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  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.

  Rebecca pushed aside the nurse's outstretched hand and climbed up onto the table without assistance, then positioned herself face down on the table exactly as she was told. Once in place, however, she refused to lie still. She kept twisting around to readjust the back of her gown. Dr. Laurence noticed the problem, and stepped forward to intervene.

  "Ms. Morgan, you have to lie down or we can't do this."

  "But the gown doesn't stay closed."

  "I assure you, Nurse Peters and I have seen plenty of gaping gowns in our time. Don't let it bother you."

  "It's not you I'm worried about."

  Three pairs of eyes trained their gazes on Desmond.

  "I can leave— "

  "No!" Rebecca grabbed for his hand. "Don't leave. Just don't look."

  "All right. I won't." He stepped around to the front of the table, and looked at the nurse. "Can I sit over here?"

  Nurse Peters traded glances with Dr. Laurence. At his nod, she fetched Desmond a molded plastic chair. He sat down, his face on a level with Rebecca's, and looked into her wide gray eyes. Normally the silver-gray of moonlight on white roses, panic had darkened them to the color of weathered driftwood.

  Holding her hand, he focused on calm and soothing thoughts, hoping she would absorb his mood. Her eyes gentled, no longer wide with fear, and lightened to their normal color. He felt her thoughts begin to line up in an orderly progression, before they slipped behind her own mental wall.

  "Satisfied?" he asked.

  She nodded, and released the gown.

  "All right, Ms. Morgan," the doctor said. "Time to get started. I'm going to give you the first shot of anesthesia now. You'll feel a little pin prick, but that's all."

  Rebecca twisted her head to see what was happening behind her, but the nurse stopped her with a light touch.

  "It's better if you don't turn and look."

  Rebecca nodded, and focused her gaze on Desmond. When the doctor jabbed her hip with the first needle, her breath hissed out and she closed her eyes. But she quickly opened them and smiled grimly.

  "That wasn't so bad."

  Desmond smiled back, encouraging her, even though he wanted to leap up and throttle the doctor for hurting her. And it wasn't only because the sharp pain had knifed through his shields before he could block it.

  In the face of her stoicism, any words of encouragement he could offer would be trivial. But maybe that was what she needed, trivial conversation to distract her from what the doctor was doing.

  "Have you been to see the Painted Desert yet? The scenery is really quite remarkable."

  She frowned, her forehead furrowing in confusion. Then her expression cleared and a radiant smile broke through, like the full moon coming out from behind a cloud. "No, not yet. I was planning to drive through it on my way up to Flagstaff, after I left here. I heard there's some sort of cathedral cut into the stone that's supposed to be very impressive."

  They discussed banali
ties of travel and tourism, and she told him about the article she was writing. Through it all, he held her hand, giving her his physical support as he tried to keep his expression smiling and relaxed. He couldn't let her see any of his apprehension at the larger and larger needles being used by the doctor. Finally, Dr. Laurence picked up something that looked more like an awl than a needle, and interrupted their conversation.

  "I'm about to go into the bone. You're going to feel a bit of pain, but it will be over quickly."

  "How quick— Oh!" She clenched her hand, bruising Desmond's fingers, and the color drained from her face. She let out her breath in a sudden puff, her fingers tightening. Desmond's body would repair any damage she might inadvertently do, but in the meantime, it still hurt.

  "Rebecca?" he whispered. He didn't want to disturb the doctor during the most delicate part of the operation. "Could you ease up a little on the grip?"

  The color came back to her face, and she let go of his hand with a self-conscious laugh. "If that's a bit of pain, I don't want to know what you think a lot of pain is, doc."

  "Well, it's all over now," Dr. Laurence reassured her, tying off the last of the bandage. "But I'd like to keep you here for observation. When the anesthetic wears off, we might need to give you something more for the pain."

  "Keep me here? That's not part of the program. I'm supposed to be able to go home." She turned to Desmond, her expression just short of pouting. "You promised."

  "It sounds like you'll just be here for a few more hours, until the anesthesia wears off. Right, Doctor?"

  Desmond looked up at the doctor, certain his concern must show. She wasn't supposed to need observation. Not only that, but the Institute stocked only two pain killers stronger than aspirin— codeine and morphine. If Dr. Laurence thought Rebecca might need some, he must expect her to be in considerable pain. What had gone wrong?

  The doctor frowned and shook his head, unwilling to discuss whatever it was in front of Rebecca. Desmond barely controlled his impatience as they loaded a grumbling Rebecca into a wheelchair and rolled her down to the infrequently used rooms containing hospital beds. But he restrained himself, for her sake.

  She settled into bed easily enough, and motioned Desmond to her side. "I didn't expect to be staying here for any length of time, or I'd have brought my work. Could you bring it back for me?"

  And to think, people accused him of being a workaholic.

  "Shouldn't you be resting, or recuperating?"

  Rebecca dismissed those options with a snort. "I'd really rather not spend the next few hours staring at the ceiling, thank you. Although I would appreciate my morning coffee."

  "I'll get your papers when I take Gillian home. In the meantime, Nurse Peters should be able to arrange for some coffee."

  He flagged the nurse over. Leaving her to argue with Rebecca about the advisability of coffee so soon after her operation, he stepped outside to talk to Dr. Laurence.

  "All right. What's the problem?" Desperate for answers, Desmond lowered his mental shields, hoping he could pick up some information that way.

  "There's nothing to worry about, Mr. Lacroix," the doctor said, his arrogance lasting only until he saw Desmond's expression. Then he stepped back, sweat beading his forehead. It's not my fault. He's going to blame me. He's going to cut my funding. It's not my fault....

  Slamming down his mental barriers, Desmond absorbed the moment of silence before he gave voice to the doctor's last thoughts. "I know something went wrong, but I won't blame you unless it was your fault. So tell me what really happened."

  The doctor's eyes widened, and he stammered, "I d-did everything correctly. It wasn't a mistake on my part."

  "If you did everything correctly, you have nothing to worry about. Now tell me what went wrong."

  "Oh." The doctor passed a shaky hand through his hair. "I had trouble opening the bone to withdraw the marrow. It took three tries." Setting his jaw, he added, "I did say you should fly out to one of the cancer treatment centers that specializes in these transplants, instead of trying to do it here. They'd have had the equipment to deal with a contingency like that."

  "She'll be all right, though, won't she?" Desmond fought back the urge to shake the answer loose. That would only scramble Dr. Laurence's thoughts worse than they were already.

  "Yes. She'll probably hurt like hell, but other than that, the operation was a complete success. As far as complications go, it was a minor one. But painful. That's why I'm recommending keeping her on codeine until the worst of it is over."

  "Do it then." Desmond used his command voice, refusing to let the doctor sidestep his next question. "Is there any possibility Gillian might have a similar complication?"

  "No. Hers is a completely different procedure. It'll be just another shot."

  "You're positive?"

  Dr. Laurence shifted his weight from foot to foot, refusing to look Desmond in the eyes.

  "Doctor," Desmond snapped, his voice jerking the man to full attention. "Is my daughter in danger?"

  "There is always a possibility, with any kind of transplant, that the host body will reject the graft. We've taken every precaution, and type-matched Ms. Morgan's cells with your daughter's to minimize the risk. She's in more danger if she doesn't have the transplant."

  Desmond nodded, letting the doctor relax. Finally, an answer he could use. He looked in the direction of the waiting area, where Philippe sat with Gillian. Did she understand anything of what was about to happen? Was she scared? He needed to be there with her, to comfort her. But he owed it to Rebecca to be with her, too. Torn, he took a single step toward the waiting room, then stopped.

  "Go get the codeine," he told the doctor. "I'll tell Rebecca you'll be bringing it."

  He'd tell Rebecca her medicine was coming, and make sure the nurse had brought her coffee. Then he'd go back to Gillian.

  REBECCA STRUGGLED back to consciousness. Bits of dreams clung to her perceptions, but she shook them off. She lay on a firm mattress, with crisp new sheets below and above her. A thin foam pillow barely cushioned her head.

  She opened her eyes, blinking to clear her vision. White walls, white sheets. The hospital. The operation must be over. But it was supposed to be outpatient surgery. Why was she in a hospital bed? And why did she feel so out of it?

  "Rebecca?" Desmond's voice. To her left.

  She turned her head, slowly. He sat by the side of her bed, looking out of place in an ugly plastic chair. She'd never seen him use anything but the best. He should be seated in one of those leather armchairs from his study. They suited him. Not ugly plastic. Then again, those plastic chairs didn't really suit anyone. Hospitals only used them to encourage visitors to leave quickly. She hoped he wouldn't leave quickly. She liked looking at him.

  "How are you feeling?" His voice rumbled, reverberating in his chest. If she placed her hand against his chest, would she hear his voice through her hand? She remembered something about shock waves, and how they traveled through air and earth at different speeds. Would his voice through her hand match the voice she heard? Or would it be like a badly dubbed Japanese movie?

  She smiled, and reached out a hand toward him. Or tried to, anyway. Her hand didn't seem to be obeying the orders of her brain. It flopped a little, but didn't come close to the graceful arc she'd envisioned. She tried again.

  He slid his chair closer and enfolded her hand in his own. The warmth of his palms spread up her arm, and she curled her fingers around his.

  "Doctor Laurence said you might be disoriented for a little while. And you may feel weak. But the operation was a success."

  A success? Then why did she hurt so much? He must mean it was a success for Gillian. Gillian. Why wasn't Desmond at his daughter's bedside?

  "Gillian," she croaked. Her mouth felt like it was lined in cotton, and her throat felt cracked and dry. Never mind the question. "Water."

  Desmond let go of her hand to pour her a cup of water from the ewer on the bedstand. Perching on the ed
ge of her bed, he put an arm around her shoulders and lifted her to a sitting position. With his arm a warm weight around her shoulders, he picked up the cup and guided it to her lips.

  She reached up and rested her hands against his. Her muscles obeyed her directions now. But she didn't take the cup from him, she merely pressed his hand to tip it. The cool water poured into her parched throat, and she gulped it greedily. He tried to lower his hand, but she held tight, refusing to let him go.

  When she'd drained the cup, she kept her hands around his. He radiated gentle warmth, soaking into her hands, her arms. Her shoulders and neck warmed beneath his touch. She wanted to absorb all of his heat, and melt her pain away.

  He lifted the cup from her lips, and this time she let her hands drop away. But when he turned to place the cup on the bedstand, she stopped him before he could slip his arm from around her shoulders.

  "No. Don't go just yet."

  "Very well. But let me find a more comfortable way to sit." He swung his legs up onto the bed, leaned back against the headboard, and curled his arm more securely around her shoulders. She rested her head against this new and preferred pillow.

  "Now, will you tell me what's going on? Why am I in the hospital?"

  "You came in for the operation to donate bone marrow for Gillian."

  "I know all that." She dismissed his answer with a wave. "I remember arguing with Nurse Peters over my coffee, and asking you to get my notes. Did you get them?"

  "Yes. They're on the table. And then?"

  "Thank you. Anyway, then Doctor Laurence said he was giving me a little something for the pain. Next thing I know, I'm out cold."

  "It seems the good doctor erred on the side of comfort, and overmedicated you. You slept all afternoon and straight through the night."

  "Huh. I don't think he's a very good doctor, then."

  He refused to comment, instead changing the subject.

  "You asked about Gillian," he reminded her. "Her part of the procedure was much easier, a simple injection. Once they were sure she wasn't going to react to it, they sent her home."