"Just these two bags, ma'am?" he asked.

"Yes. No, wait." She searched the room for the cooler, but didn't see it. Reluctantly, she turned to Desmond. "Where's the cooler?"

"I put it out of the way." He retrieved the small plastic case from where he'd stowed it under the desk, and handed it to the bellman.

The elevator ride down to the lobby was accomplished in awkward silence. Rebecca couldn't help contrasting it to their earlier trip in the elevator, when they'd been unable to keep their hands off of eachother. Now, they stood in opposite corners, like boxers before the starting bell.

They reached the car, and Desmond tipped the valet and bellman. He spoke to each of them. But he didn't say anything to her.

He opened her door and held it for her, but he didn't extend a hand to help her in, or draw down the seat belt for her. She'd started to expect his chivalrous signs of affection, but they were gone now. He couldn't be chivalrous when he was afraid to touch her. A dull ache started to pound in her temples, and at the base of her neck. Discovering she'd clenched her teeth together, she forced her jaw muscles to relax.

He wheeled onto the Strip, and she shut her eyes against the garish intrusion of light. She didn't want to be reminded that she was surrounded by happy, laughing people. She especially didn't want to be reminded that only a few short hours ago, she'd been one of those happy people.

She felt the car turn and b.u.mp over a slight curb. Opening her eyes, she saw a small gas station, dwarfed by the huge casino complexes surrounding it. Desmond pulled up to the pumps, and got out of the car.

"This won't take long," he a.s.sured her. At least he was still speaking to her.

"Take your time." She put the seat back and closed her eyes. It was very late, almost three o'clock, and the events of the day had tired her out. Since it had taken them five hours to get to Las Vegas, they should get back to the Inst.i.tute around eight in the morning. She wasn't going to wait until then to go to sleep, especially since she and Desmond weren't likely to say anything to each other the whole ride back.

The car shook as he climbed back in, lightly scented with gasoline fumes, and slammed his door closed. He revved the engine, and accelerated into traffic. Rebecca kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, until a sudden swerve tossed her against the door frame.

Desmond glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable in the highway darkness. "Did I wake you?"

"I wasn't really asleep," she admitted. "Just resting."

She glanced outside, but wasn't able to see anything. At first she thought it was too dark, but then she realized the scenery was moving by too quickly to focus on. She sneaked a peak at the speedometer.

"One hundred and forty miles per hour! Are you trying to kill us?"

He turned to answer her, and she shrieked, "Don't look at me. Look at the road!"

He sighed, but kept his attention fixed on the road where it belonged. "No, I am not trying to kill us. I am trying to get us home in the shortest time possible."

"You can take longer. I don't mind." She risked another look at the speedometer. One hundred and fifty. She gripped the dashboard, even though she knew it wouldn't help her if they got into an accident.

"But I do. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. Both the Lamborghini and I are perfectly capable of handling these speeds. And the roads are ideal driving conditions-well paved, straight, and empty."

She had to admit, he wasn't having any problems controlling the car. He handled a slight curve with ease, and she relaxed enough to let go of the dashboard. It didn't feel that fast. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were only moving at sixty miles per hour.

Desmond's voice interrupted her thoughts. "If you're not going to be sleeping, and I a.s.sume you want me to keep both hands on the wheel at all times, could I trouble you to put a CD in?"

"Sure." She leaned down and pulled the case out from under her seat. They wouldn't be discussing the music, this time. The lighthearted mood of their earlier car trip had been destroyed. She had destroyed it.

"What one do you want?"

"Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor."

She found the disk he wanted and slipped it in. The melancholy notes of Grieg's music wafted out of the speakers, and she shivered. If Desmond was hoping to be cheered up by that music, he must be feeling as miserable as she was. And it was all her fault.

Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes again. At the rate he was driving, they'd be home in two hours. Recalling the twisting roads around the Hoover Dam, she adjusted her estimate up to two and a half hours. It would probably be the longest two and a half hours she'd ever spent.

She grimaced, and turned her face toward the door. That music wasn't helping her mood any, either.Chapter 16 REBECCA AWOKE with the feeling that something was wrong. She glanced around her room and saw nothing out of place. The overhead light burned steadily, and yesterday's clothes lay neatly folded on a chair.

Yesterday! With a rush, memories of the beautiful wedding and its hideous aftermath filled her mind.

She must have dozed off in the car, and Desmond put her to bed when they got home.

She tossed off her covers and got out of bed. Her bed. Not the bed she and Desmond were supposed to have shared. Just another indication of how badly she'd ruined everything between them. Shrugging into last night's shirt as a makeshift bathrobe, she took a moment to gather her courage before knocking on the connecting door to his room.

When he didn't answer to a second, louder knock, she pushed open the door and peeked inside. The room was dark, and the bed showed no signs of having been slept in.

She leaned her forehead against the cool tile wall of the bathroom. It was even worse than she'd thought. Not only couldn't Desmond stand to sleep in the same bed as her, he couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in the same apartment. She had to find him. They had to discuss what had happened last night, or it would fester between them, poisoning their marriage. That is, if they still had a marriage.

She scoured the silent apartment for any trace of her husband. Nothing. He wasn't only gone, but in a telling lack of consideration, he had left no note to indicate where he could be found or when he expected to come back.

Standing in the middle of the living room, she admitted the truth. He didn't want her to find him. She'd driven him away, just as her mother had driven away her father.

Rebecca stiffened her shoulders and set her jaw. She wouldn't let it happen again. She'd find Desmond, and force the issue. Yes, she'd behaved horrendously, but that didn't give him the right to leave her. She could get counseling, straighten herself out. Maybe even just understanding her motivations was enough to get rid of the problem. They could make their marriage work, if only Desmond stayed committed to it.

She could convince him when she saw him. But her first task was to find him. Perhaps he'd joined his daughter at Mrs. Waters's?

Remembering the Access program he'd shown her, as soon as she was dressed she went into the study and turned on the computer. When the locator prompted her for the name of the person she was searching for, she entered Desmond's name. A blue dot blinked into existence on the map, three levels down in the lab section of the Inst.i.tute. After experimenting with different keys, she managed to enlarge the display of that section of the map, labeled "Administrative Offices." The room surrounding the blinking blue dot was labeled "Office of the Director."

He'd gone to his office. A sudden relief swept through her, leaving her limp. Faced with the terrible things that had happened last night, he'd turned to his work. It was a reaction she could understand, a reaction she sympathized with. He hadn't abandoned her.

A sharp knock on the apartment door startled her out of her musings. As she stood up and went to answer it, she wondered who it could be. Not Desmond. She'd just seen he was in his office. Gillian, back from her picnic? No, she would be with Mrs. Waters. What about Evan? Desmond might have sent him over to check on her, or to deliver an explanation for his absence.

Her steps speeded up and she reached for the door, only to stop short at the sight of the keycard reader.

"Wait a minute. I forgot my card," she called through the door.

"You don't need it," a m.u.f.fled voice responded. "Press the authorized entry b.u.t.ton, and my card will open it."

She studied the scanner, and found an unlabeled black b.u.t.ton on the corner of the panel. She pressed it. The lock rewarded her with its customary buzz-click, and she opened the door. To Philippe.

"Good morning, Rebecca." He slid his foot forward just enough to keep her from slamming the doorshut in his face. His vacation had been good for him, as he looked calm and relaxed. "Is Desmond at home? I need to speak to him."

"No. He's not." She tried to shut the door anyway, but only succeeded in banging his shoe.

He pushed the door back open. "It's important. Do you mind if I wait for him?"

"Yes."

He caught the door as she tried to close it, forcing it back open with easy strength. "I realize I made a poor first impression on you. But since you're going to be here until Gillian makes a permanent recovery, we'll have to at least learn to tolerate each other."

She let go of the door and stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her face and icy foreboding close around her heart. "What do you mean?"

"I mean that's a long time to carry a vendetta, especially one that doesn't accomplish anything."

"No. What did you mean about Gillian?"

"I'm sorry. I thought you knew. The bone marrow transplant was a temporary solution. She'll need another in a few years. And until a more exact donor can be found, she'll keep needing transplants every few years."

"A more exact donor?" She studied him with all her senses, even that vague intuition she sometimes had about people, searching for signs that he was lying. He was telling the truth.

"Doctor Chen told Desmond that if the two of you were to have a child, it would-"

"Stop!"

Philippe broke off in mid-sentence, widening his eyes in surprise. "I'm so sorry. I thought you knew that's why-"

"Liar!" She fisted her hands at her sides. Philippe's wide eyes and contrite tone of voice didn't ring true. He was neither surprised nor sorry. But the patent falseness of his apology only underscored the truthfulness of the rest of his words. Shaking with suppressed rage, she whispered through clenched teeth, "Get out. Now."

As soon as he stepped back, she slammed the door shut. He was a vicious, hurtful snake in the gra.s.s.

He'd known she was here alone, probably using the same locator program she had. So he'd come over, with his lame excuse, just to tell her the truth about why Desmond had married her.

Rebecca sank into the soft folds of the leather couch, stunned by the magnitude of Philippe's revelation. Desmond had already proved he'd do anything for his daughter. He was more than capable of marrying someone he didn't love, just to keep her nearby.

Her reporter's instincts digested Philippe's story, searching for flaws, even as Rebecca puzzled over what she would do if he was right. She had no doubts that he'd spoken the truth, as far as it went. Gillian wasn't permanently cured, and would need a future transplant. Dr. Chen probably had mentioned that a sibling of Gillian's would make a better transplant donor than Rebecca. But just because the facts were true, didn't make the interpretation of those facts true.

She bolted upright. Philippe insisted Desmond had married her to have a child, who could act as a donor for Gillian. But Desmond had emphatically insisted they take precautions so that Rebecca didn't get pregnant.

Her shoulders slumped. That didn't prove anything. He might have hoped he'd already gotten her pregnant. Or he might have wanted to wait until a certain time to have another child.

The way she saw it, she had two choices. Believe Philippe, believe the worst about the man she'd sworn to honor and cherish all the days of her life, or confront Desmond and demand to know the truth of the situation, the whole truth, without any prevarication. When she put it like that, it was obvious that there was no choice, not if she wanted to break out of the pattern set by her mother. She had to confront Desmond.

Going back to the computer, she printed out a copy of the route she should take to reach him. The path highlighted two sets of stairs, reminding her that she'd be going underground. She clenched the piece of paper in a tight fist, and fought against her memories.

She'd been eight years old. A heavy rain had shifted a block of shale, exposing a cave. Always adventurous, she'd crawled in for a look, but hadn't been able to pull herself back out. The shale hadcrumbled and splintered as she tried to hold it, slicing her hands until she had to take a rest. Then the rain had returned, shifting the block of shale again and closing the mouth of the cave to a narrow crack she could never escape through. Worse yet, the saturated walls of the cave started crumbling and collapsing, covering her in cold, wet mud. Unable to see in the darkness, she'd groped for another exit, and her questing hands had encountered the bones of the last creature to fall into the cave.

She'd screamed herself hoa.r.s.e, but no one came to rescue her. She spent the longest night of her life, waiting to die, convinced she would die alone. When the searchers had arrived the next morning, she barely had the strength to call to them.

She hated going underground. Every time, no matter what she told herself beforehand, she suffered through those anguished fears of dying a slow, lonely death, and her body being abandoned to rot.

Startled by a new interpretation, she repeated it aloud. "Being underground is just the trigger to the real fear, of dying alone and forgotten."

If she allowed her fears and insecurities to separate her from Desmond, that's exactly how she would die, alone and unremembered. No matter how much fame she achieved through her work, when the moment came, there would be no one by her side to mark her pa.s.sing.

Terrified that she might already have waited too long, she grabbed up her keycard and rushed out of the apartment.

DESMOND FOLDED yet another piece of paper embodying a pointless tenet of bureaucracy into an origami bird. Setting it next to the a.n.a.lysis of projected demand versus actual use of various supplies, whose wings drooped sadly, he picked up another memo. This j.a.panese paper folding had been a great fad a few years back. He couldn't recall exactly how many years it had been, but he'd been rather skilled at the time. The only forms he remembered now were the bird, a jumping frog, and a piano.

He added the newest bird to the flock already collected on his desk, and picked up the paper sc.r.a.p he'd torn off when he'd squared up the memo. A frog would make for a nice change of pace.

Five frogs later, the amus.e.m.e.nt value of jumping them over each other had worn thin. His thoughts turned back to the problem he'd been struggling with since he retreated to his office. What was he going to do about Rebecca?

He could tell her the truth, the full truth. Despite Philippe's predictions, Desmond didn't think she'd p.r.o.nounce him an agent of Satan and try to cut off his head or burn him alive. That kind of thinking had gone out with hoop skirts and powdered wigs. He wasn't afraid for his life. He was afraid for the quality of his life.

What would it matter if she spared him, if he had to live with her revulsion and contempt? Oh, she tried to hide her feelings behind a mask of cynicism, but at heart she was a loving, compa.s.sionate woman.

That's why her mother's betrayal had hurt her so deeply. She'd loathe and despise him; for what he was, what he was forced to do to survive, and most importantly, for lying to her. After all, he'd had plenty of opportunities to correct her misapprehension of his nature. He hadn't. Not even when they'd made love.

He s.n.a.t.c.hed up another piece of paper and started folding. It kept his hands busy while he thought, and he needed that. Otherwise, he feared he'd start breaking things, just to relieve some of his frustration.

His other choice held even less appeal. He could refrain from telling her, go back to her and pretend that everything was normal. No doubt he could concoct some sort of explanation for why she'd bitten him while they made love. She'd stay with him, and love him, until the disease claimed her.

He remembered Olivia, lying wasted in her bed, too weak even to lift her head when her daughter was brought into her room. If Rebecca had any sort of open cut, even just biting her tongue or the inside of her cheek, and they made love...he forced aside images of her dying in his arms. He couldn't go through that again. He wouldn't go through that again. More importantly, he couldn't betray his wedding vow to her that way. He could not be the agent of her death.

There was always a third option. He could send her away, without telling her the truth. That way, he'd preserve her life, and keep the Inst.i.tute and its work secret. But with her insatiable curiosity, she'd uncover the truth behind any story he tried to tell her. With her telepathic powers, he couldn't even try to use mental suggestions. She'd break through them eventually, and be twice as determined to discoverwhat he'd been hiding. The most he could gain in that situation was time. Time for the researchers to find Gillian's cure. Time to establish a new life and a new ident.i.ty someplace where Rebecca would never find him.

He jumped paper frogs over paper birds. He'd have no trouble losing himself in New York City. Or Chicago. Desmond sighed and pushed aside the frogs. It was a perfect solution, except for one thing. He couldn't do it.

He'd vowed to honor Rebecca. How much honor was there in taking away her freedom of choice? In forcing foreign thoughts into her mind? In denying and decrying their love for each other? The answer was obvious. None.

Whatever path he chose, he'd spend the rest of his life without her. But there was only one option that would let him live with himself. He had to tell her the truth. And pray that his daughter wouldn't suffer for it.

Looking around the room, his gaze was caught by one of his brother's paintings. Ancient trees dripping Spanish Moss screened a darkened plantation house. Trees, moss and building were all painted in shades of gray. In the painting's only spot of color, field hands in gaily patterned clothes danced with wild abandon around a blazing fire. If you looked carefully, you could just make out a shadowed face in one of the house's windows, watching the merriment below. The panoply of life, from which the cursed were forever excluded.

Desmond buried his face in his hands. It wasn't fair. Given time, of which he had an abundance, he could find someone else to love, a brief dalliance to take his mind off of the woman he'd sent away. But he'd never find anyone else like Rebecca. She was his one true love, his soul mate, his completion. She was the other half of his heart. Life without her would be mere existence, as colorless and devoid of light as the painted plantation.

He could torture himself by watching her from afar, spying on her life without ever being a part of it.

But even so, how long could that last? Another fifty years? Then she'd be gone, forever. And he'd go on, eternally alone.

He'd have Philippe, if they could ever work their differences out. But that thin companionship paled beside dreams of a wife to love and cherish. All the things he loved about Rebecca, the way she could raise his spirits with a witty comment, encourage him with just a word or a touch, comfort him just by being there; he would lose it all. Never again would she whisper to him after they'd made love. Never again would she come to him, eyes shining, and tell him of the articles she'd written. He'd even miss her early morning, pre-coffee grizzly bear antics.

He had to tell her. But he could put it off for a little while, yet. He could go home, take her in his arms, and finally tell her he loved her. He could see the light in her eyes one last time. One last time before her love changed to horror and disgust.

The outer door buzzed. Bernice wouldn't be working on a Sat.u.r.day, so it must be Philippe, returning from vacation. Desmond sat up straight. He couldn't let Philippe see him like this.

The inner door opened.

"Rebecca," he breathed. He rose and stepped around the desk, drawn to her despite his best intentions.

She glanced around the office, refusing to look at him, her hands shoved into the pockets of her jeans.

"Nice office. Directing a research inst.i.tute must pay well."

"It has its benefits."

He stood in front of her, unsure of what to do. He wanted to take her in his arms, or at least hold her hand. But he couldn't. Not with her hands stuffed in her pockets like that. She clearly didn't want him to touch her. Instead, he gestured toward the painting she was admiring.

"It's one of my brother Roderick's. Take a closer look if you like."

"Thank you." She slipped her hands out of her pockets as she walked. "He wasn't a real cheerful guy, was he?"

"No. Not really." His heart was breaking, but she could still make him smile.