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"No. I flipped backward and forward in the book, thinking that maybe my mother had gotten the date wrong. He wasn't listed anywhere. He wasn't listed, because he hadn't died." She took a deep breath, and finished her explanation in a rush of words. "That's why my mother hadn't wanted me to see the wall. Because I'd find out how the story really went. Charles Morgan hadn't been a young hero, killed before he could return to his young wife and infant daughter. He'd been a frightened teenager, who'd returned from the most harrowing experience of his life only to be confronted by his girlfriend and a baby she insisted was his. He couldn't deal with either one."
Desmond's arms tightened around her, and he rocked her gently, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He stroked his hands down her back with slow, rhythmic warmth.
She sniffed. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry."
"Go ahead and cry. For your father, and for you."
She looked up, surprised at the husky note in his voice. His eyes seemed unusually bright, as well, so she blinked to clear her tear-smudged vision. His gaze met hers, and she forgot to breathe.
His eyes gleamed with the brilliant green of sun-dappled leaves, as he lowered his gaze to her mouth. She knew he was about to kiss her, and that she could stop him with a word. But she didn't want to. She'd never felt so close to another human being, and couldn't bear the thought of pushing him away. It would be like pushing away her own heart.
He bent closer and touched his lips to hers. As if he'd closed a circuit, an electric thrill coursed through her at the contact. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave herself up to the sensation. He slid his kiss to the corner of her mouth, then whispered against her lips.
"Did you ever see him?"
She wanted to stay floating in the soft fog Desmond's kiss inspired, insulated from her past. But his words called her back. The story seemed somehow distant, though, as if she was listening to herself tell it, rather than telling it herself. That made it easier.
"No. I spent years trying to find him, and eventually tracked him down. He'd gotten married, and had three sons and two daughters. I met his wife when I went to see him, determined to find out why he'd abandoned me. She's the one who told me he was dead. For real, this time. A victim of Agent Orange, a few months before I got there."
"After all those years, to miss him by a few months must have been terrible."
"Not as terrible as what she said next. You see, she knew who I was. My father had told her about me." Rebecca shivered, seeing again the pity in the woman's eyes. And the fear when she glanced toward the yard where her own children played.
Again, Desmond's touch drew Rebecca back to the present. She turned to him, blindly seeking comfort to ease the freshly opened wound. "After he'd recovered from his experiences in the war, my father came back and tried to patch things up with my mother. She turned him away. My father wanted me, and she told me he was dead!"
Rebecca hid her face in Desmond's shoulder, shaking as the long-denied emotions rocked through her. Desmond stroked her back, her shoulders, her hair, soothing her pain until he made her shiver with a different kind of need. Turning her face, she captured his lips in a kiss.
She didn't need him to distract her anymore. She'd faced her memories. But she wanted a new memory, a better memory, of love and caring, to replace the old memory of betrayal and neglect. And Desmond cared more than anyone else ever had.
He stilled, as if sensing the change in her, then wound one hand in her hair and pressed her even closer. She opened her lips beneath a fiery onslaught that seemed to draw the very air out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could only feel.
Feel, as his tongue traced the edge of her lips. Feel, as his mouth slid across her jaw, and down the sensitive column of her neck. She twisted her head to the side, encouraging his exploration. His tongue rasped across her tender skin, and he pressed a kiss to the sensitive pulse point.
His hand in her hair tightened, pulling her head back and lifting her throat to his kiss. Her breathing quickened, rapid butterfly breaths. She wanted this. She wanted him. Here. On the couch. On the floor. Anywhere. As long as it was now.
Desmond tore himself away from her and Rebecca moaned, low in her throat. He struggled to control his breathing, waging a harder battle to control his hunger. He'd only meant to comfort her, not to become carried away like this.
As soon as her first powerful memories had struck him, he'd raised his mental shields. Strong thoughts carried clearly, even if the other person wasn't telepathic, and he had no wish to pry. But such strong shielding took a lot of energy to maintain, and he'd lowered the shields at the end of their conversation, wrongly assuming that her calm appearance indicated a calm mind. Rebecca's last thoughts had been vividly erotic.
She reached for him now, eyes closed, tuned in to her own world. He caught her hand and guided it away from him, back to her. Not that he didn't want to make love to her. He ached with wanting her. But not now. Not like this, in blind response to the emotions called up by her memories.
When they made love, it would be because they'd chosen to. Because they were ready. That day would come. He was sure of it. And when it did, they'd not only share the pleasures of their bodies. They'd share the passion of their blood.
The drink his researchers had invented freed him from ghoulishly haunting hospitals and other sites of death, as he'd once done to satisfy the needs his curse created. Yet there had been times when livin
g bodies had sustained him, had offered more than mere sustenance.
His gaze dropped to Rebecca's arched throat, slick with a layer of sweat. He imagined her beneath him, her pulse racing, the thick, sweet taste of her blood mingling with the salty taste of her sweat. He swallowed, eyes closed, picturing the ecstasy of their joining.
She whimpered softly and he opened his eyes to look at her. She leaned back into the couch, her neck stretched provocatively. Her pulse hammered faster than before, her shallow breath coming in quick pants. He'd caught her up in his fantasy somehow. Maybe not the details, but the general slant of his thoughts certainly seemed to have gotten through. But how? He'd been guarding his thoughts from transmission.
The explanation struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. She'd picked up on his thoughts the same way she'd countered his earlier attempts to mentally control her. By using her own mental powers. She shared more than just a blood type with Gillian. She shared the telepathic gift as well.
Obviously, she didn't know how to use it. She probably didn't even recognize the ability. To most people, she'd just seem to be remarkably intuitive and unusually persuasive.
Look what she'd done with only her raw telepathic ability. With training, she might have skills equal to his. He'd need to find out just how strong she really was, but he already knew the most important thing.
This changed everything.
