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bsp; "Illness." Desmond's voice had turned completely flat and unemotional.
Rebecca swallowed, and fumbled for something she could ask that would not cause him any further pain. "What interesting names. I'd guessed Lacroix was French, and so are Etienne and Jean-Michel. Where did Roderick and Desmond come from? Aren't they British names?"
Desmond smiled, and his shoulders relaxed. "They are the names of my maternal grandfather and uncle, respectively. My parents alternated which side of the family we were named after."
Rebecca counted off the names. Etienne— French, Roderick— British, Jean-Michel— French, Desmond— British. The only place for another British name was before Etienne.
"So your sister, Veronica, is the oldest."
"Oh, no. Being a girl, she didn't count." He realized his mistake immediately. "I mean, my father named the first boy, and they took turns after that. My mother named the first girl. If they'd had another, my father would have named her. Veronica came after Etienne but before Roderick."
"It must have been hard for your sister when you were a teenager." Rebecca tossed the comment out, hoping to guide Desmond's recollections to his missing years.
"No, by that time she'd already started running out. At first, she'd be gone for a day or two. Then she stayed away for a week. Finally, months would go by between visits. And then she stopped coming home at all."
"That's terrible! How could she do that to you?"
"I didn't blame her." A sad smile tilted Desmond's lips. "She needed her freedom. She would have returned eventually, had she not taken ill."
"I see." Rebecca studied the comforter, and picked off a piece of invisible lint, strangely unwilling to meet the truth in his eyes. Or maybe afraid he'd see the naked fear in hers. "Is this need for freedom something that runs in your family?"
"Rebecca." Desmond turned her face to look at him. "If you're asking, will I run out on you, the answer is no. Never. Absolutely not. I know what it feels like to be the one left behind. I couldn't do that to you."
He'd left his hand against her cheek when he turned her face. Now he started stroking her jaw with a feather light touch, and dusting around her ear with soft caresses. He stared into her eyes, and she watched as passion darkened his eyes from a light jade to a fiery emerald. Her lips seemed to go dry under the heat of his stare.
She moistened her lips. The quick movement attracted his attention, the way a hawk is attracted by the movement of a hare that breaks and runs. The weight of his gaze settled on her lips, and he traced their contours with his thumb. She closed her eyes, concentrating on the ripples of pleasure set off by his touch. But it couldn't last. She had to get back to her interview, to discovering his secret.
She opened her mouth to tell him so, the movement giving him access to the tender inside surface of her lips as well. He glided the tip of one finger across the moist lining, sweeping back across the edge of her lower teeth, again and again, until she abandoned all thoughts of an interview. She stopped his relentless caress by closing her mouth and wrapping her tongue around his finger. She tasted traces of her own shampoo, the citrus flavor almost masking Desmond's subtle musk, and drew his finger deeper.
He groaned. "Rebecca, we can't."
"Can't what?" She kept his finger lightly imprisoned between her teeth, and flicked the edge with her tongue as she spoke. He twisted on the bed, but made no effort to break away.
"I dare not risk your health," he protested.
"We'll go easy. After all, last night didn't hurt me any."
He jerked his hand free so quickly her teeth snapped together. She pushed herself up and glared at him.
"What is your problem?"
He ignored her, his head bent and eyes closed in an internal struggle for control. When his eyes opened, he kept his expression carefully neutral.
"I told you, I don't want to endanger your health."
"One little kiss is no risk to my recovery," she snapped. He looked at her lips, and smoldering passion flickered in his eyes as he trailed his gaze lower, skimming her breasts and hips with palpable heat.
"Do you honestly believe it would stop there?"
She swallowed, thrown by the husky catch in his voice, and allowed her gaze to drift downward from his face. He might be able to school his features to show no emotion, but his body betrayed him. He wanted her. Very much. At the sight, an answering need flared to life within her.
"Would it be so bad if we didn't stop?" she whispered.
"I don't want to hurt you."
"You won't." She smiled, a knowing, predatory grin, and reached for his pants. The zip rasped open, freeing him, and her hand closed around him. He pressed forward, sliding through her fingers in a soft caress that left him trembling. Echoes of his pleasure rippled back through her, tightening her own tension and quickening her pulse.
