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He stroked her back, pressing her closer, and guided her arms around his neck. "You don't feel cold to me."
"That's because you make me so hot." She giggled. "I can't believe I just said that."
Because of his altered metabolism, he was no judge of proper body temperature. Still, he brushed the back of his hand against her forehead. It did seem a little warmer than he expected. Were her cheeks delicately flushed from passion, or from fever?
He clutched her in a tight embrace, burying his face in her lemon scented hair. He never should have told her he loved her.
"You do seem a little warm," he said, finally. "I'll get the thermometer so we'll know for sure."
"Now?" she wailed.
The romantic moment had succumbed to dread. She couldn't be sick. He must be wrong. But he had to know. "Now."
As he pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, she shivered. He tucked the thick comforter around her, alarmed at the way she burrowed under it. Her voice muffled by bedding, she mumbled, "Hurry back."
He raced through the living room to Gillian's bathroom, and flung open the medicine cabinet. The thermometer sat on the second shelf, along with a bottle of Children's Tylenol. Desmond grabbed both, filled a plastic cup with water, and hurried back to Rebecca.
While he was gone, she'd curled into a tight ball beneath the covers. Leaving his things on the night stand, he slipped into the bed beside her, and gathered her trembling body close to his warmth. She wrapped her arms around him and twined her legs with his.
Her shivers slowly subsided. When she eased herself away from him to find a more comfortable position, he asked, "Better?"
"I'm warmer now. But I feel funny. All wiggly."
His heart turned to lead. Picking up the thermometer from the night stand, he said, "Let's check your temperature. All right?"
"Do I have to come out from under the covers?"
"No."
"Then okay."
When he opened the covers, she curled a little closer to him, but only shivered once. Placing the thermometer beneath her tongue like an obedient patient, she drowsed against his chest. He silently counted off the agonizingly long seconds, then pulled the thermometer out. She didn't open her eyes.
"Well?" she murmured.
"You're running a low-grade fever."
"Low-grade? Nope. I only have premium, A-1 quality fevers. Never settle for second best." She tried to smother a giggle, but it escaped.
"No, I meant...never mind."
He lifted her to a sitting position, and guided the cup of water to her lips. She sipped it, took the Children's Tylenol he offered her, and swallowed the rest of the water. The comforter fell from her shoulders, but she didn't seem to mind. Was her fever abating or getting worse?
"Rebecca?"
"Mmm?"
"I love you."
"You don't have to sound so sad about it. I love you, too."
His only answer was to wrap his arms around her and cradle her against his chest. She was burning up.
"Rebecca, I am so, so sorry."
He buried his face in her hair, lost in an agony of recrimination. Philippe had tried to warn him, but he hadn't listened. He'd let his desires overwhelm his good sense. He should have sent Rebecca on her way as soon as the bone marrow transplant was through, or let her recover on her own in the hospital. He never should have made love to her. And he definitely should have never said he loved her, and called down the power of his curse on her.
She shifted in his arms, her eyelids fluttering and then opening. "Desmond?"
