Warm hands framed her face, and she concentrated on them instead of the darkness. Strong fingers spread across her cheek bones. Firm palms cradled her chin.

"Rebecca. Listen to me. I'm taking you above ground."

Above ground. Outside. She took a deep breath. The darkness clouding her vision receded, and she focused on Desmond's handsome face inches away from her own.

"Where?" she croaked.

"There's an empty bedroom on the top floor of one of the buildings. It's a perfect solution."

A perfect solution, all right. She could climb down from a second story window, no problem. It was too good to be true.

"What's the catch?"

"The room belonged to my late wife. It's right next to mine."

Chapter 4.

SILENTLY, DESMOND lifted Rebecca's suitcase and led her into the main hallway. He didn't have to giver her Olivia's room. There was a couch in the false office used for deliveries. He could make that into a bed for her, and ask Evan to stand guard to make sure she didn't try any unsupervised exploration.

But that wouldn't be fair. Not to Evan, and not to Rebecca. Desmond had put this fiasco in motion so it was up to him to clean up the rubble. And keep Rebecca from creating any more.

He stalked through the main corridor toward the first of the turns leading to the residential section. Her heels clattered on the floor behind him as she struggled to match his pace, and he slowed his steps until the rhythm of her walk steadied.

Leading the bizarre parade of two through the deserted hallways, he took a moment to reflect on his actions. He'd mishandled her, making things worse than they'd had to be. He should have explained Gillian's condition to Rebecca when Dr. Chen first hinted at a match, or as soon as the doctor returned with confirmation, not waited until Rebecca tried to leave. But he'd started hiding personal information about himself so long ago, the habit was deeply entrenched.

Perhaps he could have offered to make her a guest in his home originally, but he'd feared what she might learn. What she might still learn. Wrong decision or not, he'd committed himself to this line of action. He had to see it through.

He realized the clatter of her footsteps had stopped, and turned to see what was wrong. Rebecca stood in the center of the wide blue hallway, her lungs filling with deep, slow breaths. A beatific smile lit her features, and she practically glowed with a contentment that radiated from her in waves. A rush of desire slammed into him with such force, he took a step back.

Her relaxed, almost somnolent expression, following her tightly-wound tension of the last few minutes, reminded him of the release of making love. He felt a sudden longing to be responsible for her glazed, happy look. "We're almost there."

Abruptly, her eyes turned cold. Tightening her lips, she swept her gaze across him as though he didn't exist. Then she marched past with her chin in the air.

Her rejection hit him like a slap on the face. He obviously hadn't learned his lesson from her earlier dismissal. At least this time she hadn't lashed out with hatred and revulsion. He stretched his pace to catch up to her. It would be a relief to put an end to this interminable day.

They entered the miniature park that marked the intersection of hallways, with its red tipped palms and bushy ferns surrounding an antique bench of wood slats and wrought iron. He reached out and touched her arm.

"Turn here."

She hesitated only a moment before spotting the path between the ferns. Her steps sped up as she spied the red emergency escape door at the end of the corridor, and Desmond had to hurry to block her hand from the push-bar.

"You'll have sirens going off all over."

She lowered her hand, but as soon as he tripped the lock with his keycard, she pushed open the door, shoving past him into the stairwell and sprinting up the stairs. He didn't want to frighten her, but he couldn't let her get away. Burdened by her suitcase, he ran up the stairs after her.

They pounded up the two flights of terrazzo stairs. By the time they emerged into the narrow hallway of the farmhouse, he was just behind her. She ran down the hall to the left, ignoring the wooden staircase continuing up on her right. The spill of moonlight through the plate gla.s.s windows sprinkled her with silver sparks, but he could not slow to appreciate the sight. The red metal door at the end of the hall gave directly onto the desert. He could only hope that the orange plastic safety strip, designed to snap under continuous pressure, would delay her the tenth of a second he needed to catch up. Chasing her around the Inst.i.tute was bad enough. He didn't want to be running all over the desert after her.

She slammed into the push-bar. The safety strip stretched then popped open, but the door did not.

Lunging past her, he grabbed the bar and held the door shut.

"No!"

She pounded her fists against the unyielding door, sending aftershocks rippling up his arm to echo her frustrations beating against his mind. Then she pressed her forehead against the door and took a long, shuddering breath. He thought he heard her sniff.

"Rebecca?" he asked gently. When she didn't respond, he wrapped his hand around her left fist and pulled it away from the door.

She spun around and punched his jaw. The sudden explosion of anger drove him back a step, but he tightened his hold on her other hand.

He dropped the suitcase, leaving one hand free to block whatever she might try next. They stared at each other in taut silence.

"Let me go, d.a.m.n you." Rebecca whispered.

He shook his head. "Not until the tests are done."

Bernice's doubt haunted him again. He hadn't forced Rebecca to help, hadn't forced her to give her blood or her bone marrow for Gillian's cure. No. He hadn't broken his vow, because she had agreed willingly.

He straightened his shoulders and fixed her with a cold stare. "You gave your word."

She studied the floor at his feet, idly shaking out the hand she'd hit him with. When she looked up, her eyes and voice were soft and uncertain.

"I promised to help your daughter," she whispered. "But you were using some kind of influence over me when I did."

He breathed deeply, struggling to control the images a.s.sailing him. A dark-haired, pinched looking woman. A black marble wall filled with neatly lettered names. The emotional importance of Rebecca's scattered surface thoughts punched through his light shielding.

Before he could strengthen his guard, stroboscopic memories of their argument in the guest suite spun past him. In her memory, Desmond was larger, darker, and more ominously looming than in reality. Evenbefore she'd realized she was underground, he'd terrified the poor woman. An image of a dark cave, familiar from her earlier panic attacks, engulfed her other thoughts.

Desmond snapped up his shields, breaking their contact. Then, hoping he appeared friendly and non-threatening, he said gently, "Dr. Chen will only need your help for three days. After that, you'll be free to go, with my thanks."

She tilted her head and studied him. "Three days? That's what I agreed to?"

"Yes."

"But I've already been here for one. So I'll only be here for two more days." Her bold gray gaze challenged him to deny her, to admit he was lying or changing the rules.

He waited until she looked him square in the eyes, then p.r.o.nounced each word with crystal clear precision. "Three days of helping Dr. Chen. You haven't begun to help him yet."

"Why does he even need my help? Can't I just donate enough blood for him to do the tests?"

"You already promised you would help him."

Either his expression or his tone convinced her not to argue any further. Instead, she leaned down and picked up the suitcase.

"Three days," she agreed. "Then I'm out of here."

Desmond turned, leading the way back down the hall, past a door she'd overlooked in her rush for freedom. If she ran now, she'd be out the door before he could catch her.

Shaking her head, she trudged after him. She'd be running across the desert in dress pumps, carrying a suitcase. How long would it take for him to catch her? No, let him think she'd resigned herself to being his "guest." If he was telling the truth, she'd be leaving in three days. And if he wasn't, he wouldn't be expecting her to try to escape again.

They climbed a wooden staircase at the end of the hall. The second floor hallway echoed the first floor, even to the placement of a keycard-locked door opposite plate gla.s.s windows. Rebecca glanced out at the black desert and scattering of stars in the sky. She couldn't even see the road. She'd made the right decision, not to run.

Desmond touched her arm, pulling her attention from the view. "My daughter is asleep. Please be quiet."

"You mean no one is watching her? You left her alone?"

He shrugged. "I didn't expect to be gone for an hour. And she's not unattended. My housekeeper is with her."

"I'll be quiet." Just because she was angry at Desmond, that was no reason to take it out on his daughter, especially if the girl was as sick as he claimed.

He unlocked the door with his keycard and guided Rebecca into a large living room, dimly visible by the moonlight streaming through the doorway. He touched a dimmer switch beside the door, bringing up the track lighting that encircled the room. Light reflected off the bright white ceiling to bathe the room in a soft glow, drawing her attention to the supple white leather couch reigning over the gleaming wooden floor, and the middle-aged woman dozing on it.

The woman snapped awake as the light struck her face.

"Mr. Lacroix, you were gone so long-" She spotted Rebecca, and her expression turned icy. "Who's this?"

"Rebecca, this is Mrs. Waters. Mrs. Waters, meet Rebecca Morgan." Desmond whispered. "More thorough introductions can wait until the morning."

"Of course," Mrs. Waters answered, gathering her things. "We don't want to disturb Gillian."

While the two of them talked, Rebecca studied the room. A smaller love seat and gla.s.s topped coffee table completed the minimal furnishings. Three doors, normal doors without those stupid keycard scanners, lined each of the walls on her left and right. Another door in the far wall mirrored the position of the front door. Every detail precise, coordinated and controlled, typical of the man beside her.

After Mrs. Waters left, he led Rebecca across the living room and through the far left-hand door into a bedroom. The simple Shaker-style furniture in an apple-green finish seemed strangely innocuous. She'd expected the bedroom of a dead woman to be furnished in heavy, dark wood, like the setting of a gothicthriller. This reminder of normalcy heartened her.

She tossed the suitcase onto the bed, where it settled into the thick, ivy-patterned comforter with a soft thwump.

"The bathroom's there." He pointed to the door she'd thought was a closet. "The front door's alarmed, so don't try sneaking out. I don't want you disturbing my daughter."

He started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and I suggest you leave the light on. The windows are electronically polarized, and activated by external light. When you wake up, they'll be completely black."

He closed the door before she could ask him why. Conditioned by recent events, she immediately ran over and made sure she could open the door. She opened and closed it three times before she trusted it to stay unlocked.

She set the suitcase on top of the dresser, unzipped it, and dug through her clothes until she found her cosmetic case. Her camera was still inside. He hadn't searched the contents of her luggage at all.

Rebecca let out a deep breath.

Three days. She didn't like it. She'd still rather leave right away. But now that she was above ground and the end was in sight, she'd be able to survive. She had three days to find out exactly what was going on around here. The Inst.i.tute conducted real research. Desmond had convinced her of that. But his methods and his motives remained obscure. And suspect.

Desmond's effect on her went beyond the normal reaction to a heart-stoppingly handsome man. There was something darker, more sinister. How had he manipulated her original agreement? She'd uncover his secret. Even if she never used the information, she had to know. For her own safety.

She picked up her night shirt and walked into the green-tiled bathroom, careful to find the light switch before closing the door. She intended to search everywhere for clues.

A second door opposite the one she'd just come through called for immediate attention. If the room beyond was unoccupied, she could examine it now. She pressed her ear to the wooden door. No sounds reverberated from the other side.

Ignoring the bathroom for the moment, she eased open the door. Another bedroom. This one done in black and dark green Art Deco style furniture. A shiver rolled down her spine.

Desmond's room, the one he'd said was next to the room she'd be staying in. She pictured him in that big bed, covered only by the satin comforter the same glossy black as his hair and cushioned by a pillow the same brilliant green as his eyes. Maybe she should have run after all.

Rebecca retreated back into the bathroom and closed the door. His bedroom would be the best source of clues about Desmond, but she didn't want to risk being discovered while she searched.

Especially not at night. Bedrooms became more than just another room at night, with starlight glittering on the black satin. She remembered the feel of his arm around her when she'd woken from her shock.

Warm. Possessive.

It must be the aftereffects of shock and the adrenaline of her escape wearing off that made her tremble.

She ran cold water into the sink and splashed her face until she felt normal. Then she examined the bathroom. It was fitted out with a pale green fibergla.s.s shower/tub enclosure. The lower walls and floor were tiled in the same pale green, with a row of darker green tiles at waist height. The upper walls were a pattern of alternating dark and light tiles. Was green Desmond's favorite color? Or had it been his wife's?

A man's electric razor sat on the dark green vanity counter, along with a bottle of after-shave. She hesitated, her fingers on the cold gla.s.s of the medicine cabinet. If she could possibly learn anything, she had to look. She opened the medicine cabinet.

It was empty, except for a rose-patterned plastic cup upended on the bottom shelf. Obeying her instincts, she took it down, and a brown plastic prescription bottle fell out. She picked it up. The bottle was empty. Why would someone keep an empty medicine bottle?

The prescription was for Dr. Olivia Lacroix. Rebecca blinked. A doctor. Desmond had been married to a doctor. She read the rest of the prescription, making a mental note of the drug's name to look up later. Dated three years ago, the medicine could be taken up to eight times a day "as needed for pain."

Eight times? She placed the bottle and cup back where she'd found them, and closed the cabinet. In a daze, she changed into her night shirt and went back to her room. She tossed her ruined suit onto the simple wooden chair beside the window. No wonder Desmond was so determined not to see his daughter go through the same suffering. Was it the same sort of insidious disease that had taken Rebecca's father? She'd been told he lingered for months in the hospital, not dead but not truly alive.

When the monitor finally flatlined, it had been a relief to all concerned. Except Rebecca. He hadn't lingered quite long enough for her to find him.

She forced her attention to the present, and searched her bedroom for clues. The dresser drawers and closet had been emptied. Even the night stand drawer was bare. She slid the drawer closed, and heard the faint crinkle of paper.

She pulled the drawer out, lifting it off its track, then reached inside the cabinet and felt around the dry wood. Her fingers brushed across a piece of paper crushed against the back, and she pried it loose.

Smoothing the piece of flowered stationery against her leg, she noticed the many cross-outs and revisions. Olivia must have been drafting a letter, and had put it away in the night stand. She'd never gone back for it.

Feeling a bit like a voyeur, Rebecca read the text. Or tried to. Olivia wrote as incomprehensibly as most doctors.

My darling, You probably think I'm a fool, blinded by love. At first I was. Not anymore. But how could I speak of what was kept silent for so long? Now that it's too late- Olivia had scratched out four attempts to finish the sentence. Rebecca couldn't decipher any of them, and her tired mind spun fancies as romantic as the Victorian roses on Olivia's stationery. It sounded like an apology of some sort. But for what?

Rebecca sighed. Desmond no longer seemed quite so sinister. Only sad and rather tragic. She forced her sympathy aside. Things happened in everyone's lives. That didn't give them the right to interfere in other people's lives. Past injuries were no justification for present transgressions.

She looked out the plate gla.s.s window. It couldn't be opened. A false sash was glued to the outside, so it appeared to be a normal window. But the illusion failed on this side. The inch thick gla.s.s was already murky and difficult to see through. The sky was graying in the east, stars fading as dawn approached. The sun wouldn't rise for a few more hours, but the night was over.

She crawled under the crisp cotton sheets printed with sprigs of ivy. The pillows smelled of rain fresh fabric softener. It was a rea.s.suringly normal smell, and she felt the tension draining out of her. But she left the light on.

REBECCA YAWNED and stretched. She'd been so tired, and Desmond had insisted on waking her every hour. He must have finally decided she didn't have a concussion and let her sleep.

She fumbled for her watch. Ten o'clock. She tossed off her covers and padded across to the window.

The gla.s.s had turned completely opaque. Not the slightest glimmer of light leaked through. She didn't want to admit it, but she was glad Desmond had warned her.

She dressed and opened the bedroom door. A soft glow filtered off the bright white ceiling of the living room, and she realized the room had been designed without windows. The distinctive buzz-click of the keycard lock drew her attention to the front door. She hurried toward it.

"Des?" a man's voice called. A brown-haired man in a black leather jacket pushed open the door and stepped inside.