"To insert new genetic codes into an existing system is still beyond our technology. But manipulating genes in a forming system has already been done with great success."

"d.a.m.n it, speak English!"

"Okay. Any offspring of you and Ms. Morgan-"

"Absolutely not!" Desmond clenched his fists and fought to control his temper. Dr. Chen didn't realize the magnitude of what he was suggesting.

"We'd make sure the right genetic codes were present. If we did it here in the lab-"

"I said no. It's out of the question." He leaned against the counter. There were some things he couldn't do, not even for Gillian. Persuading Rebecca to donate cell samples and creating a child specifically to use as a donor were two entirely different propositions. He'd orchestrated events to obtain Rebecca's a.s.sistance, but only after she'd given her consent. She'd freely offered her help. He hadn't violated his oath. If he followed Dr. Chen's suggestion, he'd be doing something much worse.

No. The thought sickened him. Yet the seductive reasoning of the scientist pulled at his beliefs.

Whatever the nature and rationale of the child's conception, surely he'd love it as much as he loved Gillian. Brothers and sisters frequently acted as donors for siblings that needed them. The child would no doubt want to act as a donor for Gillian. He'd be acting on his or her wishes.

Rationalizations and excuses. He'd sworn to never take anything from a person that wasn't freely given. He had to find another way. "Doctor," Desmond turned and asked, startling Dr. Chen. "You said Gillian wouldn't reject a transplant from Rebecca."

"Yes. But I explained, it won't cure her."

"I understand. But will it give her more time?"

Dr. Chen stopped and stared into the distance. Desmond tried to remain patient as the minutes stretched out, with no sign of movement. Finally, Dr. Chen's eyes cleared and he nodded.

"I can't guarantee anything, okay? It depends on the rate of reproduction, amount of absorption, and a bunch of other things. But, yes, she should get at least two more years from the procedure. Maybe even as many as five or six."

Desmond whispered a heartfelt thanks to any G.o.d that was listening. "I'll make sure Rebecca understands what is needed from her, but I don't expect any problems. Schedule the operation for tomorrow."

Desmond turned away and left the baffled scientist. He'd raise Dr. Chen's research grant. Maybe find him a new a.s.sistant. With enough money, they'd be sure to find a permanent solution to Gillian's illness.

All they'd needed was enough time to work. Rebecca could buy them that time. He owed her more than he could ever repay.

His mind already sorting through everything that needed to be done, Desmond walked toward Philippe's office. He had to have Philippe's help. Patching things up between them was more important than ever. At a time like this, he needed his family.

DESMOND TAPPED on Philippe's open door and looked inside the office. Philippe hunched over a pile of paperwork.

"Just a minute," he called without looking up.

"Take your time."

Philippe snapped upright, dropping his pen. "Des!"

Desmond strolled into the office. Hooking a chair with one foot, he dragged it over to Philippe's desk and sat down. He wanted to blurt out his good news right away. But first, he had to make things right between them. Not quite sure how to start, he glanced around the office for inspiration. "How long have we been friends?"

"Since 1873, when I showed up at your plantation to kill our father." Philippe straightened the pile of papers before him.

Desmond remembered the moment well. "You were too late. He was dead. They were all dead. All except me. And you."

"The curse."

"You know more about voodoo than I do."

Philippe shrugged. "I was my grandmother's errand boy. It was her curse. She mentioned it from time to time."

"Her curse made us what we are. But does it keep us that way?"

"It would if she still lived. With her death..."

The triumphant smile that flitted across Philippe's face sent chills down Desmond's spine. He hurriedly changed the subject.

"Rebecca's been confirmed as a donor for Gillian."

Philippe blinked. "That's a surprise. I'm happy for you, Des. And for Gillian. I hope the transplant operation goes well."

From his tone of voice, Desmond knew Philippe didn't expect it to be a success.

"Dr. Chen said it won't cure her, but it might give Gillian a few more years."

"You think the curse can be delayed?"

"I think we can fight it with modern science."

"Of course we can fight." Philippe shrugged. "But we will lose in the end."

"Not this time." Desmond would do anything to keep the curse from claiming another victim. Then he remembered Dr. Chen's suggestion. Almost anything. Philippe chuckled. "You look quite fierce."

"Dr. Chen had a crazy idea, straight out ofFrankenstein , about creating life in the lab."

"From what?"

"Donor cells from me and Rebecca. I told him to go to h.e.l.l."

"Good for you." Philippe flashed a devilish grin. "With a woman as good looking as her, I'd prefer the old fashioned method of creating life, too."

"Philippe!" Desmond didn't know whether to be outraged or amused. Philippe's humor usually had that affect on him. But at least they were friends again.

REBECCA WOKE up with a splitting headache. Strange dreams had tormented her all night. In some, an evil presence pursued her, drinking in her fear. And in others, she chased down innocent victims herself, delighting in their terror. She wasn't sure which dreams frightened her more.

The smell of toast drifted past her, making her stomach rumble. She was starving. What time was it?

These blacked-out windows made it impossible to gauge time.

She found her watch on the nightstand. Eleven-thirty. She must smell lunch, then, not breakfast.

Taking a few minutes to wash and get dressed, she made sure she was presentable. She didn't want Desmond to see her all disheveled from sleep. Desmond. She smiled, remembering last night.

He'd aroused her in a way no other man had ever done, touched some level of her heart that had never been touched before. She wasn't sure what he'd done when he caressed her, but it had unleashed feelings unlike any she'd ever known.

Her cheeks heated as she recalled her reaction to his kiss. She'd stayed dazed, her nerves humming with energy, until he'd suggested they retire to their separate rooms. Listening to him get ready for bed had nearly driven her mad. She'd imagined him undressing, his clothes sliding off his smooth, muscled body.

She splashed cold water on her face. That had been quite the kiss if the memory still affected her this morning.

Ready to face him, she stopped with one hand on the door. What if the kiss had been nothing special to him? What if her reaction had been nothing more than a result of her keyed up nerves?

She had to find out for sure. Even if her reaction had been a fluke, or he didn't feel anything special, she'd still help Gillian. Rebecca wasn't the sort who went back on her promises. At least, not if the promises hadn't been extorted from her.

But she needed to know where she stood with Desmond. Was he interested in her for her own sake, or just because of what she could do for his daughter? Better ask now, before she started thinking silly thoughts. Sometimes the truth hurt, but she preferred knowing it anyway. She opened the door and followed the smell of toast into the kitchen.

The housekeeper she'd met the other night stood by the stove, grilling a sandwich. Gillian sat at the table, drinking a gla.s.s of milk.

"Good morning," Rebecca said. "How are you this morning, Gillian?"

Gillian frowned, and slurped her milk.

"Good morning, Ms. Morgan," the housekeeper said. "I suppose you'd like some lunch? Or breakfast?"

"Yes, thank you. Whichever one you're making now is fine."

Rebecca walked over to the stove. Mrs. Waters watched the sandwich as she answered, "I'm making grilled cheese. You may have this one if you like."

"I can make my own-"

"Nonsense. I'll do it. If you want to help, get a gla.s.s of milk or juice out of the refrigerator."

Rebecca opened the refrigerator door, and tried to ignore the medicine bottles. She didn't want to think about Desmond being ill. A half-full can of tomato juice appealed to her, and she poured it into a gla.s.s.

Gillian shook her head as Rebecca sat down at the table.

"No medicine at lunch," she scolded. Rebecca looked to Mrs. Waters for help. "She thinks the tomato juice is Mr. Lacroix's medicine."

"Oh." Rebecca looked at her gla.s.s. It didn't look anything like medicine to her, but Gillian was only three. Didn't kids mistake aspirin for candy at that age? "Is it okay if I drink it?"

"You've poured it. It'd be a shame to waste it." Mrs. Waters said. Then her voice warmed a good twenty degrees as she told Gillian, "That's not medicine, sweetheart. That's tomato juice." Gillian ignored her.

Rebecca sipped her juice. Mrs. Waters didn't like her. That much was obvious. But why? She'd never get any useful information from the woman at this rate.

"We didn't really have a chance to say much when we were introduced. But I'll be staying here for a few days."

"Yes, Ma'am. Mr. Lacroix's told me everything I need to know about you." From the frost in her voice, Mrs. Waters hadn't liked what she'd heard. She flipped the sandwich out of the frying pan onto a plate, slashed it into quarters and set the plate in front of Gillian. "Here you go, sweetie."

Mrs. Waters threw bread and cheese into the frying pan. "Yours'll be done soon."

"That's fine."

Mrs. Waters didn't say another word until the sandwich finished cooking. Then she merely tossed the plate in front of Rebecca with a muttered, "Here."

Rebecca took a bite. The gooey cheese and crisp bread mingled with the tomato juice, and reminded her of pizza. The housekeeper might not be much of a conversationalist, but she was a great cook.

"Mr. Lacroix suggested you'd be happier in the study, while he was at work," Mrs. Waters announced Desmond's wishes with all the weight of a royal proclamation.

"All right." She was, after all, a guest. But she'd had just about enough of this frigid politeness. Time to find out what was going on. "I'll be there or in my room."

"Mr. Lacroix thought you'd like to look at his books. You should stay in the study, rather than go back into Mrs. Lacroix's room."

Rebecca heard the subtle emphasis on the wordMrs . Why did everyone a.s.sume she was sleeping with Desmond?

Rebecca's cheeks heated. The thought had crossed her mind a few times during the long night, too.

But that didn't mean she'd done anything about it.

"So, what else has Mr. Lacroix told you about me?"

"Nothing, really, except that you're his houseguest."

People used the word "houseguest" about as often as the phrase "just good friends." And usually to mean the same thing.

"Well, I'm a little more than that. I'm here because I'm helping Dr. Chen with his research."

"Helping? How?"

Rebecca thought she detected a hint of a thaw in the woman's voice, and followed up her advantage.

"He discovered I share a blood type with Gillian, as well as certain rare antigens. I'll provide samples for research, and hopefully, a treatment."

Rebecca darted a glance at Gillian, unsure how much the little girl would understand. Adults didn't normally discuss these sorts of things in front of children.

She needn't have worried. Gillian stared down at her sandwich, her forehead wrinkled in concentration, oblivious to Rebecca and anything she might be saying.

Mrs. Waters had paid attention, though. She turned to Rebecca, favoring her with a big smile. "Really?

You're going to help our little angel?"

"I hope so."

The housekeeper brought Rebecca a second sandwich. When she finished that, Mrs. Waters offered her milk, more juice, apples, oranges, and homemade brownies.

"No, please, Mrs. Waters. I'm full. Thank you. It was delicious. But I really can't eat another thing."

The housekeeper hesitated, holding the tin of brownies. Rebecca stood up before more food could be thrust at her. "I think I'll go take a look at those books now. Where's the study?"

"If you're sure." Mrs. Waters put two brownies on a plate for the silent Gillian. "It's on the other side ofMr. Lacroix's room."

Rebecca escaped the kitchen, and the smothering attentions of Ms. Waters. On her right, three doors lined the living room wall. The first led to her room, and the second to Desmond's room, with no door from here to the connecting bath. The study was behind door number three.

She opened the door, and inhaled the dusty smell of old books mingled with the scent of leather furniture. She sneezed.

"Bless you," Mrs. Waters called from the kitchen. Rebecca shut herself in the study, away from any more help. Or food.

Bookshelves lined the walls, crowded with hardcover books until they looked ready to collapse. In one corner of the room, two leather chairs shared an end table and a reading lamp, while in the opposite corner an antique desk held an out-of-place looking computer. A telephone sat on the end table.