"Curtains," she said, just as he said, "Condoms."
They rushed to the far sides of the room, he to wrench closed the drapes, and she to retrieve the box of protection they'd purchased with her stockings. Coming together again, they finished undressing each other, trembling hands slowing them down and adding to their urgency. Finally, they both stood naked in the center of the room. He was so handsome, she could die from looking at him. And he was ready for her, too.
She slid the condom over him, making him groan at the agony of her whisper soft touch. Grabbing her shoulders, he threw her to the bed and tumbled on top of her.
The past week of denial had only inspired her longing, and now she arched and writhed against him, unable to get enough of him. Wrapping her arms around him, she clawed at his back, trying to draw him even closer. They branded each other with kisses, scorching marks across shoulders, chests and necks.
He plunged inside her, and she screamed in need. His hands were behind her, pulling her closer, and she raked his back, striving to be closer still. He bent his head to kiss her neck, hot, liquid kisses that fueled her passion to an intensity she'd never dreamed of. She couldn't see. She couldn't think. She was consumed by need, a wildfire blazing out of control. And only one thing would satisfy her. Opening her mouth wide, she pressed a heated kiss to the pounding vein in his throat. And then drove her teeth through the skin.
Hot, salty blood spilled out of him as he collapsed on top of her, his seed bloating the condom. She kissed and nuzzled, transported by their communion, even as he kissed and nuzzled her. She no longer knew where she stopped and he began. They were truly united as one.
Then the rhythmic stroking of his tongue faltered. A shudder ripped through him, shaking them apart, and he pulled back to stare at her in wide-eyed horror. She blinked, not understanding, and reached for him, only to have him recoil away from her.
"No. Oh dear God, no." All the color drained from his face, and she saw for the first time the ragged cut on his neck, and the blood smeared across his shoulder and chest. He leapt from the bed and ran into the bathroom, slamming the door behind him. But she still had time to see the mass of fresh red welts scarring his back.
She sat up in the bed, and looked at her hands. One of her nails was broken, and a thin layer of sticky crimson covered her fingertips. She brought it closer, fascinated by the gleaming red surface. Then she popped the tip of one finger into her mouth, drawing off the sweet warmth.
She yanked her finger from her mouth and started shivering. What was wrong with her? What had she done?
Closing her eyes, she let a brokenhearted moan escape her before plunging her head into the pillow, and muffling her sobs beneath another pillow. She'd ruined everything. Desmond thought she was some sort of psychopath, a deranged Black Widow who literally wanted to devour him. If he wanted an immediate divorce, no judge would refuse him after seeing the injuries she'd inflicted on him. The one man she'd ever love, and she'd chased him away in horror. But why? Why?
Stifling a sob, she let the tears course down her cheeks and wash away the blood staining her face. If only she could as easily wash away the memory of what she'd done.
DESMOND CROUCHED on the floor of the bathroom, the cool tile wall soothing against his back. He was probably staining it with blood. It didn't matter. Nothing mattered except Rebecca, and what he'd done to her.
He'd lived with the blood thirst for so long, he'd ceased paying attention to it, much as normal human beings drink water as a matter of course, and only think about it on long trips or after exerting themselves. But she'd been unprepared for the fierce craving.
They'd wanted to be close to each other. Whether he'd lowered his shields too far, or she'd mastered her telepathic powers enough to break through them, didn't matter. The result was the same in either case. A complete merging of thought, so that they truly had been united in body and mind. And while he could control his cursed needs, she could not.
He buried his face in his hands. And to think he'd been worried about protecting her from accidental infection. Instead, she'd chosen the most direct source of contamination, by drinking his blood. The memory of her hot tongue, lapping at his neck, flooded him with desire. He wanted nothing more than to go back out there and rip open a vein, filling her with his essence. And he would no longer confine himself to tasting her sweetness. No, he would plunder her spirit, and absorb her into himself. They'd share each other so deeply, they'd be transformed by the experience.
He'd already stood and walked halfway to the door, but that phrase stopped him cold. Transformed.
Clutching the marble sink top, he bent his head. No. He couldn't risk it. He could control his own urges, but it was a control won after decades of effort. She couldn't afford that kind of time to master her desires, not when one mistake could mean her death. The only solution was complete and total abstinence. Not only couldn't he touch her, he couldn't even open his mind to her. He didn't dare risk anything less comprehensive. This was one error he couldn't repeat.
A sudden cold chilled him from the inside out, as he realized it might already be too late. She could have already become infected. What if she was dying now?
He threw open the bathroom door. She lay face down on the bed, naked and still, a pillow over her head. A brief fear that she'd smothered herself slashed through his heart. But no, she was breathing, and her heart beat steadily. Her mind held only the blank fog of a dreamless sleep.
Not daring to touch her, or even go any nearer to the bed, he pulled on the clothes he'd worn earlier, before changing into the tuxedo. Grabbing one of his medicine bottles, he left the room. He needed to think, and he couldn't do it near her. With any luck, the shopping arcade was still open, even if the stores were closed. He'd like to see the sunrise again.
He was forced to settle for a secluded back booth in the 24-hour cafe. After ordering a cheeseburger, rare, and a pot of coffee, he opened the medicine bottle and took a swig. It had warmed to room temperature. He drained the rest of the bottle, feeling the kick of renewal as his body started converting the liquid.
He set the empty bottle on the table and stared at it. Plain black glass, nothing to reveal the dark secret it contained. Modernized, sanitized, it was as far removed from a living, breathing human being as his coming cheeseburger was removed from a steer. But it hadn't always been that way.
In the early days of their curse, he and Philippe wore masks and robes to drink sacrificial blood at Voodoo ceremonies, restoring the strength sapped daily by the sun. Then one day, after too many hours riding under the harsh summer sun, they killed a man.
That night, Desmond made a vow. He would never allow his need for blood to blind him to others' humanity. He vowed to take only that which was freely offered, and no more. It was a vow he'd never broken in all the years that followed, no matter how desperate his situation had been.
His order arrived, recalling him to the present.
Not two hours ago, he'd made another vow. To Rebecca. He'd promised to love, honor and cherish her. Less than two hours, and he'd already failed her. Or maybe not. He didn't knew how the blood he drank made it into his bloodstream, but there was no similar route in normal human beings. It was possible that the infected blood Rebecca had swallowed hadn't been able to contaminate her system. When Desmond stopped to consider it, the odds were fairly high against his cursed blood surviving intact in her system. But even a million-to-one chance was too much risk to ever take again.
He glanced at his watch. They'd never make it back to the Institute before sunrise. Then he smiled grimly, remembering his earlier comment to Rebecca. The Lamborghini had a top cruising speed of 196 miles per hour. They'd make it.
REBECCA PULLED her head out from under the pillow and glanced sleepily around the room, wondering what had awakened her. The bathroom door was open, and the room beyond was empty and dark. Desmond. She sat up and searched the room. His clothing was gone. He was gone.
She threw off the sheets an
d climbed out of bed. The time for tears had passed. It was time to take action. She wasn't sure exactly what she'd do, yet, but she'd start by taking a shower.
When she flipped on the bathroom light, she saw blood stains, smeared down the white tile wall. She looked at her hands, seeing the dark brown stains beneath her nails, and remembered the way she'd clawed at Desmond's back. Dear God.
She stepped closer to the wall, then screwed up her courage and touched the stain. Flakes of red-brown fell from the tile. Spinning around, she grabbed a wash cloth and doused it with hot water. The stain yielded to her scrubbing, and in no time at all, the wall was clean. No trace remained of what she had done to Desmond.
Stepping into the shower, she blasted herself with scalding hot water, trying to erase all signs of what had happened. The dried blood washed away, even the stains beneath her nails. But no matter how hard she scrubbed, she couldn't remove her own horror at her actions.
She conceded defeat, and toweled off. She dressed in clean clothing, and put away the clothes she'd worn earlier. The wedding dress seemed to mock her, with it's virginal white. She'd been anything but timid and innocent.
Finished with her own clothing, she folded and put away Desmond's tuxedo. She traced the satin edging of the lapels with her fingers, and sighed. It was supposed to be so different. This should have been the happiest day of her life. But she'd ruined it. The script didn't call for her to attack her new husband and send him fleeing in horror.
She stuffed the tuxedo into a drawer, and turned her attention to the bed. The stains wouldn't come out, but she could hide them. Struggling to make the bed, despite sheets that stuck to each other where the blood had matted, she tried to puzzle out the twist of her psychology that had made her react like this.
Since she'd made love to Desmond before without attacking him, the difference had to be that they were married now. And the only explanation she could think of that made any sense to her was that deep down, she was reinforcing her childhood image of marriage, by trying to kill her husband. When she got back to the Institute, she'd look up a local psychiatrist, and make an appointment to try and work this all out. But in the meantime, it would be safest for both of them if she didn't get too close to Desmond.
The hotel room door opened, and Desmond walked in, a black medicine bottle in his hand. She winced. He suffered from a blood disorder. Maybe she'd remembered that, subconsciously, and attacked him at his weakest point.
Desmond glanced around the room, but didn't comment on her cleaning. Instead, he asked, "Are you packed? We're leaving."
"Now? In the middle of the night?"
For an answer, he just stared at her. His eyes, always so bright and glittering with emotion, were the flat green of antique bottle glass. She pulled her suitcase from the closet and started emptying the drawers into it.
She heard him making phone calls to the front desk, bell captain and valet parking. Apparently their guests did not usually check out at this hour, since he had to repeatedly assure them that he was not dissatisfied with their service. Rebecca finished packing her bag, and turned to where his suitcase sat on the folding luggage stand. The only thing he'd taken out had been the tuxedo, and she repacked that while he was arguing with the parking attendant.
He hung up the phone. After a long moment of silence, he turned to face her.
"The bellman will be up in a few minutes. They should have our car ready by the time we get down to the lobby."
"Good." She twisted her wedding ring around her finger, and added, "I packed your suitcase, too."
"Thank you."
She stood by the suitcases, waiting for him to say something about what had happened. He didn't. Finally, she couldn't take the waiting any longer.
"About what happened earlier— "
"I don't think anything more needs to be said." His face had the rigid determination Rebecca remembered from when he'd first described Gillian's disease. "We made a mistake, and we won't make it again."
She loved him more in that instant that she ever had before. Instead of reviling her for what she'd done, he was willing to take a share of the blame. He couldn't have any idea why she'd acted the way she did, yet he didn't accuse her. He didn't want to get rid of her. He was sticking by her, just as he'd promised to do in his wedding vows, for better or for worse. A horrible new interpretation of his words occurred to her.
"By a mistake, did you mean...?" Unable to finish the sentence, she held out her left hand so that the light reflected off of her wedding ring.
"No! I will not forsake my vow." He started to take a step towards her, then checked himself.
She turned away so that he wouldn't see the relief in her face. Relief and shame. She shouldn't have doubted him.
A knock at the door spared her from having to answer him. "I'll get it," she said, and opened the door for the bellman and his cart.
"Just these two bags, ma'am?" he asked.
"Yes. No, wait." She searched the room for the cooler, but didn't see it. Reluctantly, she turned to Desmond. "Where's the cooler?"
"I put it out of the way." He retrieved the small plastic case from where he'd stowed it under the desk, and handed it to the bellman.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was accomplished in awkward silence. Rebecca couldn't help contrasting it to their earlier trip in the elevator, when they'd been unable to keep their hands off of each other. Now, they stood in opposite corners, like boxers before the starting bell.
They reached the car, and Desmond tipped the valet and bellman. He spoke to each of them. But he didn't say anything to her.
He opened her door and held it for her, but he didn't extend a hand to help her in, or draw down the seat belt for her. She'd started to expect his chivalrous signs of affection, but they were gone now. He couldn't be chivalrous when he was afraid to touch her. A dull ache started to pound in her temples, and at the base of her neck. Discovering she'd clenched her teeth together, she forced her jaw muscles to relax.
He wheeled onto the Strip, and she shut her eyes against the garish intrusion of light. She didn't want to be reminded that she was surrounded by happy, laughing people. She especially didn't want to be reminded that only a few short hours ago, she'd been one of those happy people.
She felt the car turn and bump over a slight curb. Opening her eyes, she saw a small gas station, dwarfed by the huge casino complexes surrounding it. Desmond pulled up to the pumps, and got out of the car.
"This won't take long," he assured her. At least he was still speaking to her.
"Take your time." She put the seat back and closed her eyes. It was very late, almost three o'clock, and the events of the day had tired her out. Since it had taken them five hours to get to Las Vegas, they should get back to the Institute around eight in the morning. She wasn't going to wait until then to go to sleep, especially since she and Desmond weren't likely to say anything to each other the whole ride back.
The car shook as he climbed back in, lightly scented with gasoline fumes, and slammed his door closed. He revved the engine, and accelerated into traffic. Rebecca kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, until a sudden swerve tossed her against the door frame.
Desmond glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable in the highway darkness. "Did I wake you?"
"I wasn't really asleep," she admitted. "Just resting."
She glanced outside, but wasn't able to see anything. At first she thought it was too dark, but then she realized the scenery was moving by too quickly to focus on. She sneaked a peak at the speedometer.
"One hundred and forty miles per hour! Are you trying to kill us?"
He turned to answer her, and she shrieked, "Don't look at me. Look at the road!"
He sighed, but kept his attention fixed on the road where it belonged. "No, I am not trying to kill us. I am trying to get us home in the shortest time possible."
"You can take longer. I don't mind." She risked another look at the speedometer. One hundred and fifty. She gripped
the dashboard, even though she knew it wouldn't help her if they got into an accident.
"But I do. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. Both the Lamborghini and I are perfectly capable of handling these speeds. And the roads are ideal driving conditions— well paved, straight, and empty."
She had to admit, he wasn't having any problems controlling the car. He handled a slight curve with ease, and she relaxed enough to let go of the dashboard. It didn't feel that fast. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were only moving at sixty miles per hour.
Desmond's voice interrupted her thoughts. "If you're not going to be sleeping, and I assume you want me to keep both hands on the wheel at all times, could I trouble you to put a CD in?"
"Sure." She leaned down and pulled the case out from under her seat. They wouldn't be discussing the music, this time. The lighthearted mood of their earlier car trip had been destroyed. She had destroyed it. "What one do you want?"
"Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor."
She found the disk he wanted and slipped it in. The melancholy notes of Grieg's music wafted out of the speakers, and she shivered. If Desmond was hoping to be cheered up by that music, he must be feeling as miserable as she was. And it was all her fault.
Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes again. At the rate he was driving, they'd be home in two hours. Recalling the twisting roads around the Hoover Dam, she adjusted her estimate up to two and a half hours. It would probably be the longest two and a half hours she'd ever spent.
She grimaced, and turned her face toward the door. That music wasn't helping her mood any, either.
Chapter 16
REBECCA AWOKE with the feeling that something was wrong. She glanced around her room and saw nothing out of place. The overhead light burned steadily, and yesterday's clothes lay neatly folded on a chair.
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