"There's no excuse for lying." She turned to leave, only to have him catch her arm and pull her around to face him.

"I love you."

She stared at him. He'd finally said the words she'd longed to hear, the words she'd thought he'd never say. She whispered, "Why now?"

"I was trying to keep you safe. I thought I could protect you from the curse if I didn't say that I loved you. But I couldn't let you leave believing the lies Philippe told you. You are the other half of my heart. I love you more than I knew it was possible to love anyone."

He loved her. He'd loved her all along. All the time she was doubting his motives and suspicious of his actions, he had loved her. If she had trusted him, if he had believed he could tell her such an amazing story without being forced to prove it wasn't a fanciful cover-up for an even worse crime, would he have? If she had encouraged and supported him, would he have told her the truth in the beginning? Was it her actions that had driven him to lie?

He caught her just as her knees buckled.

DESMOND HELPED Rebecca to sit down in Bernice's chair, tilting it back when she looked in danger of fainting. Her gray eyes had gone gla.s.sy, and he feared her reaction when she eventually regained her senses. He took the opportunity to smooth a lock of her soft hair away from her face, knowing it might be the last time she allowed him to touch her.

Her eyes focused on him, then she surged out of the chair to pace the room, rubbing her hands together in time to her steps.

"Okay. So. You're cursed. You're some kind of voodoo vampire. The blacked out windows in the apartment are for you, then."

"Yes. But also for Gillian, as I told you. The sunlight aggravated her condition, just as it does mine."

"That's why we traveled to Las Vegas at night. And why you drove so fast to get back, before the sun came up."

"Yes." He turned in a slow circle in the center of the room, facing her as she paced. Her lack of reaction puzzled and alarmed him. Was she still denying the truth?

She continued pacing, head down in thought. Then she turned and faced him.

"When I was moving my clothes in to your closet, I thought that it had a very strange construction. It makes a seal, doesn't it? In case the windows ever fail?"

"Yes." Her perception surprised him, and for the first time he allowed himself to hope that her rational mind would be able to accept his condition without emotional prejudice. He grabbed the glimmer of hope, and struggled to find the right words to explain his situation without frightening her. "I've never used it for that purpose. But I feel safer knowing the option exists, should I ever need it."

"You said your sister was liberated for her time. What time exactly was that?"

"The mid 1800s. And before you ask, the war that claimed my brothers' lives was the War between the States."

"So you were born when?"

"1853.".

She nodded, as if this line of questioning made sense to her. He could only wonder where it was leading, and hope he was answering her questions correctly. When she crossed her arms and tilted her head to stare at him, his heart plummeted to his feet. Somehow, he'd failed her test. "But if that's the case, one thing doesn't ring true. The photograph of your family. It's in color."

He sighed with relief, not caring how she'd found the picture.

"It's not a photograph, it's a daguerreotype. They were individually printed on silver plates, and hand colored after the initial image was fixed."

"Oh." She seemed to deflate, and he longed to go to her and comfort her. But he didn't dare.

She started to wander around the room again, picking up items for a brief inspection before putting them down and moving on to the next thing that attracted her attention. Her silence weighed on his nerves, but he had to let her make the next move. He couldn't risk intimidating or frightening her. Striving to maintain a casual att.i.tude, he leaned against the desk.

"So, how similar is your curse to a real vampire? Do you have to drink blood?" she asked.

"Yes." Unsure what had triggered her question, he almost stopped with that simple answer. But honesty compelled him to give the full picture. "The researchers created a transfusion liquid to prevent accident victims from going into shock. It has all the nutrients I need. If I'm quiet, and don't use my mental powers, I can get by with one dose every other day. If I use my telepathic powers, or sustain some sort of injury, I might need two or more doses in a single day. The fluid replaces the cells that are destroyed in my body, so my need for it depends on how strenuously I push myself."

She stopped her restless pacing and approached him, standing so close that he could smell the lemon and honey fragrance of her shampoo.

When she placed one of her hands lightly on his, he thought his heart would stop from the shock. She still loved him. His needs did not disgust her.

His smile died stillborn. Needs were one thing. She hadn't yet learned the rest of his curse.

He looked down at their joined hands, noting that he'd automatically twined his fingers through hers.

He tightened his grip, as if that could keep her by his side after he revealed the complete truth.

With her free hand, she brushed the hair off his forehead and caressed his cheek, tipping his face to look at her.

"There's something else, isn't there?"

"Yes." He led her back to the chair, then took his turn pacing. There was no easy way to say this, but he was determined that she hear nothing but the truth from him. "My father seduced the daughter of a Voodoo priestess, and in revenge the old woman laid a curse upon him and all of his future descendants.

They would live forever surrounded by death, sharing the last hideous moments of those they loved as they died in agony."

He ran a hand over his face, appalled to discover he was trembling. The memories...

"That's how I learned of my telepathic skills. I felt the bayonet pierce Etienne's lung and his bubbling struggle for breath. I felt the bullet shatter Jean-Michel's leg, and the amputation fever that burned his life away. I was with my mother when she learned of their deaths and stepped blindly into traffic, and felt the horses' hooves that trampled her. I felt every blow of the drunken gamblers that beat Roderick to death.

I choked and sweated with my sister as she succ.u.mbed to Cholera. I dared to hope that the curse had run its course, that I had gained enough control to defeat it, but I felt every moment of Olivia's pain and frustration as she wasted away."

Desmond closed his eyes, unwilling to see the expression on Rebecca's face as he told her, "I will not cause your death."

The gentle touch of her hand on his arm startled him. He turned to find her smiling sadly at him.

"The members of your family died tragically, but you didn't cause those deaths. You didn't hold the bayonet or drive the coach."

"But I killed Olivia."

"What do you mean, you killed her? I thought you said she had a hereditary form of cancer. Or did she request euthanasia?"

"She had cancer."

"Then how did you kill her?" Rebecca was staring at him, clearly not comprehending what he was trying to say. He sighed, wishing she would just take his word, and not make him relive the pain. But she wouldn't give up until she understood everything about his curse. "Doctor Chen explained to you about Gillian's unique blood chemistry?"

"She has both the regular leukocytes and something he called neukocytes."

"Yes." Desmond shoved his hands into his pockets and paced back and forth in front of the desk. "In normal humans, the leukocytes are part of the immune system that identifies foreign bodies in the blood stream, and marks them for destruction. Another function of the same system is to identify cells that have been damaged beyond repair, and mark them for destruction, as well. When the number of damaged cells being destroyed outpaces the number of new cells being created, you see the affects of age."

"Since you obviously haven't aged, that can't be how it works for you," she interrupted him.

"You're right. The neukocytes do more than just identify foreign bodies in the blood stream. They convert them, so they are no longer foreign. If the conversion succeeds, the bloodstream carries them to where new cells are needed. If the conversion fails, the leukocytes mark them as unhealthy and they are destroyed." He raised his hand, forestalling her next interruption. "If a normal human being is infected with my cursed blood, the neukocytes begin their work in a new host. They begin trying to transform the blood cells they encounter. If the person's own immune system is functioning correctly, the neukocytes will be destroyed before they can cause much damage. But if they take hold..."

He shut his eyes, seeing a memory of Olivia, wasted by her disease, needing his help to hold Gillian in her arms. He couldn't let that happen to Rebecca.

"So we'll practice safe s.e.x," Rebecca said. "I don't see what the problem is."

"Don't you?" He leaned forward, bracing his hands on the desk top. "What about Las Vegas?"

She shrunk back into the chair. "Las Vegas?"

"Yes. Rebecca, you are a telepath." He cut off her protests before they were fully formed. "While we were making love, you tapped into my thoughts. My desires. For blood."

He saw understanding dawning in her eyes, and a growing horror spread across her face.

"Yes. You understand now. When your mental powers remained dormant, I could shield my thoughts and contain my blood l.u.s.t. But now, the risk is too great that you will be overcome by the desires I've struggled for years to subdue. If that happens, and you drink my blood...."

He couldn't bring himself to finish the sentence, fearing that saying the words might give them the power to come true.

"What if it's already too late?" She raised her fingers to her lips, as if she could feel the blood on them even now. He seized on the change of subject with relief.

"We would know by now. The first sign of infection is a raging fever, a few hours after contamination.

You worried me when you pa.s.sed out in the car on the trip home, but it wasn't a fever, just exhaustion."

Tilting her head to the side, she studied him in silence. He knew that look. She was fitting together facts, building a story. Any moment now, she'd test her theory by asking him a question. And he was sure it would be a question he didn't want to answer. It was.

"Are you speaking from experience?"

"Yes." He tried to wait her out, but she just kept looking at him. Staring at him with those big gray eyes, as if she expected literal pearls of wisdom to fall from his lips at any moment, and didn't want to miss any of them. He couldn't resist her, no matter how painful the memories were that she called up. It was something she needed to know, anyway.

Taking a deep breath, he explained. "When Gillian's condition was first diagnosed, we attempted a blood transfusion. We didn't know about the neukocytes then. It nearly killed her."

Rebecca reached out and stroked Desmond's cheek in a rea.s.suring caress. He smiled, leaning into her touch.

"That must have been awful for you," she said.

"Yes." He closed his eyes, luxuriating in the silken feel of her palm and the whisper of her fingertips.

She hadn't meant to upset him, only to understand what she was up against.

He jerked away from her, throwing up his mental barriers. Touching her mind had been an instinctive response to the intimate discussion and comforting gesture. But it proved that they must avoid any sort of physical relationship, not just making love.

He stood up and poured himself a mug full of water as an excuse to get away from her. Glancing overhis shoulder, he saw her standing in her head-tilted "thinking" pose. He waited for her next question.

She folded her arms, and fixed him with a look of stern resolve. "You didn't know the dangers then.

Now you do. I don't see why we can't just be careful."

She still didn't understand the seriousness of their situation.

"I can only guarantee your safety if we refrain from physical contact.All physical contact."

She frowned. "I touched your cheek not five minutes ago, and nothing disastrous happened. Don't you think you're overreacting? Just a little?"

"You weren't using your mental powers at the time. If you had been, who knows what might have happened."

"Why can't you just use this mental shielding you've spoken of before to keep my thoughts away from yours?"

"Because a shield like that takes conscious control." He shook his head, wishing she'd understand this and make the denial easier for him. "Rebecca, despite my curse, I'm still just a man. I don't have that kind of control. When I hold you, when I touch you, G.o.d, even when I justthink about holding you or touching you..." He wrenched his thoughts away from images of the two of them tangled in pa.s.sion.

She stepped away from him, linking her hands behind her back to prevent herself from offering any unwanted gestures of compa.s.sion.

"That's it then. A platonic relationship."

"At least until you can control your gifts enough to provide some shielding for your thoughts."

"How long will that take?"

He hated her desperate, pleading expression. Even worse, he hated destroying the slim thread of hope he'd just handed her. "To be able to control my thoughts even during moments of extreme mental or physical stress, took me thirty-five years."

"You expect me to wait until I'm more than sixty years old before I touch you again? No. There's got to be another way."

Chapter 18.

REBECCA WRACKED her brain for a solution on the silent walk back to the apartment. Desmond hovered beside her, jumping away with a guilty start whenever he brushed against her. It was clear to her that he was fooling himself if he thought he'd be able to stay away from her.

No, they'd make love again. Probably sometime soon. Despite their best intentions, the magnetism that drew them together was too primal to overcome with rational arguments. If they were anywhere near each other, they'd come together. They wouldn't be able to help it. She needed to find a way to live through the experience before it happened.

She imagined dying in the agony he'd described, and shivered.

"Cold?" he asked.

"A little." She rubbed her arms, even though the chill that permeated her came from within.

Desmond took off his jacket and draped it around her shoulders, careful to avoid touching her.

"Better?"

She snuggled into the raw silk, still heated with his warmth. It was almost like a caress, and she could imagine the sleeves that held her so securely were really his arms. The warmth behind her was really his body, pressed close to hers.

"Rebecca-" Desmond's voice vibrated, just short of a groan.

"What?" She stopped walking and glared at the flesh and blood man beside her, annoyed that he interrupted her pleasant fantasy with harsh reality.

"You were projecting." He took a deep breath and motioned her forward, falling into step beside her.

"If you're going to control your powers, you have to learn to control two things. The first are your mental shields, which keep other people's thoughts from getting in. You've naturally developed strong ones, but when you concentrate on people, you instinctively lower them. That's one of the things that makes you such a good reporter, but in this case, you can't afford to do that. The other thing you need to control isprojection, or sending your thoughts out to other people. If your thoughts are as explicit as yours just were, they could get you in a lot of trouble."