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"Sure." He headed for where Gillian sat, surrounded by blocks. "How ya doing, squirt?"
Gillian laughed and waved her arms. "Unca Philippe!"
Desmond's chest tightened as Philippe leaned down to give her a hug and kiss. Seeing them together, Desmond didn't doubt Philippe's love for her. Perhaps much of his attitude was fear that his curse had strengthened the effects of Desmond's, that he was somehow responsible for the speed and strength of her illness.
Desmond shook his head, forcibly dispelling the negative images. Rebecca's sacrifice would do what no medicines could. Not slow the disease, not even stop it, but for a while completely reverse its insidious effects. He pushed aside the irrational fear that the transplant wouldn't happen, that Rebecca would back out at the last minute, and walked over to his daughter for a hug and kiss of his own.
"See you in a little while, sweetheart." Desmond turned to Rebecca. "I'm all yours."
"That's a bit excessive. I don't think I'll need all of you." Her return smile shook a little, and she reached for his hand. "But I wouldn't mind something to hold on to."
His hand held tight in her grip, Desmond followed Rebecca to the prep room.
Chapter 8
"OKAY," REBECCA called through the door. "You can come back in."
Desmond reentered the small examining room. She perched on the edge of the paper covered table, and tucked the blue cotton hospital gown more closely around her legs. Her fear swirled about her, assaulting him with random visions of doctors, nurses, needles and late-night horror movies.
He strengthened his mental barriers automatically, shutting out her fears. But she still suffered from them. Her face paled as she clenched and unclenched her hands and fidgeted from side to side on the table, tearing the fragile paper. He couldn't help her if he didn't know what was bothering her, so he lowered his shields again until her fears just brushed the edges of his thoughts.
Normally, he'd try to calm her with mental suggestions. But the thought that she might change her mind and back out at the last second terrified him, and he didn't dare risk transmitting that suggestion to her along with the helpful thoughts he meant to send. So he relied on the old-fashioned method of distracting her.
"That's a new look for you," he joked, waving a hand at the gown. "I think you might be starting a new fashion."
She rewarded him with a nervous laugh. "The color's okay, but the fit leaves something to be desired."
"It's a standard size— one size doesn't fit anybody." He smiled, and admitted to himself that the fit left him desiring a lot of things. No matter how she hitched the gown, it either slid down, exposing the soft white skin of her shoulder, or slid forward, revealing the creamy fullness of her breasts barely contained in her wisp of a bra.
"Why are they taking so long?" She kicked her legs, fluttering the hem of her gown.
Desmond forced himself to look away from the tantalizing glimpses of her thighs, staring instead at an inane photograph of daffodils on the far wall. Picking up on images of bumbling doctors dropping instruments and nurses preparing the wrong equipment, he hurried to reassure her that everything was running according to schedule.
"It hasn't even been five minutes since you finished the questionnaire and the nurse took your blood pressure."
"Well, that's too damn long! It's your hospital. Can't you demand better service?"
He spun around. How had she learned that he owned the Institute? He scanned her face for a clue to her words, unable to pin down her chaotic thoughts. Rebecca looked impatient and cranky, not pleased as she should have been at having pried loose a secret. Perhaps she didn't realize the importance of what she'd said.
"My hospital? I may be the Institute's Director— "
"So direct somebody!"
He grinned with relief. She'd been speaking figuratively, not literally.
"And here I always thought the story of monsters transformed into people by a morning cup of coffee was a myth," he teased her.
She glared back at him. "Missing my morning coffee is not funny. When you were describing this procedure, you didn't mention that they'd be torturing me first. And wipe that stupid grin off your face!"
He made an effort to comply with her demands, but couldn't keep the grin from tugging at the corners of his mouth. She just looked so adorably indignant, like a kitten who'd been playing with a water balloon and couldn't understand why it had gotten soaked.
The door opened, admitting the nurse.
"If you'll follow me, please."
"It's about time," Rebecca grumbled, and hopped off the table. But she clasped Desmond's hand briefly as she passed. He gave her hand a reassuring squeeze and followed her to the larger examining room prepared for her procedure. As they entered the room, the sting of fresh antiseptic burned his throat. She turned aside, surreptitiously rubbing at her eyes.
The nurse hovered by the padded operating table, while Dr. Laurence waited by a rolling tray full of needles in a range of sizes. Concerned about Rebecca's reaction to the sight of so many needles, considering her earlier fears, Desmond stepped between her and the tray, blocking her view.
