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For instance, what secret was he hiding? It must be something big, for him to believe any mention of his adult years might reveal it. But other than that, any possible explanation could be nothing more than supposition on her part. She had no evidence, not even a clue as to what took place during those years.
Maybe she didn't need to know what had happened to him. Maybe it was enough to know he was hiding something from her. She'd ask him tonight, when he came home. If he refused to tell her, she'd know he couldn't be trusted.
DESMOND STRUGGLED through the pile of paperwork before him. He should have finished this hours ago, but he couldn't concentrate. Philippe had left the rental car receipt for him on his desk, avoiding a direct confrontation. He'd avoided Desmond's attempts to reach him all day.
Desmond didn't know what he would say to Philippe if they did see each other. A lot of pain and resentment could build up in a hundred years. Their argument last night had forced them to face the blight on their friendship, and Desmond's words had pierced the protective skin of denial covering the sore spot. But he'd be naive to think it would heal quickly. That would take much longer, if it happened at all.
And what about Rebecca? Had Philippe been right? Had Desmond's cursed blood led to Olivia's disease? The thought of Rebecca wasting away made Desmond's heart falter in its beat. He wouldn't let that happen.
A breath of cold wind wrapped around his soul. Olivia's cancer had been caused by a malfunction of her immune system. For some unknown reason, it overresponded to a simple cold, producing far too many white blood cells. The problem was compounded by the white blood cells themselves, a diseased variant that did not go away when the need for them was over. They filled her blood stream, preventing the red blood cells that carried nutrients and removed waste from doing their job. Or so it had been explained to him.
The doctors hadn't known of his special condition. He'd never thought to mention it. But what if her body had been fighting an infection? An infection caused by his cursed blood?
If his cursed blood could cause disease, there was no telling how small an amount of blood was necessary. But it would have to be caused by an exchange of actual blood. Unlike most diseases of the blood, an exchange of bodily fluids in general couldn't cause infection. If it could, Olivia would not have taken five years to become ill.
Desmond groaned. He would have to be very careful with Rebecca. He needed her, needed her passion, her strength. He couldn't bear the thought of living without her. But he couldn't bear the thought of risking her life, either.
It didn't matter that he found ecstasy in her arms. It didn't matter that making love with her transported him to another world. All that mattered was that he couldn't endanger her. He couldn't let himself make love with her again. Ever. He prayed that would be enough, and that he hadn't already infected her.
Chapter 11
REBECCA ADDED the finishing touches to her article and read it over one more time. Perfect. Now she could devote her attention to planning the most important interview she'd ever done. Desmond Lacroix. She needed to discover what secrets lay in the years he'd refused to discuss, without having him realize she was probing for information.
Then again, some interest on her part was surely called for. What sort of woman wouldn't want to know about her prospective husband? But she couldn't act too curious. Interested, but not inquisitive. She frowned. It would be easier to prompt Desmond for information if she had some idea of what she wanted to know.
Rebecca relaxed, and tried to clear her mind of distractions. Sometimes she could provoke one of her flashes of insight that way.
A mental picture formed instantly. Of last night's lovemaking. As if it were happening now, she could feel the heat of Desmond's presence against her passion slicked skin. His hands gripped her as he filled her, pulling her closer, even as her fingers dug into the corded muscles of his back in an effort to fuse them closer still. He tossed back his head, his thick black hair clinging damply to his shoulders, and opened his mouth to cry out. Echoes of last night's ecstasy shuddered through Rebecca, and the memory shattered into cascading flecks of brilliant green light. The floating specks of light slowly faded, melting like snowflakes when they touched her, leaving her alone in the present.
She struggled to catch her breath. Gradually, her lungs settled into a steady rhythm, and her heartbeat slowed to match it. Nothing like that had ever happened to her before. The memory had swept her away completely, as thoroughly as if she'd been transported back in time to experience her night of passion again. Except for one thing. That wasn't how it had happened.
Rebecca tried to concentrate, but her mind buzzed with a happy afterglow. The recent experience slipped away from her every time she focused on it, so she concentrated on last night, instead. She remembered the same contented glow, the feeling of being simultaneously so full of emotion that she was the size of a house, and so focused that she'd become no bigger than an ant. She remembered running her hands lazily over Desmond's back, smooth and relaxed after his own passion had been spent, and opening her eyes to gaze upon his smile.
Opening her eyes? Rebecca replayed the scene in her mind. Yes, last night her eyes had been closed. So she couldn't know how Desmond looked as ecstasy claimed him. Whatever had just overcome her, it wasn't a memory.
Much as she would have liked to spend longer thinking about last night, she resolutely pushed the thoughts aside. That interlude, no matter how enjoyable, got her nowhere closer to her goal of uncovering Desmond's past. Unfortunately, nothing else did either. When he arrived home a few hours later, she still hadn't thought out a way to systematically probe his background without rousing his suspicions. She'd have to wing it, and hope for the best.
Gillian squealed happily in the next room, and Desmond asked a question too softly for Rebecca to make out the words. Mrs. Waters answered him, and he chuckled, a rich sound that made Rebecca's heart pick up its pace. A moment later, he knocked on her door and looked in. Gillian clung to her father, obviously uncertain if being in Rebecca's room was forbidden or not.
"How are you feeling after a full day of bed rest?"
Desmond rested one hand lightly on top of his daughter's mop of curls, simultaneously blessing her presence in the doorway and preventing her from entering further into the room. Strangely, he showed no interest in coming any closer, either.
Rebecca twisted her neck to see his expression better, and caught her breath at the smoldering desire in his eyes. But even as his gaze exchanged silent promises with Rebecca, he dropped his hand down to Gillian's shoulder and protectively drew her closer. Hot shame flooded Rebecca's cheeks, and she lowered her face into the softness of the covers to hide her reaction.
"I'm fine," she mumbled into the covers. "And sick of staying in bed. I'm getting up tomorrow."
"If you feel ready for it. I don't want you rushing things and injuring yourself."
She lifted her face enough to sneak a quick peek at him. Something about his tone hinted that he wasn't referring to the aftereffects of her operation. But his expression revealed nothing, not even his previous desire.
"I'll be okay. I know how to take care of myself."
"I hope you do." He smiled. "I'll bring you in a dinner plate, tonight. I'm sure you'll feel well enough to eat with us tomorrow."
"I'm sure I will."
He and Gillian left the room. He returned alone, with Rebecca's dinner, but didn't stay long enough for any discussion. She'd have to wait until Gillian went to sleep before she could hold a conversation of any length with him. Rebecca picked at her food, inactivity and nerves destroying her appetite, and waited for Gillian's bedtime.
