BY THE END of the afternoon, Rebecca had her story. Using a combination of fawning interest and indirect questioning, she'd weaseled a wealth of information out of the brilliant but naive Dr. Chen. She'd get an official confirmation, or official "no comment," before she submitted it, but she had all the facts she needed.

Chen and his colleagues had discovered a new kind of white blood cell that revolutionized the way the body's immune system worked. A better understanding of the mechanics of this cell might be the breakthrough needed in the fight against AIDS and previously incurable cancers.

This scoop would be her ticket to the big time. She couldn't wait to write it up.

Evan returned for Rebecca at six o'clock, and she rushed him out of the lab before Dr. Chen had a chance to let slip how much he'd told her. Fortunately, Evan was his usual brusque and untalkative self as he led her back to Desmond's apartment. She didn't want to be distracted before she could write everything down.

Evan knocked on Desmond's door, interrupting a medley of shouts and laughter inside. Desmond answered the door after a minute, his daughter giggling and kicking as he held her upside down in one arm.

Gillian wriggled loose, and he grabbed her before she could fall. She laughed as he set her down.

"Do it again, Daddy. Do it again."

"Not now, sweetheart. Play time is over. We've got company."

Gillian stopped fidgeting and peeked around her father's leg at them. Rebecca didn't know whether or not to be insulted when Gillian ignored her and Evan, and lifted her arms to Desmond.

"Up, Daddy. I want up."

He picked her up and tried to introduce her to Rebecca, but she was more interested in flipping his collar up and down.

"Gillian, this is...Gillian? Are you listening?...This is Rebecca. She'll be staying with us...Gillian? Oh, never mind." He turned to them and smiled. "Dinner will be ready in about fifteen minutes. Rebecca, why don't you wash up? And I'll see you the same time tomorrow, Evan."

Evan nodded and closed the door as Rebecca stepped inside.

"Dinner?" she asked. "You cook?"

"Hardly," he said with a laugh. She followed him into a kitchen decorated entirely in brick, natural oak and gleaming copper. The homey atmosphere coaxed a smile from her, until Desmond set Gillian on the counter in front of a blacked-out window. Then Rebecca recalled the lengths to which Desmond had already gone for his daughter's sake. He wanted her here because he thought she could save Gillian. He'd be furious if he found out Rebecca planned to expose their research. His muttered, "d.a.m.n!" gave her a guilty start, as she thought for a moment she'd somehow given herself away. But his attention was focused on Gillian. Then he turned to Rebecca.

"I should have asked Evan to stay," he said, shaking his head. "I don't know what I was thinking of.

Can you give me a hand? It's time for her shot."

Gillian started squirming and trying to get free. "No, Daddy! No shot! No!"

He let out his breath in an exasperated sigh. "Can you hold her?"

Not quite sure what else to do, Rebecca stepped up to the wriggling girl and placed her hands above Desmond's. The brief contact touched off a tingling charge up her arms, then she had to focus all of her attention on Gillian.

"No! No shot! I had Daddy medicine today! I don't need a shot! No-o-o!" Gillian flailed her heels and fists. When that didn't work, she tried to bite Rebecca.

"Gillian! No! Little girlsdo not bite people ." Desmond grabbed his daughter and pulled her off the counter. Gripping her tightly, he turned to Rebecca. "I'd better hold her. Can you get the medicine from the refrigerator? It's in the cold cut drawer."

Trying to ignore Gillian's screaming, Rebecca opened the refrigerator. Tiny gla.s.s bottles filled two-thirds of the drawer, lined up in neat rows like little soldiers. She took out one of the little bottles.

The gla.s.s chilled her fingers.

Suddenly her story became more than just a collection of facts. It was the story of one little girl's fight against a killer she couldn't hope to understand, a disease so new it didn't even have a name yet.

Shaken by the revelation, Rebecca turned back and placed the medicine on the counter. Desmond had somehow managed to get a needle ready while wrestling with his daughter. He nodded to Rebecca.

"Will you take her again?"

Rebecca grabbed hold of the squirming child, too numb to care about the kick to her thigh. Operating on sheer instinct, Rebecca managed to tuck all of Gillian's arms and legs close to her body and pin her there. Gillian wriggled, and screamed louder.

"No! I hate you! You want to hurt me! My Mommy would never hurt me! I want my Mommy!"

Desmond's hands were steady as he pierced the bottle's rubber seal and filled the needle with fluid. He cleared the air out of the needle, spurting drops of medicine across the counter, and turned back to Gillian. Feeling illogically guilty for Gillian's suffering herself, Rebecca was amazed that he could remain so impa.s.sive. And then she saw his eyes.

He'd heard every word his daughter said. Every accusation, every complaint. His face could have been carved from marble, it was so still, but his eyes shone brightly with unshed tears.

He took Gillian's arm and buried the tip of the needle in it. She shrieked, and started to cry. He held her arm steady, depressing the plunger with constant pressure. When the needle was empty, he pulled it free and tossed it into a red plastic canister on the counter, where it crunched against other needles.

Lifting his daughter from Rebecca's arms, he cuddled her close, crooning soft, soothing endearments into her hair while her sobbing subsided. She sniffed and hiccuped, then looked up at him, tears staining her face.

"Hurt, Daddy."

He closed his eyes and whispered, "I know. I know."

Not wanting to intrude on them any further, Rebecca tiptoed quietly out of the kitchen and back into the living room.

The big white couch looked inviting, and she sat down with a sigh. She hadn't expected that. Sure, Desmond had said Gillian was sick, but aside from being too thin, she looked like such a happy, healthy little kid. All that medicine. She must need shots once or twice a day, at least.

Then she remembered Gillian's mention of "Daddy medicine." Gillian must have inherited at least part of her condition from Desmond. Were some of those bottles for him? Was he so skillful at injecting medicine because he had to administer it to himself?

She hadn't realized the importance of Dr. Chen's words this afternoon, but their meaning was all too clear now. He'd only been working on his current project for three years-since Gillian was born. Before that, he'd been working on a similar, but different, project. Many of the other researchers had alsoswitched focus at that time.

Desmond had taken them off finding solutions for his illness, and set them to solving his daughter's.

Rebecca stared at the wall. She'd spent her whole adult life believing that people always put themselves first. But Desmond was risking everything for his daughter.

Pain sliced through Rebecca's chest, and she struggled to breathe. Since she'd learned of her mother's betrayal, she hadn't trusted anyone. She hadn't believed she could. Now here was proof positive that Desmond Lacroix was a man who would put his own life on the line for someone he loved.

She hadn't realized how much she needed to believe people like that still existed. More importantly, she discovered that she wanted tobe a person like that. She didn't want to be like her mother, destroying someone else's chance for happiness because of petty selfishness.

Desmond came out of the kitchen, his daughter asleep against his shoulder, and walked over to the couch.

"She cried herself to sleep," he said softly. "She doesn't have the stamina for a prolonged fight."

Rebecca looked into his eyes, waiting until he realized she had an important p.r.o.nouncement to make.

"I'll help you. However long it takes."

It was the first time she'd ever seen a smile spread all the way to his eyes. "Thank you," he said, and put his free hand on her shoulder.

Golden warmth ran through her, spreading out in waves from his touch. She tilted her head to look at him. His eyes shone a deep green, warm and welcoming. Did he feel the sparks between them, too? If he wasn't holding his daughter, would he kiss her?

He opened his mouth to say something more, and the kitchen timer pinged. He smiled again, the wry smile more familiar to her.

"Dinner's ready."

She followed him back into the kitchen. No signs remained of the recent struggle. He woke Gillian up and strapped her into a booster seat, then pulled out a chair for Rebecca.

Gillian tugged lethargically at her napkin, pulling it out from under her rubberized silverware to cover her plate. Ignoring his daughter's silent protest, Desmond removed a ca.s.serole dish from the oven. He set it on the table and lifted the cover, releasing a cloud of steam that was fragrant with the scent of beef and onions. Rebecca's stomach growled.

"That smells terrific. I thought you said you didn't cook."

"I don't," he answered, dishing out servings for the two adults. "But Mrs. Waters is a wonderful cook."

Rebecca nodded, lifting a forkful of the ground beef, onion and rice mixture to her mouth. The meat was a little rarer than she liked, but still delicious.

Gillian watched them eat for a minute before sweeping her napkin off of her plate, and demanding to be served. Desmond put a small helping on her plate and she attacked it with her blunt-ended fork, using her left hand, the arm that hadn't gotten the shot.

What she lacked in skill, she made up for with enthusiasm. About half of her food ended up smeared on her face or clothing, with another quarter decorating the kitchen table. Very little food seemed to actually make it into her mouth. Even so, she was finished and playing with her silverware before either adult was done.

"She doesn't eat much, does she?" Rebecca said.

Desmond stiffened. "No. I don't think any child does, at that age."

She hadn't meant the comment as evidence of Gillian's illness, but that's obviously how he'd taken it.

Trying to clarify what she'd meant would only sound awkward.

She couldn't help staring as he took a third helping for himself. Where did he put it? The turtlenecks and clinging silk shirts he favored would have ruthlessly exposed the least ounce of body fat, had he possessed any. Which he didn't.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"No." She swallowed and studied the table, mortified to be caught staring. "I was just wondering how you stayed so thin."

"I have a very high metabolism." "Oh." Should she say more? Or was that a part of his illness? He didn't seem to feel any need to elaborate. If she continued with this topic, she'd end up offending him. Normally, she wouldn't care what he thought of her, not if she could get information for her story. But her feelings of being connected to him, united in pursuit of a common goal, were too new and precious to risk trampling. Better just to drop it.

"Uh, you want any help with these dishes?"

"There's no need," he answered automatically, then reconsidered. "If you could rinse them and stack them in the sink, I can start cleaning up Gillian."

"I'm not dirty, Daddy," Gillian protested, showing him the hand she'd managed to keep clean. "See?"

Rebecca had to hide her smile behind her napkin.

"You did a wonderful job of staying clean, sweeting," he told Gillian, with a perfectly straight face. "But I think you should have a bath anyway."

"I don't want a bath. I don't need one, Daddy, 'cause-"

"Bathtime Pooh will be very lonely without you."

Gillian considered this new information, her little face screwed up in concentration. Then her eyes lit up. "I'll give Pooh a bath. I don't need one."

Desmond coughed, not looking at Rebecca. Gillian just grinned, confident that her solution made perfect sense.

"All right," he agreed. "You can give Pooh his bath. But I think it would work best if you were in the tub with him."

"Okay, Daddy."

He pulled her out of her booster seat, careful of the food smeared across her shirt, and carried her out of the kitchen. Their departure left Rebecca strangely sad, and she sighed as she started gathering up the dishes.

She'd devoted all her time and energy to her career, first putting herself through school, then working two jobs while she established a reputation as a dependable freelance journalist. Every liar, cheat and crook she'd exposed along the way had strengthened her conviction that people couldn't be trusted.

Now she realized she may have made a mistake by focusing on the seamier aspects of society. What else might she have been wrong about?

Her few relationships with men had been brief, fed from the scant time and energy left over from her work. a.s.suming that any relationship was bound to fail, she'd ended them before she could be betrayed.

How different might her life have been if she'd trusted one of those men enough to stay with him? Might she be married by now, with her own little girl?

She rinsed the last dish and stacked it on top of the others, pleased that her hand didn't shake. She didn't have time for a husband, much less for a child. No point regretting her decisions now.

She looked back at the table. The dishes were taken care of. What about the leftovers? Should she leave them out? No. They might spoil. She'd cover them back up and put the ca.s.serole dish in the refrigerator.

Moving a carton of milk aside to make room, she discovered a collection of black gla.s.s bottles. Their arrangement echoed the precise rows of Gillian's medicine bottles, and she turned one to read its label.

These belonged to Desmond.

She stuffed the ca.s.serole dish onto the shelf and wandered into the living room. How sick was he? He looked healthy enough, except for being so pale. But then, except for being so thin, so did Gillian.

Laughter and splashing sounded from across the living room. Rebecca turned away. Now was the perfect time to sit down and write up her story. Yet she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she sat down on the couch and leafed through a discarded coloring book, in a vain effort to distract herself.

The pages depicted cla.s.sic fairy tales, with smiling princesses standing before beautiful castles. The sting of imminent tears p.r.i.c.ked her eyes, and Rebecca set the book aside with a sigh. When she was a child, she'd dreamed of finding her Prince Charming. The image of her prince changed with her moods, but when he rode up to greet her, dressed in his royal finery, he invariably resembled the photographs of her father in his uniform. Her mother's stories had filled Rebecca's head with visions of her father as aproud, brave hero, who had given his life for the country he believed in. But that man had been as much an illusion as her daydream prince.

The gurgle of the tub brought her back to the present. When it stopped, she could hear Desmond's voice rising and falling in smooth, melodic phrases. She couldn't catch the words, but knew from the tone that he had to be reading Gillian a bedtime story. The ebb and flow of sound soothed Rebecca as well, lulling her into a drowsy stupor.

She jumped when Desmond dropped next to her on the couch in a sprawl, his arms outstretched across its back. She hadn't seen him come in.

Moving to the side, she instinctively put s.p.a.ce between them. Then, realizing what a foolish picture she must make hunched over the arm of the couch, she leaned back, trying to act casual. As if she couldn't feel the heat of his arm behind her shoulders. As if the hairs on the back of her neck weren't standing on end, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. Yes, that was a good a.n.a.logy. He radiated invisible lines of force, too. And she felt herself aligning with them, as if she had no control over herself.

She needed to distract him, distract herself. Her fingers brushed across the discarded coloring book, and she held it out to Desmond.

"I was admiring your daughter's work." She forced a lighthearted smile. "Although I didn't realize princesses had green faces."

"I'm happy she finally mastered staying on the paper. Realistic colors come later, when she's older.

Don't you remember that from your own youth? Or were you the youngest?"

"I was an only child." She turned aside, discouraging any comments.

Her mother had denied her the chance to have siblings. True, she had half-brothers and -sisters. But they didn't count. She'd never known about them while she was growing up.

They'd grown up with the father she'd thought was dead. She clenched her jaw, fighting against the bitter anger she still felt toward her mother.