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"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 respons
ible 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 glass 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 Institute 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, damn 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."
