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  "Bless you," Mrs. Waters called from the kitchen. Rebecca shut herself in the study, away from any more help. Or food.

  Bookshelves lined the walls, crowded with hardcover books until they looked ready to collapse. In one corner of the room, two leather chairs shared an end table and a reading lamp, while in the opposite corner an antique desk held an out-of-place looking computer. A telephone sat on the end table.

  She rushed over and picked up the receiver. A dial tone buzzed loud and strong in her ear. She started to dial the editor who'd requested the travel stories she'd officially come to Arizona for. 1 - 3 - 1 - 5 The phone clicked, and rang through to an extension.

  She hung up before anyone could answer. Of course. The phones must be connected on an internal network for the whole facility. She probably needed to dial 9 to get an outside line.

  Getting dial tone again, she pressed 9. The tone shifted to a lower-pitched buzz. She dialed the editor's area code and phone number. It rang once, twice, three times, four times, and then his answering machine picked up.

  "Hi, it's Rebecca Morgan," she told it. "I'm out here in Arizona, got a little side tracked. Don't try calling my hotel. I won't be there. I'm staying at the Prescott Institute. I'll give you the number next time I call, or you can ask information if you need to get in touch with me. The research for your stories is done, and I'll have the first one to you by the end of next week."

  She hung up the phone. At least he wouldn't worry now. If this assignment was anything like the previous times she'd worked for him, the editor had already tried to call her once with a brilliant take for her story that couldn't wait until she got back.

  She smiled and shook her head. Her attitude had certainly done a one-eighty since her attempt— was it only two nights ago?— to escape. Now she trusted Desmond completely. She paused, wondering if he trusted her. Or even if he should.

  Forcing her attention to the room around her, she noticed the walls filled with book shelves. Desmond's books, a mixture of French and English, and even a few that looked like Latin, lured her to explore. She wondered if he'd ever opened some of the weighty treatises on land management and Victorian social reform, or if they'd been purchased wholesale at an auction to fill the shelves. She found a surprising number of first editions from the last century, including works by H. G. Wells and a collection of the novels of Jules Verne in the original French.

  Reluctantly, she turned away. She'd come into the study for a reason. She'd promised her editor that article on day hikes around Phoenix when she got back. Opening the desk drawers, she found paper and a pen and sat down to write.

  Chapter 7

  REBECCA SPENT the rest of the afternoon organizing her notes and drafting a rough copy of her promised travel article. She'd hoped to use the computer occupying one corner of Desmond's desk, but it wouldn't work without the right password. Considering his mania for security, the lock on his computer had disappointed but not surprised her.

  She finished transcribing the last of her notes onto squares of paper and spread the papers across the desk, shuffling them into the order she planned to use them. This was the part of writing an article she loved the most, starting with simple facts and building her story from the ground up. As each layer was complete, she tested it, probing for weaknesses. Only when she knew it could stand on its own did she begin building the layer that rested on top of it.

  She was deep in her work when the study door opened, sending a gust of air across the desk. She instinctively shielded her work with her body, pinning the papers to the leather desk blotter.

  The back of her neck tingled with awareness, but she refused to turn around. Desmond was the only one who would enter without knocking, and she wasn't in any hurry to face him. The memory of last night's kiss invaded her thoughts, speeding her heart with a mix of anticipation and fear. She didn't know what expression she hoped to see on his face. Desire? Regret? Neither?

  Giving herself time to get her thoughts under control, she gradually unfurled off the papers, gathering them up in order. When she'd picked up the last paper, she had no more excuses not to turn around. She looked up, to see Desmond framed by the doorway.

  "You've been busy," he said, nodding at the papers clutched in her hand. Was that a hint of censure in his voice? She double-checked the desk top, making sure she'd removed all traces of her activity.

  "Mrs. Waters said I could use your study."

  "Of course. You're my guest." Waving away her concern, he sauntered over to the desk and leaned against the edge. His hip rested inches away from her.

  Her every sense registered his presence, from the hint of his spicy-sweet cologne brushing the air to the wash of heat radiating from him. Might he be equally aware of her? He'd seemed interested last night. But when he hadn't followed up on their kiss, she'd thought his attention was more likely because of what she could do for his daughter, than because he found Rebecca appealing. Had she been wrong?

  "Did you get the results from Dr. Chen?" Rebecca forced her gaze up to his face.

  "Yes." His broad smile told her everything she needed to know, about the results and about her appeal. "He's confirmed your suitability as a donor."

  She shivered, as the reality of what she'd promised cast a sudden shadow over her. Desmond and his daughter would both be depending on her. What if she failed them?

  Desmond leaned over and took Rebecca's hands between his, sharing his warmth. His touch sent threads of fire through her fingers, up her arms, and into her heart until her blood seemed to smolder. She stared at their clasped hands.

  "Are you all right?"

  "Yeah. It's just— " She couldn't tell him how his touch affected her. "I hadn't really believed it would be a match."

  "Are you having second thoughts?"

  He let go and backed away. Her hands seemed twice as cold without his warmth.

  She searched his face for a hint about why he'd moved away from her, but his normally expressive features displayed nothing. Even his eyes gave nothing away, dulling to a flat bottle-green. Yes, she was having second thoughts. Anyone would. That didn't mean she was backing out.

  If he'd just give her a clue as to how important her possible second thoughts were to him, she'd know how to frame her answer. But maybe he had. Maybe his complete lack of display proved he feared that she would change her mind completely. And that he'd respect her wishes and let her go rather than trying to coerce her into staying if she no longer wanted to help. The thought of finally being the one in control of her situation gave her an unsought rush of power, tied to a responsibility she didn't want to bear alone.

  "It would help if you told me what's expected from a donor. I mean, I know Gillian needs blood cells, but how's it all happen?"

  A relieved smile transformed his face, and he extended one hand in chivalrous escort. She took the time to stack her pile of notes in the middle of the desk where they wouldn't fall, then let him lead her to the pair of leather chairs. He settled her comfortably in one, then he sat in the other and leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

  "Gillian needs a bone marrow donor, so she can create her own blood cells. The doctor will withdraw the bone marrow cells from the donor, and inject them into Gillian's blood stream, where they'll eventually be absorbed."

  "So it's like the blood samples Dr. Chen's already done, only more so?" She relaxed. That wouldn't be so bad.

  "Except the bone marrow isn't taken from the blood stream. It's drawn from the middle of the long bones in the leg."

  "The middle of the bone?" Her voice squeaked. She couldn't help it. The cells they wanted were still inside her bones.

  "Rebecca? You're very pale. Would you like a drink?"

  "Drink? No." She didn't need false courage. She needed the real kind, and found it sorely lacking. "How do they get at the middle of a bone?"

  "It won't hurt. They give you a local anesthesia, and the procedure will be over in a matter of minutes."

  "I asked how they get at the mid
dle of the bone."

  Desmond tilted his head and eyed her with suspicion. "Are you sure you want the details? You already look faint. Isn't it enough to know it won't hurt?"

  "No. It's not enough. I can deal with the truth, however awful it is. Don't you see? It's not knowing that scares me, because I can imagine things that are a million times worse."

  He nodded. "It's a simple operation. The doctor makes a small incision, chips the bone, and withdraws some of the cells. As soon as the anesthetic wears off, the donor walks away. That's it."

  She stared at the wall of books, her thoughts churning. Local anesthesia. No hospitalization. How much could it hurt? Chipping bone. Incisions. It could hurt a lot.

  "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?"

  "This and that." She lowered her gaze and pushed her food around her plate. "It's not that interesting."

  His mind heard what she did not say out loud. She'd profiled doctors involved in AIDS research, cancer research, and revolutionary heart bypass surgery. She suspected the nature of the Institute's research. And she hid her suspicions from him.

  "What interesting things have you written about, then?" He forced himself to keep the conversation light. "Six-legged calves and dog-headed boys?"

  Gillian looked up from the dumpling bridge she was constructing. "A boy with a doggie head?"

  "No. No dog-headed boys."

  Gillian persisted. "Any dogs?"

  "No dogs for you," Desmond interrupted, recognizing his daughter's intent. "Not until you're well."

  "Lots of dogs. Big dogs and little dogs and brown dogs and black dogs and— "

  "When you're well."

  She sighed, and stabbed another dumpling with her fork.

  "I did do a story on a carnival, once," Rebecca volunteered.

  That was promising. He remembered carnivals. Siamese twins, bearded ladies, and all manner of human oddities. If she accepted them—

  "It was all about how the owners were taking advantage of the people attending. The county sheriff closed the carnival down after my story ran."

  Desmond winced. No sympathy there.

  "But didn't that put the carnival people out of work?"

  "They could get other jobs. Honest jobs."

  "Even the freaks?"

  Rebecca frowned. "If you mean the side show acts, most of them were hucksters, no more unusual than you or me. The few that did have unique conditions would have been better served getting decent medical help than prolonging their suffering as a means of employment."

  He winced again. No, he couldn't trust Rebecca with the truth. She'd spent too much time trying to overcome the differences in her background and upbringing to understand some differences could not be overcome.

  Gillian saved him from continuing the awkward conversation, by announcing, "All done, Daddy."

  He pushed his chair away from the table. "If you'll excuse me, I'll get her washed and put to bed."

  "I'll do the dishes."

  Scooping up his daughter, Desmond beat a hasty retreat.

  When he came out of Gillian's room after reading her a story, he found Rebecca waiting for him in the living room. S
he sat on the couch, head bowed and hands clasped between her knees. Praying for salvation? He didn't know if she hoped for a repeat of last night, or feared what might happen between them. And he didn't dare lower his mental shields enough to find out. Especially since he'd yet to make up his own mind.

  He cleared his throat to give her warning, then joined her on the couch.

  "So," he said, forcing a carefree note of bonhomie into his voice. "How does being a freelance journalist differ from working for a newspaper or magazine?"

  "Gillian's asleep," she said, still staring at her hands. "You don't have to pretend to be interested anymore."

  Her opinion of him stung. "I wasn't pretending."

  "I saw your expression. You looked like you were visiting a dentist, and he found a cavity. Don't worry. I'll spare you the drilling."

  "Rebecca— "

  "I thought you liked me." She lifted her head and looked at him, her wide gray eyes reminiscent of a small woodland animal watching an eighteen wheeler bearing down on it and unable to do anything to get out of the way. "After last night, I thought.... But being a reporter is more than just what I do. It's who I am. And if you hate reporters— "

  "Rebecca, please. You're getting yourself all worked up over nothing." He forced a hearty smile, and covered her fisted hands with a gentle caress. He wanted to pull her into his arms and sear her with kisses, proving just how much he liked her. But he couldn't. He refused to turn her into emotional roadkill by promising something he couldn't deliver. Whatever the nature of the relationship between them was, he couldn't risk letting it develop any further. Not until he was sure of her.

  "I don't hate reporters," he continued. "And I don't hate you. It's just that working here in the Institute, I'm used to a very high level of security. Some of your comments were...alarming."

  Her face could have belonged to one of Philippe's wooden carvings for all the expression she showed. He let down his mental shields bit by bit, unfolding the layers like tissue paper until they were virtually nonexistent, but not a trace of her thoughts reached him. Her mind was sealed behind a wall as impenetrable as the look in her eyes.