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  Rebecca sighed, and twisted her head so that she could breathe. So far, only the housekeeper's reaction made any sense. The situation worried her, demanding an explanation she couldn't give.

  Yes, she and Desmond had made love. And it had been wonderful. He'd transported her to a reality she'd never dreamed of. But in retrospect, she had trouble believing she'd been so carried away that she'd agreed to marry him. And lovemaking, no matter how wonderful, wasn't enough of a reason for a man to propose marriage. She could understand if he'd asked her to stay on as his lover. Or suggested they keep in touch, or visit each other. But not marriage.

  No, the key piece of the puzzle remained a mystery. If only she could remember his exact words. They contained a clue. She was sure of it. But her memory blurred last night's images of passion into an impressionistic montage of ecstasy.

  She sank into the memories, revisiting the heights to which he'd taken her. When she surfaced, she lacked any clearer view of the puzzle, but recalled all too clearly the feel of his hands and lips against her skin. Alone and lonely, she longed to see him.

  The thought made her push herself into the closest approximation of a sitting position she could manage. Was that true? Did she really long to see Desmond again, not just because of the way they'd made love, but because she missed him? Somehow, despite her best intentions, she'd already started to rely on his quiet presence.

  She remembered how frightened she'd been before the operation, and how she'd instinctively reached for his hand. The way she'd turned to him for comfort. Even how she'd readjusted her schedule for him, staying up later at night so she could talk with him after he'd put Gillian to bed.

  That was wrong, all wrong. She'd learned from her parents' example, that trust too easily bestowed ended in betrayal. She'd promised herself not to fall into that trap, to enter every relationship with her eyes wide open and her partner's motivations clearly understood. For ten years she'd kept that promise. Now, she'd stumbled into a pit, and had no idea how to climb back out.

  She should leave, before she started to trust Desmond. That way, he wouldn't have a chance to turn on her. The thought chilled her as completely as a spring downpour. Had she become so cynical, then, that she expected betrayal?

  If only she understood him better. Unless she knew his position, unless she understood his reasoning, how could she trust him not to cast her aside? For all their talking, she knew nothing about him. Oh, she knew a few snippets of information about his past, like his father had died when he was very young, and he had a sister and a number of brothers, including his half-brother, Philippe. But he refused to speak of anything that happened between when he was a boy and the time when Gillian had been born.

  He doesn't want to lie to you. The answer came to her in a flash of insight, the same way the answers to puzzling aspects of her articles often came to her. She'd learned to trust her insights, but still sought corroborating evidence. That's what she did now.

  Casting her mind back over their conversations, she sifted through Desmond's words. He'd never lied to her. He'd given vague and ambiguous answers, or shifted the topic of conversation, but never outright lied to her. Rebecca shook her head. No. He never lied to her, that she knew of. That didn't mean he'd never lied. She hadn't suspected her mother's lie, either. His apparent truthfulness supported her insight, but it didn't prove it. She needed more, before she could trust him.

  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.

  Finally, Gillian went to bed, and Desmond returned to Rebecca's room.

  "Are you finished? You didn't eat very much."

  "I wasn't hungry." Rebecca ignored the plate she'd set on the floor and patted the bed beside her. "Come over here. I want to talk to you, and you're giving me a crick in the neck looking up at you like that."

  Desmond crossed the room warily. He stopped at the edge of her bed, and after a moment of hesitation, slipped off his shoes. He stretched out next to her, but kept a careful distance away. The warm glow of his presence brushed her skin, stinging like nettles, since he so obviously refused to admit to any similar attraction. She longed to turn and pull him close, but forced herself to concentrate on her interview. She still wasn't sure of how she could get him to open up about his past, so she focused on trivialities and hoped she might build it into something bigger.

  "Your mother must have taught you well. You took your shoes off before putting your feet on the bed."

  "My sister, actually. She was quite liberated for a woman of her time, and insisted we boys wash our own linens. I learned quickly to keep things clean."

  Rebecca grabbed at the opening he'd left her. "Liberated? Because she had you do your own laundry? You can't be that much older than me."

  "But I'm much younger than my sister," he cut in. Before she could ask how old his sister was, he added, "Veronica was practically an adult while I was still a toddler."

  Rebecca did the math in her head. With a fifteen year difference in ages, if Desmond had been born in the early sixties, his sister would have been born right after World War II ended. She'd have grown up with the Donna Reed model of virtuous womanhood, where men never lifted a finger toward any domestic chore. Compared to that, asking her brothers to help with the washing was a big step. But it didn't explain why she assigned the household tasks in the first place.

  "So your sister was in charge of all the domestic chores, rather than your mother?"

  "Yes." Desmond turned to get a better view of her face. "But you had something to say, and here I am going on about my sister. What was it you wanted to discuss?"

  Rebecca admired his smooth deflection of her questions. If this had been a casual conversation, she would never have noticed how, after his first comment, Desmond had provided only enough of an answer to forestall further questions. But this wasn't a casual conversation, and his evasiveness only added to her conviction that he had something to hide.

  "Actually, we were discussing it. I wanted to know more about your family."

  "Why?"

  Desmond's closed and guarded expression sent a shiver through Rebecca. She no longer doubted that he was hiding something. Now, she needed to discover what.

  "Because you've asked me to marry you, that's why. Isn't it natural I be a little curious about your family?"

  "I asked you to marry me, not them."

  "But they're part of what went into making you who you are."

  He frowned, but she stared him down. Finally he admitted, "I suppose you have a point." Rolling onto his back, he put his arms beneath his head and studied the ceiling. "It doesn't seem relevant because they're all gone now."

  Rebecca waited. She wanted to find out about his past, and what had happened during the years he didn't discuss. But her reporter's instincts to pry open his secrets were muted by a wave of protectiveness that swept through her. She wanted to take him in her arms and comfort him, let him know that whatever troubled him, she would soothe him. She wouldn't pry, or do anything to make him uncomfortable. At least, not yet. After another minute of silent contemplation of the ceiling, he took a deep breath and began his story.

  "I was the youngest of five children. Four boys and a girl. They are all dead now."

  "How?" she whispered.

  "My eldest brother, Etienne, joined the army. He was a great idealist. His country called him, and he rushed to fight for her. He led recognizance missions into enemy territory. One night he didn't come back."

  "I'm sorry."

  Desmond shrugged off her sympathy. "My other brother, Jean-Michel, joined the army with him. He couldn't bear to think Etienne would have all the excitement. Jean-Michel lasted a few days longer, but without Etienne to stop him, he took too many risks."

  "It was a terrible war."

  Desmond turned to look at her. She thought she saw a flash of fear in his eyes, but it must have been a reflection of the light, as his voice showed no trace of concern. "Yes. It was. Even after the war ended, nothing was ever the same."

  A chill shivered down Rebecca's back. The war had shaped her world, too, in ways she didn't like talking about. Desmond didn't need to remember more about it for her sake. She was interested in other areas of his history. "What about your other brother?"

  "Roderick was the artist of the family, with the weaknesses common to that temperment. He was killed in a bar fight."

  "Your sister?"

&n
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."