He shook his head, forcing himself back to the here and now. "The important thing is that you'd be safe. You'd have a life, even if it didn't include me."
"You just don't get it, do you?" She closed her eyes, and screwed up her face in concentration. And then the waves of mental images hit him.
Rebecca, returning to her apartment. A series of friends and acquaintances, each of whom she tried to mentally reach out to, searching for the connection she'd found with him. Each failure made her that much more bitter and alone. She funneled her energy into her work, producing probing and insightful articles and reports. Until she started to report things known only to the people she interviewed, that her burgeoning telepathic gifts had pulled during the interview. Unable to tell the difference between the two types of hearing, she exposed secrets her subjects intended to hide. People no longer wanted her to interview them. After a few complaints and threats of lawsuits, her editors no longer trusted her reports. Her career started a long decline, culminating in her expulsion from the most disreputable of the tabloid rags. Her beautiful chestnut hair had turned gray from the constant stress, and her pixieish face had turned pinched and drawn from worry. Harsh lines scored her countenance, and her clothing hung from her emaciated body. She returned to her apartment, now a dingy walkup in a dangerous part of town, and tried to drown her sorrows in the alcohol that blunted her too-sharp perceptions. Then she walked into the bedroom and opened the nightstand drawer, reaching inside for the gun she kept there....
He broke their mental contact, opening his eyes to search her pale white face. She met his gaze with her direct gray stare.
"Do you— " His voice broke, to his chagrin, and he started again. "Do you really expect it to be like that?"
"Yes. Or worse. You said your curse would kill me if you admitted you loved me. Well, even if I leave, it will. The knowledge that I loved and was loved, and threw it all away, will eat at me until I can't bear to go on."
He righted one of the chairs she'd knocked over earlier, and sat down. He wanted to protect her, to keep her safe, and to ensure her happiness, even at his own expense. But he'd thought returning her to her previous life would carry no risks. A cold dread snaked through his stomach.
"There's a way to prevent that. If you returned to your old life exactly the way that you left it, with your mental powers dormant...." He swallowed and looked away, unable to even finish the suggestion. But if saving her required sacrificing her memories and love of him, he would do it.
"Pretend the last few weeks didn't happen?" she whispered in stunned disbelief. "Wipe them out of existence, along with everything that happened during them? Destroy our love, as if it never was?"
"If that's what it takes to protect you— "
"Then the cost is too high."
"But— "
"No."
They stared at each other, stalemated. Not for the first time, she had him completely at a loss for words. Finally, she broke the silence.
"You keep saying you want to protect me. That's sweet, and very noble of you, but you forgot to ask me one very important question. You never asked if I wanted to be protected. And Desmond, I don't. I'm a fighter. I don't want to sit on the sidelines where it's safe. I want to be playing the game."
He sighed and rubbed the back of his neck where a tension headache was forming. Everything she said made sense, but—
"I can't do it. I can't risk taking your life. It goes against everything— "
"You said you'd never take anything that wasn't freely offered, didn't you?"
He nodded, unable to answer. There was only one reason she'd ask that question now, and he had the irrational hope that if he didn't speak, she wouldn't either. He was wrong.
"Then I offer you my life, freely and without hesitation." Her eyes hardened into chips of granite. "But I refuse to let you take my hope. I refuse to let you take my dreams."
"Rebecca, please. Reconsider."
"No. I've made my position clear. What are you going to do about it?"
He stared into her eyes, searching for any sign that she might weaken. Two chips of diamond glittered back at him. She would not be moved.
He loved her more in that instant than he ever had. And she was right. He couldn't live without her.
He would have to keep from infecting her. If he failed, he would watch her die in his arms, knowing he'd caused her death. She'd given him no other choice.
"What am I going to do about it? What can I do?" He sighed. "I'm going to love you. Forever."
He held out his hand. Without hesitation, she placed her hand in his. He opened his thoughts to her, unconcerned when she stepped closer and wrapped her arms around his neck. He was not projecting any feelings of bloodlust. His mind was too filled with the wonder of her love.
Chapter 19
HAND IN HAND, they walked into Desmond's bedroom. The bedroom that belonged to both of them, now.
Desmond stopped in the middle of the room, and turned Rebecca to face him. "I love you."
Now that the words had been said, he could not stop himself from repeating them. He slowly opened her blouse, pausing after each button to kiss the newly revealed flesh, and to tell her again that he loved her. By the time her blouse and bra had fallen to the floor, she was flushed with passion and swaying beneath his touch.
Her fingers fumbled with his shirt, and he shrugged it off. They embraced, chest to chest and cheek to cheek, as he stroked her silken back, and she trailed feathered caresses up and down his spine.
She nestled closer, lightly kissing his ear, and whispered, "Mmm. This is nice. And you thought we couldn't touch."
He wasn't sure why the blood lust was dormant, but he didn't intend to waste the opportunity. Holding her close, reveling in their love, he felt like he stood in a gilded moment forever set apart from the stream of time.
"I love you," he whispered again.
She shivered at the words, and slid her hands up to tangle in his hair. "I love you, too. Now kiss me."
He chuckled at her sweet demand, and fitted his lips to hers. She melted beneath him. Pulling his head down, she intensified the kiss, even as he slid his hands under the waistband of her jeans to press her closer, against his arousal.
A gentle fire was building inside him, but he felt no urgency. He could stand here forever, caressing Rebecca and celebrating their love.
Wanting more freedom for his explorations, he undid the button and zipper on her jeans, and pushed her pants over her hips. She wriggled out of them with a shimmy that temporarily stole his breath. Then he undid his own pants. Tilting his head back, he sighed in pleasure as she guided the clothing past his arousal and slid it to the floor.
Soon they were completely naked, heated flesh pressed to heated flesh, and still he drifted in a haze of happiness, willing to stay in her arms forever.
She sighed, and nibbled his lips with delicate kisses. "Tell me that you brought the condoms home from Las Vegas."
"I did." He dusted her lips with butterfly kisses. "Did you want me to get them?"
"Yes, please."
He chuckled. "So polite."
"Of course I am, when you're being so very, very nice to me."
"I can be better," he whispered.
"That's why we need the condoms."
Reluctantly, he pulled away from her. She pursed her lips in an adorable little pout, and rubbed her arms.
"It's cold without you."
"Get under the covers. I'll be back in a minute."
He opened the closet door, and quickly found the box he'd thrown in his suitcase. Turning, he was struck by the sight of Rebecca in his bed. The black satin comforter and ebony headboard accentuated her creamy skin and gray eyes, and the dark green sheets and pillows seemed made for her lustrous chestnut hair. Passion flushed her cheeks, and her kiss-swollen lips beckoned him back to sample their sweet honey.
"You are so beautiful," he said.
"You're not bad yourself. But you'd look a whole lo
t better close up."
Desmond laughed, and soon joined her beneath the covers. She immediately nestled close to him.
"Mmm. You're so nice and warm," she purred.
He stroked her back, pressing her closer, and guided her arms around his neck. "You don't feel cold to me."
"That's because you make me so hot." She giggled. "I can't believe I just said that."
Because of his altered metabolism, he was no judge of proper body temperature. Still, he brushed the back of his hand against her forehead. It did seem a little warmer than he expected. Were her cheeks delicately flushed from passion, or from fever?
He clutched her in a tight embrace, burying his face in her lemon scented hair. He never should have told her he loved her.
"You do seem a little warm," he said, finally. "I'll get the thermometer so we'll know for sure."
"Now?" she wailed.
The romantic moment had succumbed to dread. She couldn't be sick. He must be wrong. But he had to know. "Now."
As he pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, she shivered. He tucked the thick comforter around her, alarmed at the way she burrowed under it. Her voice muffled by bedding, she mumbled, "Hurry back."
He raced through the living room to Gillian's bathroom, and flung open the medicine cabinet. The thermometer sat on the second shelf, along with a bottle of Children's Tylenol. Desmond grabbed both, filled a plastic cup with water, and hurried back to Rebecca.
While he was gone, she'd curled into a tight ball beneath the covers. Leaving his things on the night stand, he slipped into the bed beside her, and gathered her trembling body close to his warmth. She wrapped her arms around him and twined her legs with his.
Her shivers slowly subsided. When she eased herself away from him to find a more comfortable position, he asked, "Better?"
"I'm warmer now. But I feel funny. All wiggly."
His heart turned to lead. Picking up the thermometer from the night stand, he said, "Let's check your temperature. All right?"
"Do I have to come out from under the covers?"
"No."
"Then okay."
When he opened the covers, she curled a little closer to him, but only shivered once. Placing the thermometer beneath her tongue like an obedient patient, she drowsed against his chest. He silently counted off the agonizingly long seconds, then pulled the thermometer out. She didn't open her eyes.
"Well?" she murmured.
"You're running a low-grade fever."
"Low-grade? Nope. I only have premium, A-1 quality fevers. Never settle for second best." She tried to smother a giggle, but it escaped.
"No, I meant...never mind."
He lifted her to a sitting position, and guided the cup of water to her lips. She sipped it, took the Children's Tylenol he offered her, and swallowed the rest of the water. The comforter fell from her shoulders, but she didn't seem to mind. Was her fever abating or getting worse?
"Rebecca?"
"Mmm?"
"I love you."
"You don't have to sound so sad about it. I love you, too."
His only answer was to wrap his arms around her and cradle her against his chest. She was burning up.
"Rebecca, I am so, so sorry."
He buried his face in her hair, lost in an agony of recrimination. Philippe had tried to warn him, but he hadn't listened. He'd let his desires overwhelm his good sense. He should have sent Rebecca on her way as soon as the bone marrow transplant was through, or let her recover on her own in the hospital. He never should have made love to her. And he definitely should have never said he loved her, and called down the power of his curse on her.
She shifted in his arms, her eyelids fluttering and then opening. "Desmond?"
"Yes?" He hardly dared to breathe.
"I'm sick, aren't I? With the neukocytes."
"Yes. My curse is killing you."
"Don't be ridiculous." Her voice, though weak, held it's familiar tone.
He blinked. "But— "
"How is this curse supposed to be killing me?"
"You said it yourself, you're sick."
"I have a fever. My body's immune system is fighting off an infection."
"But that infection is my cursed blood."
"Desmond, listen to me. I don't know how you and Philippe got to be like you are. A Voodoo curse is as good an explanation as any. But everything after that has happened according to scientific principles. What is this institute for if not to research the science behind your condition? Why does your daughter get shots if you can't fight the curse?"
Her words cut through the fog of fear that had surrounded him, letting him think rationally about the situation. "The only time you could have become infected is last night. So the neukocytes were in your system already, before I told you I loved you. I didn't invoke the curse."
She nodded. "Now you've got it."
"And if your sickness is a natural, physical reaction, it can be cured."
"Yes."
His momentary optimism deserted him. "But we don't know how to cure it."
"But you can fight it."
"If it's similar to Gillian's reaction." He tightened his hold on Rebecca, giving her a fierce hug, then disentangled himself and climbed out of the bed. "There are plenty of needles in the kitchen. I'll take a sample of your blood to Doctor Chen. He can have an answer in a few hours."
"Good idea."
He hurried to the kitchen, the apartment's floors cold on his bare feet, the air chill on his bare skin. Grabbing a needle from Gillian's supply, he checked the clock. Gillian and Mrs. Waters weren't due home for another four hours. Good. The last thing he needed was for his housekeeper to see him running naked around the house.
He raced back to Rebecca's side. She held out her arm, looking away as the needle pierced her skin. The reservoir of the needle filled quickly with blood. Pressing her other thumb to the spot, he withdrew the needle.
"Hold down on it until it stops bleeding. I'll take this to Doctor Chen right away."
"Could you bring me a pen and some paper?"
"You want to work while I'm gone?"
Her eyes shadowed. "I have to do something."
"I'll get it for you. Anything else?"
An impish smile lit her face. "Yes. Put on some pants."
REBECCA CROSSED out the last sentence, and frowned at the letter she was trying to compose. She remembered Olivia's letter in her nightstand, and shivered at the eerie parallel. She wasn't cursed. She wasn't going to die.
But just in case...Sighing, she picked up a new sheet of paper, and began again.
Dear Mom,
I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come around to your point of view. You only ever wanted what was best for me, and thought an imaginary hero made a better father for a little girl than a fallible man. When my father came back, you had no way of knowing if he'd stay, or be frightened into leaving again. And so you didn't take the chance. For you, the promise of love wasn't worth the risk. Then, and now, I'm willing to risk everything. That doesn't make either of us wrong, just different. I hope you can forgive what I said and did when I left, and that I can see you again. There's someone very special that I'd like you to meet. And if anything happens to me before we have that chance, remember that I thought love was worth the risk, and am happy with the decisions I've made.
Rebecca read the letter again. That was as good as it was going to get. She was too tired to try any more.
She gathered up the other papers into a loose pile and pushed them onto the floor. Her mother's letter, she folded neatly, then wrote what she knew of her mother's address on the back. She set it and her pen on the nightstand.
Burrowing beneath the covers, she let her eyes drift closed. She hoped Desmond would return soon.
"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Desmond asked.
"They're the same," Doctor Chen repeated, laying two colored charts on the desk in front of him. Two identical colored charts.
The doctor tapped the righ
tmost chart. "This is the analysis of your wife's blood, okay?"
He slid the other chart beneath it, where it lined up perfectly. "This is an analysis of the blood cells I created before your daughter's transplant, to prove a child of yours could act as a bone marrow donor."
"But what does that mean for Rebecca?"
"It means her blood chemistry is stable, like yours or Philippe's."
"She'll live?"
"Yes." Doctor Chen held up a hand, cutting off Desmond's jubilation. "At least, if she survives rejection sickness."
Rejection sickness. The specter that haunted each of Gillian's transplants. Rebecca's body was trying to purge itself of the tainted blood.
"What can I do?" he whispered.
"Keep her fever down. If it gets too high, bring her to the hospital."
Desmond thanked Doctor Chen for his good work, and hurried home to be with Rebecca. As he keyed the card reader outside his door, a wave of weakness hit him. He clutched the door frame, and staggered inside.
The room seemed wavy and out of focus. He blinked his eyes, but it didn't help. He rubbed his hand across his face. When he brought it away, it was damp. His face was covered in sweat.
His curse was in full force. He was sharing her death.
"No!" he croaked. He would not lose her now. Not when they were so close.
He made his way to the bedroom and threw open the door. Rebecca lay under a mound of bedding, her face streaked with sweat. She moaned softly and twitched at the covers, her head rolling from side to side in mute denial of her sickness.
He had to lower her fever. Now. He couldn't wait to get her to the hospital.
The room spun about him. He swayed, but stayed on his feet. His weakness didn't matter. He had to save Rebecca.
Stumbling into the bathroom, he caught the edge of the sink to keep from falling. He fumbled with the cold water tap, finally twisting it open, and drenched a towel in the tepid water. Letting the water run until it turned glacial, he filled a cup then gulped it down. His parched throat cried out for more, and he drained three cups before filling one for Rebecca.
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