Dark Salvation Page 18

  She showered and dressed quickly, then headed for the kitchen clutching the bouquet. She needed a vase for the flowers and a cup of coffee for herself, not necessarily in that order. Then she could start making calls, and find out what it would take to move out of her apartment and transfer her business contacts to an answering service out here.

  As she left her room, she spotted Gillian playing quietly in the living room and called out, "Good morning, Gillian."

  Gillian looked up and smiled. "Wanna play?"

  A jumble of blocks and tiny dolls snaked around the little girl, carefully arranged in some order only she understood. Rebecca didn't recognize the game Gillian was playing, and knew better than to try and learn anything before her first cup of coffee.

  "Maybe later."

  Gillian nodded and turned her attention back to her dolls. Rebecca watched her for a moment, trying to puzzle out the rules of the game, then gave up and pushed open the kitchen door.

  "Good morning, Mrs. Waters." Rebecca practically sang the words.

  "Coffee's on the counter," the housekeeper replied without looking up from her piecrust. "Mr. Lacroix said you'd most likely be tired this morning, and I was to keep the pot warm for you when you woke up. If you'll be making a habit out of sleeping in, let me know, and I won't start the coffee until later in the day. It's better if it doesn't sit so long."

  "Oh." Rebecca's cheeks burned. She'd be even more embarrassed if the housekeeper could see her reaction. Rebecca tried to keep her voice casual as she poured out a cup of coffee. "Did he say anything else?"

  "He suggested I change my schedule. I normally clean in the morning and do my baking in the afternoons. I suppose he thought my vacuuming would disturb your beauty sleep." She slammed the dough against the pastry board hard enough to raise a cloud of flour.

  Rebecca busied herself with adding milk and sugar to her coffee. Desmond must not have mentioned their wedding plans to Mrs. Waters, or she would have said something about it. Since he hadn't, Rebecca wouldn't mention it either, although the opportunity tempted her. Maybe knowing she and Desmond weren't just having a casual affair would ease the housekeeper's disapproval. Rebecca took a bracing sip of her coffee.

  "Thanks. It's delicious."

  Mrs. Waters grunted affirmation.

  "Do you have a vase I can borrow? I'd like to put these flowers in some water."

  "Flowers?" The housekeeper looked up for the first time. "Those are just thistles."

  "They're still flowers. And I think they're pretty."

  Mrs. Waters sighed, and dusted her hands off on her apron. "It's in the china closet. I suppose I'd better get it. Wait here."

  She left the room, returning a few moments later with a cut glass bud vase. Turning on the tap, she filled the vase half way with water. Then she snatched the thistles from Rebecca and stuffed them into the vase.

  Rebecca grabbed the vase away from Mrs. Waters. Holding it protectively close to her chest, she fluffed the leaves and readjusted the stalks. Mrs. Waters frowned, but didn't comment.

  "If there's nothing else...?"

  "Actually, there is one more thing." Rebecca glanced up from her flowers. Not surprisingly, Mrs. Waters was looking away from her.

  "I thought there would be."

  "I need a telephone book."

  Mrs. Waters turned to her, eyes narrowed. "Who are you going to call?"

  "I won't know that until I have a chance to look in the yellow pages." Rebecca fought to control her temper. Mrs. Waters worked for Desmond, not her. He might be able to talk to the woman about her attitude, but there was nothing Rebecca could do without making the situation worse.

  "There's a directory in the study. It's in the drawer under the phone." Mrs. Waters shrugged and returned to rolling out her dough. "Not that it will do you any good. None of the shops deliver out this far. There's not much for a woman to do here, unless you're a doctor like Mrs. Lacroix was. I can't imagine what possessed you to say you'd stay on."

  Rebecca gripped the vase and ground out a stiff, "Thank you." But as she left the kitchen, the housekeeper's words continued to echo in her mind. Possession. She remembered her first few confrontations with Desmond, and the sense that she didn't control her own words and actions. She leaned heavily against the living room wall.

  She'd had that feeling of being out of control more recently, too. Last night, when she and Desmond made love, she'd felt that way again. Looking back, it seemed ominous that she hadn't questioned the gaps in her memory, when he'd been awake and she apparently hadn't. She'd also given in far too easily when he'd sidestepped the issue of his missing years. She recognized the symptoms, but questioned the underlying cause. Was she a woman in love, or a woman possessed?

  Rebecca shook her head and marched into the study. She was letting Mrs. Waters get to her. She needed to treat the situation like one of her stories, uncovering the facts and exposing all the angles. Then she'd be able to make an informed decision.

  She opened the desk and took out a legal pad, then sat down and started making notes. What evidence did she have? Desmond's lovemaking made her feel out of control and larger than life. He could coax responses from her body that she'd never even imagined existed. He'd asked her to marry him. He'd never told her he loved her. She'd saved his daughter.

  She filled the page with facts, but was no closer to an answer. If he'd made love to her and asked her to marry him before she'd donated bone marrow to Gillian, Rebecca might suspect an ulterior motive. But after the operation was over? He had no reason to keep her around, except the obvious.

  He loved her. Just as she loved him. The only power clouding her thinking was her own fear of betrayal. She had to trust him. She had to believe she could depend on him. Because if she couldn't trust the man she loved, she'd never be able to trust anyone. And a world without trust was as bleak and unappealing as a world in which no one ever helped anyone, and no one loved anyone. She'd spent the last ten years in that world. She didn't want to go back.

  DESMOND WALKED into the board room, already filled with the doctors and researchers heading up the various branches of Institute activities. He took his seat, as the individual conversations slowly faded into silence, and swept his gaze across the assembled division heads. He stopped, staring at the man sitting halfway down the right side of the table. Philippe.

  Damn. Of course Philippe would be there. As Head of Operations, he oversaw the Institute's residential housing, building maintenance and procurement departments, among other things. He presented monthly status reports and fought for his share of the budget along with the medical and research department heads.

  Maybe Philippe wouldn't make any trouble. If they could get through the meeting on a strictly business footing, there would be no opportunity for him to cause a scene. Desmond stood and called the meeting to order.

  Each department head stood in turn and presented charts outlining successes and detailing why they needed additional funding. Desmond hid a smile. In all the meetings he'd attended since the founding of the Institute, no department head had ever admitted to a failure, or asked for less money. But none of the increases surprised him, and he nodded acceptance after each presentation. Until Philippe spoke.

  "And we need thirteen hundred to repair the west elevator shaft in building three," Philippe finished his summation.

  Desmond frowned. "We repaired that shaft a few months ago. Why does it need more repairs?"

  "Because the side bracing buckled again."

  "What? When?" He leaned forward. "Why did you wait until now to tell me?"

  Too late, Desmond realized he'd given Philippe the opening he'd been looking for. If Desmond didn't stop him, Philippe would try to enlist the doctors in his fight against marriage to Rebecca. Desmond had to keep Philippe's comments in neutral territory. Or better yet, get Philippe to sit down and shut up.

  "It happened the morning after your daughter's operation," Philippe announced. Then he added, in a thought directed at Desmond,
When you were busy screwing around.

  Desmond gripped the table hard enough to bruise the wood, but allowed none of his fury to color his voice. The other attendees hadn't heard Philippe's thought, only his words. Philippe was trying to provoke a reaction, but Desmond refused to be baited.

  "You should have contacted me."

  "I tried. Your housekeeper said you didn't want to be disturbed." We'd already taken care of the problem by the time you finished taking care of—

  "We'll discuss this later. After the meeting."

  Philippe sat down, abandoning for the moment his attempts to force a confrontation. But he'd try again. The same persistent attention to detail that made him such a valuable administrator made him an infuriatingly obstinate opponent for a disagreement.

  The last two department heads responded to the reverberating tension by whizzing through their presentations in record time. As soon as they finished, the meeting disbanded, with department heads jostling each other to be first out the door. Not one stayed behind to argue for more funding or resources.

  Philippe waited until the door closed behind the last researcher, then resumed his attack. "I told you that woman was getting to you. You're paying more attention to her than to the business of the Institute."

  "A business you're sabotaging. Why didn't you tell me about the elevator? Someone could have been hurt. Would you have told me then?"

  "Would you have cared? Admit it, you've gotten what you wanted out of this place. They bought Gillian more time."

  "That's not what I wanted," Desmond snapped.

  "You didn't want them to help her?"

  "No!" Desmond took a deep breath, and struggled to regain his composure. "I mean, of course I wanted them to help her. But that wasn't why I originally started this venture. I started it to find a cure for us. And I'll keep the Institute going until they do."

  "Yeah, well, that'll be mighty hard to do when we're both dead."

  "Philippe— "

  "You just don't get it, do you? No matter what she says now, as soon as she finds out what you are, she'll turn on you. If you're lucky, she'll just leave and not try to kill you, or expose us so others can kill us."

  "She won't— "

  "Yes, she will."

  "Don't judge Rebecca by the standards of your wife! She won't turn her back on our relationship. She won't turn her back on me."

  Philippe snorted and gathered up his presentation. "You owe me vacation days. Well, I'm taking them. Now. I refuse to work for you when you're so irrational. But I'll make sure you know where I am. So you'll have no trouble finding me to apologize when she leaves you."

  "Go to hell."

  "I've already been there." Philippe stalked off, slamming the conference room door on his way out.

  Desmond returned to his own office, hoping Philippe might cool off and see reason. But when the Assistant Director of Operations showed up later that morning with the division's follow-up paperwork, she confirmed that Philippe had gone.

  Desmond gave the papers only a cursory glance before carving his signature across the bottom of them. He pushed the signed authorizations back across his desk to her. "You know what all of these are for?"

  "Yes." She picked up the pile and stuffed the papers into her already overflowing briefcase. "Philippe and I discussed all the open action items yesterday, when we reviewed his presentation for today's meeting."

  "Good." He paused, not sure how to phrase his question without offending her. "Philippe left suddenly. Will you be able to absorb the additional workload?"

  "Of course." She straightened, indignant that he dared to question her capability. He didn't try to defend his question, only looked concerned, and she relaxed with a laugh. "You're right. It won't be easy. But I've got a great staff who can pick up parts of my job while I do his. Although...."

  "Yes?"

  "I know we've asked for a lot this month already," she blurted out in a rush, "but if you could just authorize some discretionary award money? They'll be putting in a lot of overtime on this. I'd like to give them a little bonus, as a way of saying thank you."

  "Of course." He should have thought of that. This fight with Philippe had gotten to him. "Just tell me who and how much, and I'll authorize it."

  Desmond smiled. If she asked for too much, he could always take it out of Philippe's check. He deserved it for running out on them like this.

  She thanked Desmond and left. He glanced at his watch, and discovered it was already eleven. He didn't have anything urgent to keep him in the office. If he left now, he'd have three hours with Gillian before he had to return.

  Desmond smiled as he locked up his desk. Honesty forced him to admit Gillian wasn't the only one he was looking forward to seeing.

  When he opened his front door, Gillian didn't run to greet him. He hoped she was busy, and not angry with him for leaving her earlier. It hadn't been that long ago when she'd throw tantrums over the slightest change to her schedule. He thought she'd outgrown that, but he wasn't sure.

  He walked inside, and was relieved to see Gillian and Mrs. Waters engrossed in a brightly colored game spread across the coffee table. Candyland, it looked like. Gillian looked up and smiled, then turned her attention back to the game.

  "Blue. Orange. Green. Red!" She grabbed her red plastic game piece and slammed it down triumphantly on the red space. "I passed you!"

  "That you did," Mrs. Waters agreed. "You're so good at this, Gillian. I don't think I have any chance of winning."

  Gillian giggled and smiled at her father. "I'm winning, Daddy! See?"

  He strolled over and examined the board. "Yes, you are. By quite a bit, too."

  Mrs. Waters turned over a card and handed it to Gillian. "Could you find where my piece is supposed to go, dear?"

  Gillian studied the card carefully, and began tracing the board with her finger, reciting the colors.

  Mrs. Waters looked up at Desmond. "You're home earlier than I expected. Lunch isn't ready yet."

  "That's all right. You and Gillian finish your game. I'm in no hurry." He paused, then asked, "Where's Rebecca?"

  "In the study." Mrs. Waters lowered her voice to a stage whisper, and added, "Making phone calls."

  Desmond frowned at his housekeeper's obvious suggestion of impropriety. He couldn't image what she objected to about Rebecca using the phone. But the tone of her words sent a sliver of apprehension down his spine, and he approached the study with caution. He pushed open the door in time to hear the end of Rebecca's question.

  "And how soon can you have a vehicle available?"

  He froze in the doorway. Was she calling for a taxi? A rental car to take her away? Had Philippe been right?

  "Okay. You're sure delivery this far out in the desert won't be a problem?" she continued.

  "Rebecca?" He hated how hesitant his voice sounded. But it was enough to startle her.

  She spun around toward the door, her eyes wide. Then she recognized him, and a huge grin spread across her face.

  "You're home," she whispered. A loud squawk from the phone recalled her to her previous conversation, and she babbled into the receiver, "Yes, well, thank you for all your help. I'll let you know. I've got to go now."

  She hung up and turned back to Desmond, the smile spreading across her face and lighting her eyes. "I was trying to arrange for a moving van. I already called my landlord and gave notice. But I'm going to have to go back to New York and pack up my things before the end of the month. When were you thinking of having the wedding?"

  Desmond felt an answering smile warming his face. He was an idiot to have doubted her. He'd let Philippe's fears poison his mind when he should have known better. Nothing could separate Rebecca from him.

  "I was thinking Saturday."

  "This Saturday?" she squeaked.

  "Yes. Is that a problem?"

  "But...but...that's less than a week away! Where will we hold it? When will we get the rings? What will I wear?"

  He leaned over and
gave her a lingering kiss. "You're adorable when you're flustered. Did you know that?"

  "No. And don't change the subject. How on earth were you planning to get ready by this Saturday?"

  "Las Vegas isn't that far from here. I thought we could reserve one of the wedding chapels, drive up Friday night, get the license and the rings, and get married Saturday morning."

  "Las Vegas?" Rebecca pulled back in horror.

  "You don't like the idea?" He tried to keep the panic out of his voice. If she refused to get married in Las Vegas, he didn't know how he was going to explain or obtain the services of a Justice of the Peace willing to marry them during the hours of darkness.

  "It just seems so...tacky."

  "It won't be."

  "But why not wait and do it right? A real church service, with family and friends in attendance."

  He tilted his head and studied her, trying to see beneath her calm veneer. If only he could pry into her mind for the answers, this would be so much easier. "Is there anyone in particular you'd like to invite? I thought your parents were both dead."

  "My father's dead. I said my mother was gone. She's gone to Florida. I don't talk to her anymore." Rebecca smiled sadly. "I guess I don't have any friends or family to attend me. It's just that I'd always pictured a storybook wedding. A big stone church, full of stained glass, and crammed to the rafters with people who'd watch me process down the aisle in yards and yards of white lace."

  Desmond caught up her hands and covered them with gentle kisses until she gave him her attention.

  "Rebecca. Dear heart. I'll find you a chapel with stained glass, and a wedding dress with yards and yards of lace. Don't you know I only want you to be happy? But I'm selfish. I don't want to wait any longer to make you my wife than I have to."

  He ignored the edge of guilt scraping at his conscience. Marrying her would please him, and he'd do everything he could to make the marriage a happy one for her, too. But he couldn't forget that she'd be better off with a normal man. One who could grow old alongside her, and who could give her nice, normal children that weren't likely to die before they'd ever had a chance to live. Someone who wouldn't threaten her safety by his very existence.