"I can't use the program if I don't know your pa.s.sword," she reminded him.

Desmond chuckled. "It's SERAPHIM."

She watched in disbelief as he sat down and typed the letters, and the computer screen sprang to life.

"Seraphim? Like the angels?"

"Why not? It's easy to remember, the right number of letters, and I can guarantee you wouldn't have guessed it."

The computer hummed and beeped for a minute, finally displaying a dark blue screen filled with pictures used to start various programs. He pointed to a picture of a compa.s.s.

"That's the Access program." Tapping keys, he selected and started the program, filling the screen with a map of the Inst.i.tute.

"I didn't realize how big this place is." Rebecca traced her finger across the four topside buildings and the three levels of the complex underground. "No wonder taking care of it is using up so much of your time."

He lifted her hand away from the screen and pressed a brief kiss into her palm, but didn't comment on her thinly veiled reference to his recent added hours. He described the map of the Inst.i.tute, instead.

"It's color coded. The research areas are white. Common areas are yellow. Residential areas are blue.

High security areas are pink."

"High security?" She leaned closer, resting her hand on his shoulder for balance. One of the topside buildings and half of the lowest level of the complex glowed pink.

"The generators, communications and air filtration systems," he elaborated, tapping the topside building. With his other hand he reached up and covered her fingers in a light embrace. "The pumps, water, and computers are down on the bottom level."

She cuddled closer to him, resting her cheek against his thick mane of hair. The information he'd just given her was detailed enough that anyone she gave it to could shut down the Inst.i.tute, but Desmond wasn't the least bit concerned. He trusted her. Completely.

She ran her hands over his shoulders in a soft caress, but the rough weave of his jacket interfered. Not to be deterred, she slid her hands around to the jacket's open front. When she reached inside to stroke his silk clad chest, he closed his eyes and let his head tip back against her b.r.e.a.s.t.s.

"Mmm," he sighed. "That's nice."

"I don't want to be nice," she whispered back, stroking his chest in rhythm. "I want to be wicked."

He laughed. "And you do it so well."

She reached inside his shirt to tease his hardened nipples, her own b.r.e.a.s.t.s swelling in sympathy. The weight of his head against her tender flesh was a delicious agony, and she leaned closer.

He reached back and guided her around the chair, sitting her on the desk before him. Withexcruciating patience, he unfastened the b.u.t.tons of her blouse and pushed it aside, then cupped both her b.r.e.a.s.t.s in his warm, capable hands. She leaned into the caress, her eyes closing as she exhaled in a soft whimper. His touch excited and inflamed her until she could barely think. And yet, she wanted more. She wanted him.

He reached inside her bra, freeing her b.r.e.a.s.t.s to the gentle torture of his thumbs flicking across her nipples. When he replaced one hand with his mouth, she grabbed his head and forced him closer, aching for the union they could achieve if only he wasn't so exhausted.

She closed her eyes and tipped back her head, overcome with a rush of desire. A broken sigh escaped her lips as he pulled her from the desk into his lap, and she felt the strength of his desire for her.

He nuzzled the tender underside of her jaw, his warm breath steaming across the sensitive skin of her throat and making her quiver with need. He tightened his arms around her and pressed a hot, openmouthed kiss on her pulse point, overloading her already straining nerves.

The world turned black and fell away, leaving only the blazing trail that ran from the fire between her legs to the miniature inferno at her throat. She lost herself in the raging wildfire of emotion burning through her, a fiery cataclysm she'd never experienced in anyone else's arms and that seemed to grow stronger each time they embraced. It seemed impossible to contain so much pa.s.sion and pleasure within one person, yet Desmond's every touch only stoked the fires higher.

When she gradually drifted back to awareness, the telltale soreness in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s and neck reminded her that this bout of lovemaking had gone the way of the others. He had given her more pleasure than she used to dream existed, and she hadn't given him anything. She opened her eyes to find Desmond smiling down at her. He didn't seem as drawn and peaked as he had before. Maybe their lovemaking had been just what he needed, after all.

Desmond shifted his hold on Rebecca so that he could better see her face. He loved watching that sated expression she had after making love, her eyes barely half open, shining with a glint of starlight, a slumberous smile weighing on her lips. Reaching out, he brushed back the lock of hair that never stayed where she wanted it, letting the soft strands float across his fingers. So fine, like a chestnut cloud.

He smiled, knowing she'd laugh if he told her that. Having grown up in a far less poetic era, she had no patience for his more lyrical expressions. She'd probably tell him it was the shampoo she used, a honey and lemon blend that reminded him of spring. She must be running low on her travel size tube by now.

They'd have to buy some more for her in Las Vegas.

He intended to stop in a drug store, anyway. He wasn't about to settle for this hands-off mental lovemaking on his wedding night.

Her eyes opened, darkening to the troubled gray of storm clouds off the Maine coast. She was feeling guilty again. He wished there was a way he could convince her that his sudden abstinence wasn't her fault, that he loved and desired her as much as ever. But how could he, without explaining what he was?

He couldn't. But at least he could rea.s.sure her.

He reached out again to stroke her hair, and whispered, "You have no idea how happy you make me."

"Really?" The sparkle returned to her eyes.

"Really. Just having you near me is all I need."

She laughed nervously and glanced away. "Funny, I was just... Sometimes, I almost feel you can read my mind."

"Because I am devoted to pleasing you," he answered, too quickly. d.a.m.n! She'd given him the perfect opportunity, and he'd wasted it. The instinct to hide, to protect his secret, had been too strong. But maybe he could still recover. "We're united by-"

"Were you going to show me how to use this computer program?"

She didn't want to listen. Very well. He wouldn't push it. Sooner or later, the topic would come up again. In the mean time, he'd show her his feelings in another way.

"Yes. It's pretty basic. Type in the name of the person you're looking for, and the person's current location lights up on the screen." He demonstrated, typing her name. A blue dot blinked on the map. He continued by typing Mrs. Waters' name. "You can even pick a second person, and find the fastest way to get from the first person's location to the second's." "Wow! Look at that!" Rebecca leaned closer to the screen, tracing the line between her blue dot and the red dot blinking in the residential section. "It does stairs and everything."

"It's quite a program, all right." Desmond shut down that program and started another. "But I think you'll like this one better."

She relaxed in his arms, watching the screen. When she turned back to face him, a galaxy of stars shone in her eyes.

"A word processing program."

"Mm-hmm." He couldn't help himself. He brushed her lips with a light kiss. It took so little to please her. She didn't realize he'd hire an army of skilled craftsmen to hand set movable type if that's what was needed to keep her happy, and with him. "And it has built-in fax capabilities. So you can send in your stories without ever leaving home."

She laughed. "I should have known you'd have an ulterior motive."

Turning away, she put the program through it's paces.

"Do you use it much?"

"No. I draft the occasional report or announcement. Nothing much."

"From what I've seen, that's still pretty rare for an executive. Most of them prefer the personal touch of a secretary slaving away for them."

"I guess I'm unique, then. I've always been fascinated by computers. I remember when the first one was invented-" He stopped himself, but she didn't seem to notice his slip. She must have thought he was talking about personal computers.

"Me, too. We had one in our school. The old kind, that used a tape recorder to store programs. That's part of the reason I decided to become an engineer."

"An engineer?" He swiveled her away from the computer so he could see her face. No wonder she'd been so inventive in breaking out of her suite. "You studied to be an engineer?"

"For two years." She shrugged. "I thought I'd like engineering, because it was about absolutes.

Equations worked the same every time, and the numbers didn't lie."

"So why'd you switch to journalism?"

"Engineering's only absolute in theory. In practice, it's all about compromises. I didn't want to compromise."

A chill rolled down his back at her steely expression.

"You don't compromise in journalism, do you?"

"No. Never. I tell the story, the best way I can. I'll take an editor's suggestions when I'm writing, of course, if it won't destroy the article. But after I've sold the story, they're free to make whatever other changes they want. That's why I only work with editors who I know respect the truth as much as I do."

He smiled and nodded and said something polite about sticking to one's guns. But his heart felt as if it had just been dipped in ice water. He'd been right not to trust her. Because no matter how much he loved and trusted Rebecca the woman, he could never forget she was also Rebecca the reporter.

Chapter 14.

REBECCA DROPPED the last armload of her clothes on Desmond's bed. Gillian had helped ferry things from one bedroom to the other, until Mrs. Waters became concerned that the girl was tiring herself out. So Rebecca had completed the last few trips on her own.

She looked around the bedroom. After tonight, it would betheir room. A thrill of antic.i.p.ation raced through her, and she glanced at her watch. Only eleven o'clock. Hours yet until they left for Las Vegas.

Hours. With no reason to hurry, she could take her time and thoroughly investigate the room. She smiled, looking forward to what she might learn about her husband-to-be.

Picking up an armload of socks, she walked over to the dresser. The ebony and inlaid green marble top shone from a recent cleaning. On the left side, a shallow stone bowl held a set of car keys, and a natural-bristle brush and double-toothed comb sat neatly beside it.

She dropped the socks on the empty right side of the dresser top, and turned her attention to thedrawers. Three drawers wide, and three high, the black dresser bowed out in a graceful curve. The top three drawers were shorter than the others, and the center drawers were narrower, with the stylized curves of green marble that acted as drawer pulls sized accordingly. The top left drawer contained socks, and the center drawer held handkerchiefs.

Momentarily distracted from her quest for an empty drawer, she lifted up the socks and handkerchiefs to search beneath them. Nothing. Not that she'd really expected anything. Desmond was too clever, or too security conscious, to choose the most popular hiding place for personal valuables.

She opened the top right drawer and found it empty, so she swept her socks into it. The few pairs she'd packed for her trip seemed lost in the vastness of the drawer, and she couldn't wait until the rest of her things arrived from her apartment. Then she'd look like she belonged here.

The other two drawers on the left contained Desmond's turtlenecks, underwear, and a few plain white T-shirts. The four remaining drawers were bare, chilling Rebecca with an uneasy premonition. Had he already made s.p.a.ce for Rebecca's things, or was he honoring his wife's memory by keeping the room the way it had been when they'd shared it? Rebecca knew how little time he'd had this past week. He hadn't done any reorganizing. They'd been his wife's, and he'd never filled them.

She hurried to the closet. The black sliding doors, set in both top and bottom tracks, glided smoothly at her touch. A thin strip of insulation kept the doors from touching, making their movement eerily silent.

She pulled the chain on the overhead light bulb, illuminating a deep closet with a double row of clothes.

The back row held darker, heavier suits and shirts, while the front held spring and summer clothing.

Desmond had used both rows, rather than hanging anything on the other side of the closet.

Rebecca shoved open the other closet door, and hung as many of her clothes as she could on the empty bar. She even hung shirts and pants she'd normally fold and keep in a drawer. Anything to occupy that ominous s.p.a.ce.

Trying to fill more s.p.a.ce, she spread some of Desmond's suit coats further along the rack. Then she stopped, and really looked at them. She was no fashion expert, but she knew styles changed, lapels became wider or narrower, suits changed from single- to double-breasted and back. The suits hanging in this closet couldn't be more than five years old.

She flipped through the shirts, finding mostly washable silk and rayon blends no more than a few years old. The one exception was a dark green chamois shirt that looked well-worn. But she didn't know if it had come that way, like acid-washed jeans, or if it had actually been in service for more than five years.

She thought back on her discussion with Dr. Chen. He'd been one of the Inst.i.tute's first researchers.

And he'd been working there for five years.

Desmond had purchased an entire new wardrobe when he took this job as Director of the Inst.i.tute.

Why? What had he been before that? Rebecca didn't know, but she was certain it had something to do with the secret of his missing years, and why she'd been unable to find references to him in any of her normal background searches.

She sat down on the floor of the closet, appreciating the softness of the deep pile throw rug covering the wood, and tried to think this through. A pair of extra pillows lay in the corner of the closet, and she picked one up to lean against, revealing a bra.s.sbound travel case that had been hidden beneath the pillows.

She grabbed the case and examined it. Small, no more than a foot in each direction, the bra.s.s fittings and reinforcements made it heavy. The top clasps had keyholes indicating they could be locked, but when she touched them, they sprang open. A narrow tray, lined with velvet, held cuff links, tie tacks, and two antique pocket watches. Hooking her fingers into the loops on the sides of the tray, she lifted it out.

The tray beneath held a variety of men's jewelry, from a delicately crafted gold watch chain to a chunky gold nugget bracelet of the kind that had been popular a few years back.

Intrigued, she pulled out that tray to see what was beneath it. A bulky suede bag filled the tray. She opened it and poured out a jumble of necklaces, earrings, pins and bracelets. Kitschy items from the dollar store mingled with items easily worth a few hundred dollars. Then she spotted a necklace whose delicate tracery spelled out "Olivia."

Rebecca crammed the jewelry back into the bag, tying it shut with a savage knot. The game hadsoured. She wasn't sure if she wanted to know more about Desmond's past. Not if it was a past that included another woman.

She might not want the information, but she needed to know it. You couldn't change the truth by pretending it was something else. Her mother had tried that, and look where it had gotten her. No, she had to know the answer, even if she didn't like it. Reaching into the case, she lifted out the tray.

The next tray held only construction paper cards from Gillian; Birthday, Christmas and Father's Day.

Penciled in the corner of each card was a notation, such as "Gillian at 2 years."

She broke off her investigation of the box to compare the writing on the cards. It was obviously penned by the same hand, in a perfect antique bookplate script. She'd suspected Desmond of taking voice lessons to disguise his accent. Had he also studied calligraphy to disguise the personality clues inherent in handwriting?

She'd hoped to learn answers to her existing questions, not uncover more puzzles. Desmond managed to overturn her plans again, without even knowing. With a sigh, she replaced the cards and turned back to the travel box.

The next tray was empty, with no loops to lift it out by. It had to be the bottom level. Rebecca glanced at the outside of the case, then measured the depth of the tray with her hand against the outside wall. No, there was still room for one more tray below this one.

She sunk her nails into the velvet corners and pulled. Moving at a grinding slowness, the tray slid up the walls of the case and popped out. She peered inside. A gray and maroon cloth, the kind sold on late night television to preserve silver services, shrouded a thin rectangle. She lifted out the bundle and unwrapped an antique silver picture frame.

The picture seemed equally ancient, a family portrait of stern, unsmiling people. A middle-aged woman garbed in a dark burgundy gown and a younger woman in a similar gown of shimmering lavender sat in two high backed velvet chairs, flanked by two young men standing at stiff attention. Two boys, one a teenager and the other still a child, sat on stools in the very front. The detail of the picture was incredible.

Rebecca could see the pattern of the women's lace collars and count the hairs in the teenager's unruly cowlick.

But who were they? The men's features were similar to Desmond's, and the young lady in the middle bore a striking resemblance to Gillian, so they were obviously relatives. Rebecca's attention was caught by the expression of the youngest boy. Although his face was as unmoving as the others, his eyes blazed with the hunger of barely restrained curiosity as he stared at the photographer. She recognized the expression, just as she recognized the same hunger to know more in the man's library shelves filled with science fiction and popular science books. The boy was Desmond.

Rebecca put names to the other faces. His mother and Veronica in the middle. The older son, with the stern expression, was Etienne. The younger one, with a slightly bruised expression, as if the world had hurt him badly and he hadn't quite recovered, must be Roderick. The teenager perched precariously on the edge of his stool had to be Jean-Michel. But what were they doing in such ridiculously old-fashioned clothes?

She frowned, trying to remember other old photographs she'd seen. They'd been brown, and rather blurry. Not crisp and in color like this. So it must be a new picture, with the family dressed in old clothes for some reason.

Of course. Historical sites had photographers that would take your picture in antique costumes. This must be a souvenir from a family vacation. If the rest of his family was as adverse to photographs as Desmond, this might be the only picture he had of them. Carefully rewrapping the heavy frame in its protective cloth, Rebecca replaced the picture where she'd found it. Then she replaced the other trays, and finally put the pillow back on top of the case. Her intuition told her she'd just learned something important, but Rebecca had no idea what it was.