Dark Salvation Page 4

  "Can't tell."

  "Are you afraid you can't trust me?"

  "Can't trust. Anyone."

  "You can trust me."

  He reached out, and gently stroked her cheeks, framing her face with his warm, strong hands. She sighed, closing her eyes and settling into the security of his embrace. He pulled her closer, rubbing her back with long, soothing strokes. She leaned into his touch, her pulse quickening even as time slowed.

  "Do you trust me?" he whispered, his cheek pressed against hers and his voice the softest breath in her ear.

  "I trust you."

  "I would never hurt you. I need you. I need your help. Do you want to help me?"

  "I want— I want you."

  He pulled away with a choked noise, putting his hands on her shoulders and shaking her lightly until she opened her eyes.

  He was all she could see. The world was only the green fire of his eyes, fire that warmed her skin where he looked at her. She felt the heat on her face, her lips. She licked her lips, and they cooled as he dropped his gaze. But then the heat was on her breasts, an aching caress of warmth that made her yearn for his touch.

  The heat vanished completely when he closed his eyes. She sighed, missing the warmth of his gaze. She closed her own eyes, drifting in the memory of brilliant green flames.

  "Rebecca."

  She opened her eyes and found herself once again trapped in his gaze. But the dancing flames lacked heat this time, and she found she could make sense of his words.

  "Rebecca, this is important. You must tell me, do you want to help? Will you willingly volunteer to help my daughter?"

  "Yes."

  "You will help her?"

  "I will help her."

  "Willingly?"

  "Willingly."

  Desmond smiled, the dazzling brilliance almost as bright as the green flames. His hands slid from her shoulders to her back, pulling her close for a brief hug.

  "Thank you," he whispered in her ear.

  She turned her face and captured his lips with her own.

  REBECCA WOKE on the couch with a pounding headache. She tried to sit up, and the world spun crazily. She felt ill.

  Sitting quietly until the furniture stopped bobbing and dipping around her, she tried to remember what had happened. She'd come to the room with Desmond, because her car was broken. For some reason she couldn't recall, she'd thought he couldn't be trusted. They'd argued. Fought. And then—

  She gasped. No, her memories couldn't be right. Touching her fingers tentatively to her lips, she thought they might be a little swollen. But was that because she'd been kissed, or because she'd bitten her lip during their struggle?

  Her breasts ached. From being caressed, or from being crushed against the door?

  She'd woken up fully dressed, but that didn't mean anything. If what she remembered had truly happened, he could have dressed her before he'd gone. For the first time since she was seventeen, she wished she was a virgin. At least then there would have been undeniable evidence to prove whether or not she'd made love.

  Groaning, she pillowed her face in her hands. She remembered the feel of Desmond's rock-solid chest beneath her fingers, the rapid beat of his heart against his palms. He'd pressed his cheek to hers, and breathed soft words of seduction into her ear. But after that, her memory fragmented into images that made no sense.

  She'd agreed to help his research. She remembered that, although she couldn't recall what had prompted her change of heart. Perhaps he'd said something to make her think she'd found his secret and would not be allowed to reveal it? She believed he would not hurt her, but she'd already misjudged the situation once, thinking he was helping her with her car and ending up trapped instead. She couldn't risk another judgment error.

  Still, volunteering to help gave her a few days to make plans. She'd be safe enough while she was giving him what he wanted. When he didn't need her any longer, she'd become a liability. She hoped if she promised to keep silent, he'd let her go. But she knew better than to count on it. If she was going to get out of here, she'd have to escape.

  Glancing around the room, she studied it for possible escape routes. Soft blue and red light streamed through the window, but the intricate leading of the stained glass prevented it from being a possible exit. Even if she broke the glass, the metal web-work holding it in place would be as effective as an iron grille over the window pane.

  She turned her attention to the opposite direction. The door was locked by the card scanner, but Desmond had told her the scanners unlocked in case of fire. Maybe she could start a fire beneath a sensor, and trigger a fire alarm?

  No. She'd never have a chance to get away with all those people trying to leave the buildings. Plus, Desmond would guess she'd set it, and be on the lookout for her. She needed a way to release only the three scanners between here and the exit.

  She'd studied engineering before switching in her Junior year to journalism, and her rusty problem analysis skills slowly ground into gear. You couldn't count on an electric signal getting through to open the doors if the building was on fire, so that meant the doors received a constant electrical signal to stay locked. Any disruption to the scanners' power supply should open the doors.

  Getting out was only part of the battle. With no car, she'd need to walk, and she hadn't paid much attention to the landscape on her way in. She stood up and tried to see out the window, hoping for at least a dim view of the surrounding area. Peering through the glass, she could just make out the outline of the fluorescent bulb on the other side.

  It wasn't a real window. She was still underground.

  She breathed deeply, struggling to keep the terror at bay.

  She had to get out of here tonight.

  Chapter 3

  DESMOND STAGGERED into his office, shaken and disturbed by what had happened with Rebecca. Ignoring his secretary's outraged clucks, he jerked open the mini-fridge door and pulled out a black glass bottle containing eight ounces of his medicine.

  He ripped off the safety top with practiced ease. Setting the bottle to his lips, he tilted back his head and drained the thick fluid in a series of thirsty swallows.

  Fresh energy flowed through him. He imagined he could feel the fluid, a kind of super sports drink, being absorbed into his veins, and converted into fresh blood by his freakish body chemistry. He could certainly feel the change as healthy cells replaced the ones destroyed in his battle with Rebecca.

  He stared at the empty bottle in his hand. The fluid had been developed by the Institute researchers as a treatment for accident victims, to prevent shock by providing all of the nutrients necessary to replenish the blood supply and nourish the body's cells in an easily absorbed formula. Science and technology. Those were the keys to overcoming his curse. That's what would save Gillian.

  He dropped the bottle into the recyclable bin, pulled a carton of orange juice out of the fridge, and scooped a handful of Oreos from the tin. Munching on a cookie, he finally turned his attention to his hovering secretary.

  "You skipped lunch again, didn't you?" she scolded.

  "I was busy."

  "That's no excuse. It was that pushy reporter, wasn't it?"

  "It wasn't Rebecca's fault."

  "It's Rebecca now, is it?" Bernice lifted a silvered eyebrow. "Is that why you're two hours late getting back from your tour?"

  He leaned conspiratorially closer. "She's the one. I know it. Dr. Chen found Gillian's antigen in her blood sample."

  "That's wonderful! I take back everything I ever said about the woman. Did you convince her to come back for more tests?"

  Desmond looked away. "She's in the visiting doctor's suite. She's staying with us until the full course of tests are run."

  Bernice didn't say anything for a long moment, then handed him a stack of paper. "Kim dropped these off for your approval."

  He didn't touch the reports. "Aren't you going to ask how I convinced her to stay?"

  "I'm old enough to know you don't ask q
uestions if you don't want to hear the answers. Evan's scheduled a ten-thirty with you tomorrow morning to go over changes to the Institute's security systems, and Philippe's asked for a half hour after that. You're free at two o'clock, but I thought you might want the time to review the reports from Kim, so I haven't scheduled him yet."

  Desmond took the sheaf of paper from Bernice without looking, and stepped away from her desk. "She's a willing guest," he muttered.

  "Yes, Mr. Lacroix."

  He stalked into his inner office. Only the papers under his arm and food in his hands kept him from slamming the door. Bernice had no right to make him feel guilty. He hadn't coerced Rebecca. He'd only broken through her irrational fears and distrust so that she'd see the situation as it really was. The decision to help or not had always been hers to make.

  His fist clenched, pulverizing the remaining Oreo into chocolate powder. Sweet cream filling squirted between his fingers. He'd never had to work so much to influence someone's thoughts. In the end, had he pushed too hard?

  Sure, he'd been attracted to the determined little fighter with the gamine looks. Holding her close on the couch, he couldn't help thinking of a different kind of embrace, imagining a different kind of sharing. Her thoughts had run along the same track, starting from their mutual appraisals when they met. He remembered her husky voice whispering, "I want you," and the brief second when her soft lips had closed over his own.

  He opened the juice carton and gulped the cold, crisp liquid. Those had to have been her own feelings. Stripped of her fear and distrust, she'd been free to act on emotions that normally stayed hidden. He hadn't coerced her. He hadn't replaced her thoughts with his own.

  Finally noticing the cookie smeared across his palm, he grabbed a tissue from the box on his desk and wiped away the goo. Too bad he couldn't wipe away his doubts so easily.

  Hours later, he still hadn't been able to shake the suspicion that perhaps Rebecca's agreement was not as willing as he'd believed. Passing through the deserted outer office, he hesitated in the doorway. Maybe he should talk to her again.

  No. He'd already worked past the time he normally returned home. He couldn't keep Gillian waiting any longer. Besides, Rebecca wasn't going anywhere.

  He hurried through the dim corridors, lit only by the muted glow of after-hours safety lights. Slashing his keycard through a scanner, he passed from the lab section of the complex into the residential area. The hallway transformed into a ten-foot wide boulevard paved in green and blue terrazzo. The sky-colored ceiling receded, adding to the sense of openness, and he paused just long enough to take a deep breath.

  The day's frustrations dropped away. He was almost home. He brushed through the bank of ferns screening an intersecting passageway, and opened the access door at the end of the hallway.

  He sped up the stairs, two flights made of terrazzo, then another flight of wood as he ascended through the old farmhouse. One last scanner waited, opposite the blacked-out window. He triggered the lock, and stepped inside.

  Gillian sat on the hardwood floor of the living room, her Little Mermaid coloring book and chunky crayons spread around her. She dropped her blue crayon with a happy squeal and launched herself across the room with the wild abandon of any three year old.

  "Daddy!"

  Sweeping her up in his arms, he spun her around while she giggled happily. He pressed his cheek to her thick black hair, savoring the moment, and smelled only crayons and paint. No lingering scent of vaporizer or sick room clung to her soft curls. Dropping a kiss on her forehead, he smiled down on her.

  With her ravaged immune system, the slightest cold became a crisis. Every day without symptoms was a minor victory against her illness. Winning battles, but losing the war. Unless Rebecca could help her.

  He forced away the fear that Rebecca would prove no more successful than previous donors, and turned to his housekeeper. Mrs. Waters commanded the room from the center of the white sofa, a pile of knitting in her lap.

  "She was a perfect angel today, Mr. Lacroix," Mrs. Waters reassured him, her steel knitting needles flashing in and out of the pink worsted wool. Another sweater for Gillian, no doubt. Mrs. Waters clung to the touching belief that if Gillian could just be kept warm enough, she wouldn't fall sick again.

  "I'm sorry you had to stay late."

  "Your secretary called to warn me. I took dinner out of the oven and put it in the fridge so it wouldn't spoil. I can warm it up now if you like."

  "You go on home. Your husband must be missing you."

  "Not my Robert. He'll still be at his microscope and his test tubes." But she gathered up her yarn, ruffling Gillian's hair before she left.

  Desmond put his daughter down.

  "Do you know what Mrs. Waters made for dinner?"

  "Sanna!" She shouted her term for lasagna and raced to the kitchen. Judging by her enthusiasm, she'd helped prepare it. She was growing into such an accomplished little lady. He only hoped she'd be given the opportunity to continue to grow.

  AFTER DINNER, they played blocks, Desmond stacking the colored cubes under his daughter's strict direction. Then it was time for her bedtime story, and he lost himself in her enjoyment of the nightly ritual. Gillian drifted off just as Winnie-the-Pooh was setting out on the trail of the mysterious Heffalump, and Desmond marked the page for tomorrow. He tucked her in, brushed a kiss across her forehead and turned out the light.

  For a long while, he just stood in the doorway watching her sleep. She was so small, so helpless. It was only a matter of time, unless he found an answer to the curse. Or once again, he would watch helplessly as someone he loved died.

  He tried to distract himself with a book, but found himself staring at the page while letters chased each other in nonsensical patterns. The Jules Verne classic was one of his favorites, but Vingt Mille Lieues Sous Les Mers held no interest for him tonight.

  A tap on the front door roused him from his bleak reverie. He hurried to answer, eager to put aside his depressing thoughts.

  Philippe stood on the doorstep, his black leather jacket, black driving gloves, and mirrored sunglasses a stark contrast to the floral-patterned tapestry suitcase in his hand.

  "Gillian's asleep," Desmond whispered. "We'll talk in my study."

  He ushered his half-brother inside, taking a seat in the leather wing-back chair opposite him. Philippe tossed the suitcase onto the floor, the soft-sided luggage making only a muffled thump against the wood parquet.

  "Evan reconnected the battery, and drove the reporter's car out into one of the canyons. No one can spot it from the air, but we'll be able to get it easily enough when it's time for her to leave." Philippe made a show of taking off his sunglasses, folding them and putting them away. He snuck a sidelong look at Desmond during the process. "Whenever that is."

  Desmond looked away. Replacing the book he'd tried to read earlier, he studied his collection of Jules Verne first editions in the original French. Sometimes it seemed he and his half-brother spoke completely different languages, for all that they both used English now. How could he describe the dream that burned within him, when Philippe knew nothing of love? And if a spark of hope had ever shone in his heart, Philippe had doused it decades ago. He would never understand. Still, he deserved to be told something. Desmond turned back to him with a sigh.

  "Dr. Chen says Rebecca might have the right blood chemistry to be a donor for Gillian. I'm keeping her here until he can determine that for sure."

  "And then what? She's a threat. And every day she stays here, she's more of a danger. Get rid of her now, before it's too late."

  "I didn't expect you to understand. But you can't ask me to give up without even trying."

  "You have done nothing but try. And you are no closer to a cure than when she was born." Philippe spoke in a patient, reasonable voice that hovered dangerously close to condescending. "Enjoy the time you have left with her. Don't waste it on fruitless dreams."

  "We'll find a cure!" Desmond got up and started pacing
the room. They were closer to a cure. When Gillian had been born, no one even knew what was wrong with her. The hybrid disease, combining his cursed blood and her mother's hereditary leukemia, flew in the face of established medical knowledge. As an infant, her violent rejection of her first bone marrow transplant had nearly killed her. She'd stayed in the intensive care unit for over a month.

  Dr. Chen linked her reaction to an unusual antigen in her blood, one shared by Desmond and Philippe. When she'd grown older, and stronger, Desmond had acted as the donor for her next transplant. She hadn't rejected his bone marrow. Instead, she'd transformed it into cancerous cells, accelerating her disease's hold. They hadn't dared to risk another operation.

  But Rebecca shared the antigen. And she had a normal metabolism. Desmond couldn't waste the opportunity.

  "You risk everything for an impossibility," Philippe insisted.

  "And I would risk more if I could! Gillian's life is at stake." Desmond narrowed his eyes, a horrible suspicion taking root. "Unless the risk is an excuse. You don't want her to live."

  Philippe sucked in his breath. "Des— "

  "I can't lose Gillian. I won't lose her."

  Philippe unfolded his mirror shades and stood. Desmond made no move to stop him. The sooner Philippe was out of his home, the better. But Philippe wasn't done. "You know the terms of the curse. You love her. Therefore, she'll die."

  "But she doesn't have to die now!"

  "Toujours le maudit enfant gâté!" Philippe's eyes blazed dark fires. He clenched his fists, shattering the sunglasses. "Nothing ever changes. You want it all your way. But not this time."

  Philippe threw the ruined lenses into the trash and stalked out.

  Sinking into his chair, Desmond stared at the shattered plastic in the trash. He was not a spoiled child. Because of his curse, he would watch Gillian die. The alternative, that she would live a cursed life like his, was too horrible to contemplate. He didn't question the fact, just the timing. He wanted her to live before she died.

  He ran his fingers through his hair and sighed. The stress was getting to him. Desmond was so afraid of losing his daughter, he was in danger of losing his only real friend.