"Gillian's asleep," Desmond whispered. "We'll talk in my study."

He ushered his half-brother inside, taking a seat in the leather wing-back chair opposite him. Philippe tossed the suitcase onto the floor, the soft-sided luggage making only a m.u.f.fled thump against the wood parquet.

"Evan reconnected the battery, and drove the reporter's car out into one of the canyons. No one can spot it from the air, but we'll be able to get it easily enough when it's time for her to leave." Philippe madea show of taking off his sungla.s.ses, folding them and putting them away. He snuck a sidelong look at Desmond during the process. "Whenever that is."

Desmond looked away. Replacing the book he'd tried to read earlier, he studied his collection of Jules Verne first editions in the original French. Sometimes it seemed he and his half-brother spoke completely different languages, for all that they both used English now. How could he describe the dream that burned within him, when Philippe knew nothing of love? And if a spark of hope had ever shone in his heart, Philippe had doused it decades ago. He would never understand. Still, he deserved to be told something.

Desmond turned back to him with a sigh.

"Dr. Chen says Rebecca might have the right blood chemistry to be a donor for Gillian. I'm keeping her here until he can determine that for sure."

"And then what? She's a threat. And every day she stays here, she's more of a danger. Get rid of her now, before it's too late."

"I didn't expect you to understand. But you can't ask me to give up without even trying."

"You have done nothing but try. And you are no closer to a cure than when she was born." Philippe spoke in a patient, reasonable voice that hovered dangerously close to condescending. "Enjoy the time you have left with her. Don't waste it on fruitless dreams."

"We'll find a cure!" Desmond got up and started pacing the room. Theywere closer to a cure. When Gillian had been born, no one even knew what was wrong with her. The hybrid disease, combining his cursed blood and her mother's hereditary leukemia, flew in the face of established medical knowledge.

As an infant, her violent rejection of her first bone marrow transplant had nearly killed her. She'd stayed in the intensive care unit for over a month.

Dr. Chen linked her reaction to an unusual antigen in her blood, one shared by Desmond and Philippe.

When she'd grown older, and stronger, Desmond had acted as the donor for her next transplant. She hadn't rejected his bone marrow. Instead, she'd transformed it into cancerous cells, accelerating her disease's hold. They hadn't dared to risk another operation.

But Rebecca shared the antigen. And she had a normal metabolism. Desmond couldn't waste the opportunity.

"You risk everything for an impossibility," Philippe insisted.

"And I would risk more if I could! Gillian's life is at stake." Desmond narrowed his eyes, a horrible suspicion taking root. "Unless the risk is an excuse. You don't want her to live."

Philippe sucked in his breath. "Des-"

"I can't lose Gillian. I won't lose her."

Philippe unfolded his mirror shades and stood. Desmond made no move to stop him. The sooner Philippe was out of his home, the better. But Philippe wasn't done. "You know the terms of the curse.

You love her. Therefore, she'll die."

"But she doesn't have to die now!"

"Toujours le maudit enfant gate!" Philippe's eyes blazed dark fires. He clenched his fists, shattering the sungla.s.ses. "Nothing ever changes. You want it all your way. But not this time."

Philippe threw the ruined lenses into the trash and stalked out.

Sinking into his chair, Desmond stared at the shattered plastic in the trash. He wasnot a spoiled child.

Because of his curse, he would watch Gillian die. The alternative, that she would live a cursed life like his, was too horrible to contemplate. He didn't question the fact, just the timing. He wanted her to live before she died.

He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. The stress was getting to him. Desmond was so afraid of losing his daughter, he was in danger of losing his only real friend.

It was his own fault. Philippe would never understand. How could he, when he'd been raised by a grandmother who regularly beat him for no reason, insisting, "Don't you love me, boy."

Still, Philippe did have a point. A small one. Desmond had to look past Dr. Chen's research and Gillian's potential cure. What would happen when Rebecca left? They couldn't afford for her to share the details of the work being done here. Someone might guess the truth.

His gaze crossed the suitcase, lying on its side by his desk. It was probably too late for him to talk toher tonight, but he should still deliver her suitcase. She'd want clean clothes in the morning. He'd just get someone to watch Gillian, and then he'd go over to Rebecca's suite. Maybe, if he was lucky, she'd be awake.

REBECCA'S WATCH alarm woke her from an uneasy sleep at one in the morning. She opened her eyes to the rea.s.suring glow of the overhead light. Time to make her escape. Now, before she had a chance to think about where she was, or what she planned to do.

She crept out of bed and pulled on her clothes. After this adventure, she'd have to consign her suit to the rag bag. It hadn't been designed for middle-of-the-night escape attempts, but it would have to do, since she wasn't about to run around in a slip and bare feet.

In the darkened main room of her suite, red and blue light filtered through the room's stained gla.s.s window. Her heart beat faster. There was barely enough light to keep her from tripping over the wicker furniture as she tiptoed to the entry. Holding her breath, she pressed her ear against the door and listened. Nothing. The Inst.i.tute slept.

She jammed a terry cloth towel into the crack beneath the door, so no one would see her lights on and come to investigate. Then she flipped the wall switch and bathed the room in heavenly brightness.

She paused to take a shaky breath, before she lifted the cover off of the VCR. Her makeshift tools were hidden inside: a simple screwdriver that was no more than a straight piece of metal, four thin sc.r.a.ps of metal wrapped with wire that could act as clamps, a long cable with bare wire showing at the ends, and a hunk of the VCR's motor to use as a hammer, doorstop or last-ditch weapon. She took out the screwdriver and wrapped the rest in a hand towel.

Now, time to open up the keycard scanner. She fitted her makeshift screwdriver into the notch on the first screw and twisted. Then listened. No alarms sounded, so she continued turning. One screw came free. The second screw came free. Wait, was that a sound?

She pressed her ear to the door, not daring to breathe. Nothing. Could she hear anything, even if there was something to hear? Dismissing the unproductive worry, she returned to work. The third and fourth screws gave easily, but the cover didn't move. Why hadn't it fallen off the wall? She had to get it off, or her plan wouldn't work.

Running her fingers around the edge of the cover plate, she squeezed the metal. A concealed latch popped free, and the plate hinged down. She twisted it and popped the other latch.

The cover was off. She set it on the floor and smiled. Step one accomplished.

She opened the towel and picked up the cable and one of the clamps. Twining the cable wire with the wire on the clamp, she secured them to each other. Then she wedged the clamp into the heart of the wires and computer chips behind the scanner. She secured another clamp to the other end of the cable.

Now for the tricky part.

Holding the cable as close to the end as she could without actually touching the clamp, she stretched it toward the electrical outlet. If she was right, the plastic sheath covering the cable would protect her from shock.

The clamp connected with the electrical outlet and slid inside, then all h.e.l.l broke loose. She dropped the cable and covered her head as electricity arced and crackled through the scanner, blue-green sparks leaping from contact point to contact point. A high-pitched whine filled her ears, only to be drowned out by a flurry of popping. With a final snap that spit hot shards of metal onto her arms, the cable fell free and writhed about the floor.

She grabbed it and yanked. The cable pulled from the socket and went limp in her hand. Shaking, she dropped it on the floor. That was close. Too close.

Wiping the sweat off of her forehead, she looked at the results of her efforts. The scanner had melted into slag, with bits of charred green plastic and tangled wires poking out at all angles. The stench reminded her of a car fire she'd once covered. But had her plan worked? Was the lock disabled? Only one way to find out. She twisted the doork.n.o.b and pulled.

The door swung open.

She gathered up her tools and hurried into the corridor. Recessed emergency lighting tinged thehallway yellow. There. To her left. The corridor turned, and then...yes! The door was just where she remembered it.

She hurried to the door and peered out at the main aisle through the webbed security gla.s.s. Empty.

No one was running to investigate the noise or the power failure. As soon as she blew this scanner, she'd be home free. She pulled out her screwdriver and got to work. The four screws came free, and she snapped open both hidden latches. She picked up the cable and looked around for an outlet.

Nothing. No light switches, no electrical outlets, no heating grates. Just blank, smooth walls. Where was she supposed to get the electricity to short out the scanner?

She'd come too far to give up now. The scanner had wires. Some of those wires had live current running through them. If she found two that were live, and crossed them, that should short out the system.

But she had no rubber gloves, no coated tools. She didn't even have that stupid plastic toothpick from her pocket knife. It was back in the rental car with anything else even remotely useful.

No point feeling sorry for herself. Thieves managed to hot-wire cars all the time without electrocuting themselves. She'd probably just get a little zap, like touching metal on a cold, dry day.

She studied the wires. They were color coded, but what did the different colors mean? She should have paid attention in her junior high shop cla.s.s. Red usually meant danger. So that probably had current running through it. Green? Green meant something was safe, right? But what about white and yellow?

She'd just have to pick one. Well, she'd never liked yellow.

She reached in and detached the red wire, careful to touch only the plastic coating. Now, touch the bare end to- DESMOND SLID his keycard through the scanner, but it didn't register. He slid it through again.

Still nothing. Frowning, he sliced the keycard through the scanner a third time. It didn't open, but it also didn't set off the alarm after three failures like it should. He tried the door. It wasn't locked.

He peered through the door gla.s.s into the shadowy corridor beyond. A body lay crumpled against the far wall, still and unmoving.

"No!"

Throwing down Rebecca's suitcase, he shoved open the door and charged into the hall. The smells of charged ozone and melted plastic filled the air. His heart kickstarted into a rapid beat. What had she done?

Rebecca sprawled against the wall like a carelessly discarded doll. He knelt by her side, fumbling for a pulse.

A heartbeat. And another one. Faint, but regular. She was alive.

Closing his eyes, he exhaled the breath he hadn't known he was holding. She was going to live. But was she injured? He couldn't tell. His knowledge was limited to battle field first aid and the skills needed to cope with Gillian's illness. But he didn't dare leave Rebecca's side to fetch someone who could make that diagnosis. He lifted her hand and held it, willing her to be well.

"Come on, Rebecca. You can make it. You're too d.a.m.n stubborn to quit now."

Had she really been so desperate to get out that she was willing to risk her life? He remembered her reaction to being accidentally locked in the lab, but he'd thought the suite would be big enough not to trigger a claustrophobia attack. Too late, he realized her anger toward her car might have been covering her fear at being underground in the parking garage. He hadn't meant to torture her. He couldn't do anything right tonight.

He coughed, trying to clear the catch in his throat. Rebecca had to be okay. She still had to help Gillian.

He tried to brush her soft chestnut hair away from her face, but it wouldn't stay down. It clung to his hand as if it had a mind of its own. Or was full of static electricity. He glanced at the nonfunctioning keycard scanner. Dangling wires and homemade tools bore mute testament to what she had tried to do, and what had happened instead.

His grip tightened on her hand, and he bowed his head.

"Please be all right. Please don't die." She moaned softly, and the pressure in his chest eased.

"Rebecca? Can you hear me?"

Grudging admiration for her ingenuity warred with guilt that he had driven her to such extremes. From now on, he would take better care of his reluctant guest.

Her eyelids fluttered and she moaned. She was coming around.

Rebecca blinked her eyes. She had a headache the size of the Grand Canyon, her thoughts echoing off the walls of her mind until they almost deafened her. And someone had wrapped the world in cotton gauze while she wasn't looking. Everything was blurry and out of focus.

"Rebecca?" A man's voice caressed her name, the sweet syllables melting in his mouth as if they'd been dipped in chocolate.

If she didn't already feel weak in the knees, that voice would do it to her. Actually, she felt weak everywhere. Was she sick? She didn't remember being sick. She remembered needing to do something important. What had it been?

"Rebecca, can you hear me?"

She turned her head, slowly, toward the voice. Wow! She blinked a few times, but the image before her didn't change. Dark green eyes, the color of pine needles, watched her with concern, beneath a crown of thick black hair that begged to have her fingers running through it.

And he held her hand. His touch radiated warmth, like an electric blanket on a winter morning. But why was he holding her hand? Did she know him? Were they friends? Lovers? She glanced at his hand.

A wedding ring. She looked at her own hand. No. He was married, but not to her. What a shame.

"How are you feeling?" His green eyes shone intently in his pale face. She'd frightened him, and wished she knew why.

"I'm okay. What happened?"

He smiled, like the sun coming out on a cloudy day. Her stomach flip-flopped, as if the flock of b.u.t.terflies inhabiting it had all suddenly stopped and changed direction. His smile hinted at wonders she desperately longed to know.

Maybe she was having an affair with him. Was she the sort of person who had affairs with married men?

She frowned. She knew what affairs were. Shouldn't she know if she was having one?

"You got a little bit of a shock," he told her, reaching out to tuck a strand of hair behind her ear. "You may be confused for a while. Can you stand up? Does anything feel broken or sprained?"

She struggled to her feet, then swayed as the world dipped and pitched around her. His arm wrapped around her, strong and secure. She leaned against him, absorbing his strength and warmth.

"Are you ready to move?" His breath stirred her hair. She felt his words reverberating in his chest, through their connection and into her very bones. They even seemed to echo inside her head.

"I don't ever want to move."

He chuckled, the deep sound reminding her of rich, dark chocolate. She wanted to turn around and press close against him, let his warmth drive into her and burn her uncertainties away. She couldn't feel this connected to someone unless they'd been intimately related in the past, could she? Oh, why didn't she know?

"We're going to be standing in the hall all night, then. I can't carry both you and your luggage."

The heavy fire door was crushing an ugly rose-tapestry suitcase against the door frame. She remembered buying the case for 60% off at a remainders sale, but not why it was here. "Are we in a hotel?"

But why were the lights such a dim yellow? Power failure? She shivered. Losing the lights would be disastrous, although she couldn't remember why.

"Shh. It's all right." The man's arm tightened around her shoulder, warming her, and he rubbed her upper arm in a rea.s.suring caress. She tilted her head and smiled at him. He'd protect her. Whoever he was.

They started walking down the hall, one small step at a time. What was his name? She could feel it floating near the edge of her memory, but it skittered away whenever she reached for it. D-something.David? No. Derek? No. Devon? Close. Very close. It was...Desmond! His name was Desmond!

Desmond Lacroix. He was the director of....

She stopped. He'd kidnapped her. How could she have forgotten? She'd been trying to escape, and must have short circuited herself instead of the scanner.

He halted beside her, concern darkening his features. Then his face became an emotionless mask and he lifted his arm from her shoulder. "Your memory's returned."

"Yes." She tried to put all of her hate and loathing in the word. It must have worked, because he took a step back.

"Rebecca, I'm sorry. But you said you were claustrophobic. That's why I gave you one of the biggest suites. I didn't realize you would get so upset merely at being underground."

Memories overwhelmed her. She was trapped underground, unable to escape. What happened to the light? She needed light.

She struggled to breathe. The liquid darkness swept over her, drowning her. She was going to die, alone in the dark. Far off in the distance, she heard a voice, but couldn't make out the words.