Rebecca reached out to touch his cheek, but pulled her hand back before she brushed his skin. Shestared down at the floor. "I'm sorry if I insulted your brother."

"Rebecca. Dear heart." He caught up her hand and carried it to his lips, pressing a kiss against her fingers. He continued to hold her hand tightly, while she lifted her gaze to look at him. The pain and doubt in her eyes slashed at his heart. He kissed her fingers again. "You did no more than speak the truth. The truth can be unpleasant, but no matter how much it hurts, knowing the truth is better than believing a fantasy."

She tightened her fingers on his, and gave a sad smile. "I said that, didn't I? When we were discussing the transplant operation for Gillian."

"Yes. And I think the time has come for you to hear the truth."

She pulled away from him and paced the perimeter of the office, her arms crossed before her as if she'd caught a sudden chill. "I had a surprise visitor a little while ago. Your half-brother, Philippe. He had some truths for me, too."

"Philippe?" Desmond felt the same chill wash over him. "What did he have to say?"

Rebecca spoke without looking at him. "When I first came here, you refused to let me leave. Because of your daughter, and the help you thought I could provide. Please, tell me the truth. Is she the reason you married me?"

"No!"

"So you didn't want me to donate any further bone marrow transplants?"

"If she needed any, and there's no guarantee she will, I'd naturally a.s.sumed you'd want to help her.

But-"

"And Doctor Chen never told you a child of ours would make a better donor?"

d.a.m.n Philippe. He could kill him for this. "Yes, he told me that. But I never seriously considered it. I only mentioned it to Philippe as an example of how divorced from reality a researcher could become."

It was bad enough that Desmond had to tell her he was cursed. He didn't want her thinking he was a monster even while she still believed he was a normal human. He spun her around to face him. The shimmer of tears silvering her eyes nearly undid him.

"Please, Rebecca. You must believe me. I never intended to hurt you or use you in any way."

"You married me because you loved me?" she asked, an unsteady quiver shaking her voice.

"I did," he agreed, trying to put the weight of his emotions into his words.

She closed her eyes and swallowed, then whispered, "And I ruined that."

"No!" He grabbed her shoulders, shaking her eyes open. "No, you must never think that. You have been all to me that I could ask for. More than I had any right to dream of. No fault lies with you."

"Then why are you speaking in the past tense?"

It was his turn to swallow and look away.

"Desmond, I know what happened last night upset you. It upset me, too. But I've been thinking it over, and I've figured out why it happened."

A bitter laugh escaped him. "You have no idea."

"No, I-"

"Do you remember the tour you took when you first came to the Inst.i.tute?" He spun to face her.

His apparently arbitrary change of subject creased her forehead with confusion, and she took a moment to collect her thoughts before answering, "Yes."

"Do you remember our discussion at the end of the tour? When I asked you to stay, and you refused?"

"Yes. But I don't see what-"

"Think carefully. You originally refused. Why did you change your mind and agree?"

She frowned with the effort of remembering. "You had a very persuasive argument."

"I never said a word." He sighed, seeing that she still wasn't following him. "Later, when I escorted you to the guest suite, I convinced you to stay put even though you wanted to leave. Do you remember how?"

A shadow of doubt crossed her face. "No. But I was very suspicious, after you'd gone. I thought you'd hypnotized me."

"Close. Very close." He forced himself to go on, even though he could see the first stirrings of fear inher eyes. It would get far worse before he was done. "I can both read others' thoughts, and implant my own thoughts in their minds. That's how I was able to convince you."

"Don't be silly." Her tentative grin faded at his expression. "You're serious."

"Yes."

"Prove it. What am I thinking now?"

He'd known it would come to this. If he lowered his mental shields enough to touch her inner mind, but kept his own thoughts strictly controlled, she shouldn't be in any danger of picking up on his ever-present blood l.u.s.t. Sighing, he reached out to touch her mind for the last time.

"You're thinking he can't possibly do this. There's no way he could know that I'm thinking about a lemon chiffon pie. With whipped cream. On one of Mama's blue and white Corelle serving dishes."

"Enough! You proved your point." Her eyes widened, and she took an involuntary step backward, away from him. She put one hand to her head, as if she could feel where the treacherous thoughts had leaked out. "Do you do that all the time? Listen in on people's thoughts?"

"No. I'd go mad from the constant chatter. One of the first things a telepath learns to do is to put up mental shields, keeping their thoughts in and everyone else's thoughts out. I've had a lot of practice, so I can control whether that shield is more like a brick wall, or like tissue paper." He stared into her eyes, hoping she'd make the connection with her own gift. "For an untrained telepath, the shield is more likely to stay as a brick wall, or to fluctuate unpredictably."

She watched him with the blank look that said she was ama.s.sing information, but had not yet formed an opinion. He tried again.

"Haven't you ever wondered where your sudden flashes of insight come from?"

"You mean you think I'm a telepath, too?"

"I know you are."

Her eyes slid out of focus, and he watched as she replayed scenes in her memory, testing this new theory against the facts. She was so beautiful, so intelligent, so open to everything life had to offer. How could he give her up?

She focused on him again. "Even if that's true, what does it have to do with last night?"

"Do you believe me?"

"You didn't answer my question."

"And I won't, until you answer mine. Do you believe that you have the telepathic gift?"

She strolled around the office, her fingers trailing over the backs of chairs and across book cases.

Returning to her starting point, she tipped up her chin with determination and announced, "I won't dismiss the possibility. That's the best you're going to get."

"Good enough." He looked down at his desk, stirring the paper birds with his finger. He had no idea how to say this. "That's why you're not to blame for what happened last night. You let your mental shields down, and were overwhelmed by my thoughts and desires."

"Yourdesires? You wanted to kill me?"

"No. You weren't trying to kill me, whatever it looked like."

"Then what-"

"You wanted to feast on my blood. Just as I pa.s.sionately desired yours."

Chapter 17.

"YOU'RE TRYING to tell me you're some kind of a vampire?" Rebecca chuckled. "Yeah, right."

Desmond's eyes glimmered the wet color of a stormy sea, and his lips lifted in a soft smile of pity. He believed what he was telling her. Dear Lord, she'd married a madman.

"You're not a vampire." She edged away from him, around the chair and toward the door. "You're not dead. I've seen you eat and drink. You have a daughter for heaven's sake!"

"I'm not a vampire. I'm cursed. My father angered a Voodoo priestess, and I'm paying his price." He stepped toward her, stopping when she backed away. "I'm not insane."

He was reading her mind! "And I'm not reading your mind," he added. "You have a very expressive face. Your thoughts are clear for anyone to see."

She reached the door, and the k.n.o.b pressed against her hip. Desmond watched her as she reached back and turned the k.n.o.b, but made no move to stop her. He just sighed and looked down at the floor.

"I didn't expect you to stay once you knew."

Her hand froze on the door k.n.o.b. What was wrong with her? This was Desmond, the man she loved.

So he thought he was cursed. Maybe it was his way of dealing with all the death that had surrounded him.

She crossed the office to where he stood, and laid her hand against his cheek. He jerked back his head, eyes wide and nostrils flared, then just stared at her. Quivers of emotion rippled through him, but he stood rooted to the spot. Silent. Staring.

"Hon." She forced herself to touch his cheek again. His control looked about ready to snap, and she had no idea what might set him off, or what he might do if he lost control. Remembering the scene between him and Philippe, she feared she might not have done the wisest thing. "It's all right. We can get help."

He winced as if she'd struck him, and pushed her hand away. Turning aside, he whispered, "You don't believe me."

"Of course I believe you. You think you're cursed."

"That'snot what I meant."

"You've suffered a terrible number of tragedies, and I'm sure it feels like you're cursed sometimes. But it's not too late," she told him. "We can find some professional help for you."

"d.a.m.n it all!" He turned and slammed his fist onto the secretary's desk. "What will it take to convince you?"

"Desmond, calm down. You'll hurt yourself."

He spun around, a strange glint in his eyes. "Yes, maybe that will do it."

"What?" Her heart speeded up, and she swallowed with a too-dry mouth. "What are you thinking?"

"One aspect of my curse is that I'm immortal. If I demonstrate that, you'll have to believe me."

"Desmond, please. This has gone far enough." She had a vision of him blowing out his brains to prove his point.

"No it hasn't. Not until you believe me." He opened the center drawer of the secretary's desk, and took out a wicked looking letter opener. Gripping it in his right hand, he placed his left hand flat on the desk.

Rebecca ran towards him. "No! Desmond, stop! I believe you!"

"No you don't." He drove the letter opener through his hand, closing his eyes and hissing at the pain.

Blood welled up around the wound, but not as much as there might have been. He hadn't punctured any of the larger veins.

"Desmond, honey. We're in a hospital. They'll be able to treat that. Just, don't touch it. It'll be okay."

He blinked, and forced a weak smile. "Well. That hurt." He took a deep breath, and looked down at his hand. A glimmer of hope sparked within her, that the pain had snapped him out of his delusion.

He cradled the wounded hand in his good hand, b.u.mping the tip of the letter opener, and she winced in sympathy at his sudden intake of breath. Following behind him as he walked to the sink, he surprised her by turning and holding out his hand.

"Do you agree that the letter opener goes all the way through?"

She looked away, her stomach turning at the sight of the bloodstained steel tip protruding from his perfect flesh.

"Yes, but it's not bleeding much. If we get you to the doctor, they'll be able to bandage it up for you.

You might not even need st.i.tches."

He laughed, a short bitter sound. "Dear heart, I won't even need the bandage. Watch."

Unable to stop herself, she watched in sick fascination as he slid the letter opener out of his hand, and rinsed them both under the water. Shaking the water off of his hand, he held it out for her inspection.

She took his hand, turning it over to look at the back. A thin pink line marked where new skin hadformed, but it faded to pale alabaster even as she watched. In moments, no sign of his injury remained.

She grabbed his other hand, thinking she'd been mistaken about which hand he'd injured. Both hands were perfectly formed and whole.

"You were telling the truth," she whispered. Then a wave of fury swept through her. "You lied to me!"

"I didn't lie."

"You knowingly let me believe something that wasn't true, and didn't correct me. That's the same thing."

"But I had to."