't like the self-satisfied smirk on Philippe's face, especially since Philippe had argued against Desmond's first marriage, too. What sort of underhanded trick was he trying to pull?

"Five years. And in five years of marriage, did you ever tell her you were cursed?"

"No."

"You didn't only not tell her. You went out of your way to conceal the fact. You disguised your needs.

You explained away your reluctance to go out in the sun."

Desmond nodded impatiently. He knew all that. But he'd had his reasons. Then Philippe sprung his attack.

"You let her die."

"No!" Desmond surged forward, forcing Philippe to backpedal. Then the thread of guilt felt by all survivors knotted around his heart and stopped him cold. Had he really done everything he could forOlivia? If he hadn't pressured her for a family, she wouldn't have been pregnant when she discovered her disease. Taking the treatments earlier might have saved her life. She'd refused to risk Gillian's life to save her own. How much had his outdated views, forged in the 1800s, influenced her choice?

He'd never know. They'd made the choices they believed in at the time. Once he'd found out about her illness, he'd done everything he could to save her. Everything she'd let him do. He had.

Desmond felt behind him for the desk, and sagged against it, speaking to himself as much as to Philippe. "It wasn't like that. By the time we found out she was dying, her disease was too advanced. I couldn't have saved her. I couldn't. Telling her at that point would have been cruel."

"You don't know that. Cursing her might have saved her. You weren't willing to take the chance. And why? Because on some level, you agree with me. You know what happens when a woman finds out that she's married to a freak of nature. And you preferred that she be in love with you and die, rather than have her hate you and live."

"No! d.a.m.n it, Philippe, Iloved her!" If cursing her could have saved her, he would have offered to do it, no matter how repellent he found the idea. But it couldn't. He'd researched her form of leukemia enough to be sure of that. The cursed agents in her blood would have been killing off sickly cells as quickly as the diseased agents killed off the healthy ones. Not only that, but both agents worked to transform cells whenever possible. She'd have been reduced to a cellular-level battlefield. And like a battlefield in a nuclear war, it didn't matter which side eventually claimed victory. The field was destroyed.

That a.s.sumed the curse could even be transferred. Philippe had spent years trying to reconstruct his grandmother's magic. They knew the words of the curse, but without the rest of it, the sacrifices and invocations, they'd be guessing. The results would be completely unpredictable.

"I did everything I could, Philippe. You know I did." Desmond's anger burned with a white heat that blistered away any other considerations, as he finally said what he should have said a hundred years ago.

"My father's l.u.s.t and cowardice made you an orphaned b.a.s.t.a.r.d. As his only surviving heir, I had everything you didn't. But don't you think I'd have given up the plantation in an instant if it meant my brothers would come home from the war? That I would have sold all the jewelry if it could stop my sister from going to New Orleans that summer? That I would have willingly worked twenty hour days in the fields if it kept my mother from stepping in front of that coach?"

Desmond advanced on his half-brother, driving him across the room until he backed into the bookshelves. First editions tumbled to the floor at his feet.

"You're not the only one who lost someone you loved, Philippe. I will not continue to pay for my father's sins. He was your father, too. Bear your own guilt."

Philippe's eyes widened at the magnitude of his attack's backfire. But the genie had escaped, and nothing Philippe said or did could ever bottle it again.

"Des-"

"I'm through listening to you. Find Rebecca's car. Return it to the airport."

Philippe stayed silent for a long minute. When he finally spoke, his voice was laced with bitterness.

"Yes, master. Whatever you say. Is there anything else this most lowly, humble servant can do for you?"

"You've done enough."

"Yes, master. At once. I live to serve you." Philippe stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind him. Desmond waited to hear the front door close before sinking down in the chair behind his desk and burying his face in his hands.

Was that it, then? One hundred and fifty years of friendship, gone, as if it had never happened?

Desmond rubbed his throbbing temples. He remembered the night Philippe came to the plantation, demanding to see Edouard Lacroix. Then his son, Etienne. His wife. When Desmond burst out, "They are dead. They are all dead, except for me," Philippe had stared into his eyes and answered, "Then you shall pay your father's debt."

Desmond sighed. He hadn't understood. He'd listened in horror as Philippe explained the curse, then tried to pay him off, tried to bribe the Voodoo G.o.ds. Philippe had laughed bitterly. "I suffered my whole life, and still I was cursed to feel my sons' deaths and watch my wife try to kill me. You've hadeverything. You could not begin to pay enough."

But Desmond had done what he could. He'd opened his home to Philippe, and they had become friends. Now he'd repaid Philippe's unswerving friendship over the years by turning on him. Philippe only wanted to protect him from suffering a betrayal similar to his own. Why had Desmond reacted so strongly? Philippe had given the same basic argument against marrying Olivia. What was it about Rebecca that made Desmond so unreasonable?

As much as he hated to admit it, he knew the answer. He'd loved Olivia. But he needed Rebecca in a way that went beyond love. He'd touched her soul when they made love, and knew she was the only woman who could ever be his true partner. No matter how many hundreds of years he lived, he'd never find anyone who matched him so equally. Unfortunately, that meant she was his equal in all ways, including the arrogant a.s.sumption that she knew best and the steely determination to follow through on her decisions. He had to find a way to convince her of how right they were for each other. But he feared she'd leave without ever giving him a chance to prove himself.

REBECCA REACHED for another sheet of paper from the stack at the foot of her bed. Lying on her stomach, with her notes and half-finished article spread around her, all she needed was a stick of chewing gum in her mouth and a telephone plastered to her ear to look exactly as she had in high school.

It had taken her most of the morning, but now that she'd found a comfortable position to work in, she didn't care what she looked like.

A quiet knock on the bedroom door interrupted her train of thought, and she put down her pen.

"Come in."

The door opened a few inches, but she couldn't see anyone on the other side. Then she looked down.

Gillian's face peered through the opening.

"Come in, Gillian."

Gillian nudged the door open further, but stayed in the doorway. "Daddy says you're sick."

She wasn't sick. She was recovering from an operation. But would a three-year-old understand the difference? She had no idea. She'd never had much experience with kids. It was probably best to follow Desmond's lead.

"Yes, that's right. I'm sick."

Gillian nodded. "Daddy's worried. He worries when I'm sick, too."

"There's no need to worry. I'll be fine."

Gillian frowned. Obviously, that was the wrong thing to say. This was the girl's first overture of friendship, and Rebecca didn't want to ruin it. But what else should she say?

"It's kind of your father to worry about me."

Gillian smiled and nodded again. Rebecca had hit on the right answer. Pushing the door all the way open, Gillian entered the room and held out a coloring book.

"Daddy gave me this when I was sick."

"It's lovely." Rebecca smiled admiringly at the coloring book. Gillian shook her head, raven curls bouncing with her frustration, and pushed the book closer.

"No. You take it."

"Thank you." Rebecca reached out and took the coloring book, winning a smile from Gillian. "But don't you want it?"

"No." Gillian waved her hand dismissively. The gesture, obviously copied from her father, reminded Rebecca of Desmond. Her chest tightened.

Gillian continued, "I'm all better. No more shots for me. You got shots. You got sick."

Rebecca doubted that's how Desmond explained it, but Gillian obviously believed the reason she didn't need to take medicine any longer was because Rebecca was taking it for her. Given her luck communicating with the girl so far, Rebecca wasn't about to try and correct her.

"Thank you. I'm sure I'll enjoy the coloring book."

Gillian turned to go, and Rebecca realized how lonely she'd been cooped up in her room.

"Gillian, wait. Will you stay for a little while and talk to me?" She considered, then smiled radiantly. She'd be as much of a heartbreaker as her father when she grew up. "Okay."

"Great." Rebecca patted the bed. "Come sit up here."

Gillian hopped onto the bed, and immediately picked up the papers to look at. "What're you doing?"

"I'm writing an article. For a magazine." Gillian looked blank. Rebecca tried to recall any magazines she'd seen in the apartment, but there hadn't been any. Only books. She tried a different explanation. "A very tiny story, for a thin book."

Gillian hopped off the bed and ran out of the room. Rebecca stared after her in confusion, just as confused when the girl raced back into the room all out of breath. Then she saw the Big Little Book in Gillian's hand. Gillian clambered back up onto the bed and presented Rebecca with the book.

"Tiny story. Thin book."

"You're right. That's a tiny story in a thin book." Rebecca had better stop trying to explain things, or she'd end up totally confusing the poor kid. Then she had an inspiration. "Would you like me to read the story to you?"

"Yes, please." Gillian held out the book, and lay down on her stomach next to Rebecca so she could look at the pictures. Rebecca discovered reading the book consisted of equal parts reading the text, and asking Gillian questions about the pictures. If Rebecca didn't ask questions, or asked the wrong ones, Gillian would stop her and point out all the important things in the picture before letting her turn the page.

"That's the sun, and that's a tree, and that's gra.s.s, and that's the puppy, and that's a fence, and that's another puppy," Gillian said, pointing to each object in the picture. Then she looked up at Rebecca and said, "You're sick. You can't see them any more."

"You want me to stop reading to you?"

"No." Gillian shook her head and frowned at Rebecca's inability to grasp the obvious. Rebecca wondered if this was another mannerism she'd copied from Desmond. "You can't go outside. It's bad for sick people."

Rebecca darted a glance at the black gla.s.s window. In the few days she'd been here, she'd already adjusted to the odd lighting arrangement. Leaving the overhead light constantly on had become a reflex, and she no longer thought about the reasons behind her actions. There were so many more important things to wonder about, like her relationship with Desmond.

With the egocentricity of children, Gillian continued, "I can go out now. Daddy said so. Mrs. Waters is taking me next week. We're having a picnic."

"How nice for you. You'll like that." Rebecca let Gillian prattle on about her picnic, nodding when it seemed required. Sick people couldn't go outside. Gillian was going on her trip with Mrs. Waters, not Desmond. Why? The only answer that made sense was that he couldn't go with her. He was still sick, and could not venture outside.

Rebecca remembered her earlier conjecture, that much of the medicine stocked in the refrigerator belonged to Desmond. How sick was he? Was he dying? Is that why he was in such a hurry to get married?

"Gillian," Mrs. Waters called. "Time for lunch. Where are you?"

"Here!"

Mrs. Waters looked into the room, frowning at the sight that greeted her. She hustled over and grabbed Gillian by the arm, s.n.a.t.c.hing up the book in her other hand.

"Ms. Morgan doesn't want to be bothered reading to you, Gillian."

"Oh, it was no trouble. I enjoyed it." Rebecca's smile faded beneath the other woman's stern glare.

"Come along, Gillian. It's time for your lunch. I've made you your favorite, grilled cheese. And for desert, animal crackers."

"Yummy!" Gillian hurried from the room. Mrs. Waters followed at a more sedate pace, pausing in the doorway to send a withering look over her shoulder at Rebecca.

"I'll see that she doesn't bother you again."

Before Rebecca could correct her, Mrs. Waters had closed the door. The housekeeper's words had all been perfectly correct, but her tone clearly warned Rebecca away from Gillian. Rebecca relaxed herarms and dropped face first into the covers. Mrs. Waters knew what had happened last night. She wouldn't allow her innocent young charge near such a scarlet woman, afraid of what unsavory att.i.tudes Gillian might pick up.

Rebecca sighed, and twisted her head so that she could breathe. So far, only the housekeeper's reaction made any sense. The situation worried her, demanding an explanation she couldn't give.

Yes, she and Desmond had made love. And it had been wonderful. He'd transported her to a reality she'd never dreamed of. But in retrospect, she had trouble believing she'd been so carried away that she'd agreed to marry him. And lovemaking, no matter how wonderful, wasn't enough of a reason for a man to propose marriage. She could understand if he'd asked her to stay on as his lover. Or suggested they keep in touch, or visit each other. But not marriage.

No, the key piece of the puzzle remained a mystery. If only she could remember his exact words.

They contained a clue. She was sure of it. But her memory blurred last night's images of pa.s.sion into an impressionistic montage of ecstasy.

She sank into the memories, revisiting the heights to which he'd taken her. When she surfaced, she lacked any clearer view of the puzzle, but recalled all too clearly the feel of his hands and lips against her skin. Alone and lonely, she longed to see him.