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"Rebecca?" Desmond tapped her lightly on the arm, pulling her back to the present.
"She'll die without my help, won't she?"
Desmond sat up straight, his face once again an unreadable mask. "Yes."
"Then I guess I really have no choice. After all, it's not like giving up a kidney or something. Bone marrow grows back. It does grow back, doesn't it?" She shot him a worried glance, and he nodded. She sighed. "Okay, then. I'll do it. But let's get it over with quickly."
"Thank you. I'll schedule it for tomorrow." He smiled, impulsively catching up her hand and pressing a kiss to it. A spark seemed to jump between them, tingling all the way up her arm. She looked down just as he looked up, their gazes meeting and locking in a moment that seemed to transcend time.
She'd never really noticed how green his eyes were. Not just sea green, or moss green, or neon green, but all of those and more. A rainbow in every shade of green shimmered in his eyes, each color in turn emphasized as the deep black iris expanded. Desmond continued to stare at her, as if he'd never seen her eyes, either. She couldn't imagine why. They were a plain, ordinary gray. Nothing to excite such lengthy perusal.
A wave of self-consciousness assailed her, and she blinked. So did he. Then he let his hand drift down, away from hers. Still moving at half speed, he stood up and stepped away.
He started to leave the room, but turned around when he reached the door.
"If you'd changed your mind and didn't want to help her anymore, I wouldn't have forced you to, you know."
"I know." She frowned. What an odd thing to say. She understood now that his impulsive kidnapping of her had been an act of desperation, and he'd only wanted time to convince her to help his daughter. But all along, he'd insisted on gaining her willing cooperation.
"In light of Philippe's comments this morning, I just wanted to make sure. Even though I'm concerned about Gillian, I still know the difference between right and wrong."
He didn't wait for an answer, turning and leaving the room as soon as he finished. Which was a good thing, because she had no idea what to say to a statement like that. Unbidden, the line from Shakespeare sprang into her head. Methinks thou dost protest too much. She wouldn't have dreamed of questioning Desmond's moral integrity. Until now.
MRS. WATERS had made one of Gillian's favorite meals, chunks of chicken in a thick sauce of tomato paste and sour cream, accompanied by dumplings of all shapes and sizes. Intent on finding all of the treasures hidden on her plate, Gillian ignored the adults.
Desmond smiled, watching his daughter's enthusiastic attempts to spear a particularly slippery dumpling, then turned his attention to Rebecca. Hoping to keep the conversation light, he asked her, "What were you working at so industriously when I came into the study?"
"My story." She blushed, and hastened to add, "I'd promised an article about Phoenix as a tourist destination to one of the editors I work with."
"As opposed to your story about the Institute?"
"Mm-hm." She avoided answering by shoveling forkfuls of chicken and dumplings into her mouth.
"I won't ask about it, if you prefer." His mild words startled her, and for a moment he was afraid she would choke. Even Gillian stopped playing with her food to watch Rebecca cough, turn red, and then gulp half her glass of water, which started her coughing again.
When she recovered, she smiled weakly. "I guess I expected you to be more protective of the Institute's secrets."
He shrugged. "I did invite you."
At the time, he'd been concerned about how much she knew, and wanted an excuse to meet in person with her so he could use his skills to learn the truth. He'd quickly discovered she had suspicions, but no facts. His efforts during her tour had dissuaded her from her suspicions. Yet her reaction proved she did not trust him.
He couldn't blame her. After all, he didn't trust her. For a moment, in the study, he'd hated the secret he was keeping from her. He still did. Against all reason, he wanted to prove she was trustworthy. That he could confide in her, and leave no secrets between them.
Smiling, he began his delicate cross-examination. "What are some of the other places you've written tourist articles about?"
"I really haven't traveled that much. The library, internet, and occasional phone call usually suffice."
"But isn't free travel one of the main benefits of being a travel writer?"
"It is. But I'm not. I write features ... except I write other things to pay the rent."
"Such as?"
"Well, I did a series of science articles for the Sunday supplement of a newspaper."
His blood chilled. Did she have the background knowledge to piece together what was going on at the Institute? Perhaps he should have let her stay in the apartment. Dr. Chen would have needed only one more day to complete the experiments on his own.
"Really? What sort of science articles?"
