Dark Salvation Page 6

She slammed into the push-bar. The safety strip stretched then popped open, but the door did not. Lunging past her, he grabbed the bar and held the door shut.

  "No!"

  She pounded her fists against the unyielding door, sending aftershocks rippling up his arm to echo her frustrations beating against his mind. Then she pressed her forehead against the door and took a long, shuddering breath. He thought he heard her sniff.

  "Rebecca?" he asked gently. When she didn't respond, he wrapped his hand around her left fist and pulled it away from the door.

  She spun around and punched his jaw. The sudden explosion of anger drove him back a step, but he tightened his hold on her other hand.

  He dropped the suitcase, leaving one hand free to block whatever she might try next. They stared at each other in taut silence.

  "Let me go, damn you." Rebecca whispered.

  He shook his head. "Not until the tests are done."

  Bernice's doubt haunted him again. He hadn't forced Rebecca to help, hadn't forced her to give her blood or her bone marrow for Gillian's cure. No. He hadn't broken his vow, because she had agreed willingly.

  He straightened his shoulders and fixed her with a cold stare. "You gave your word."

  She studied the floor at his feet, idly shaking out the hand she'd hit him with. When she looked up, her eyes and voice were soft and uncertain.

  "I promised to help your daughter," she whispered. "But you were using some kind of influence over me when I did."

  He breathed deeply, struggling to control the images assailing him. A dark-haired, pinched looking woman. A black marble wall filled with neatly lettered names. The emotional importance of Rebecca's scattered surface thoughts punched through his light shielding.

  Before he could strengthen his guard, stroboscopic memories of their argument in the guest suite spun past him. In her memory, Desmond was larger, darker, and more ominously looming than in reality. Even before she'd realized she was underground, he'd terrified the poor woman. An image of a dark cave, familiar from her earlier panic attacks, engulfed her other thoughts.

  Desmond snapped up his shields, breaking their contact. Then, hoping he appeared friendly and non-threatening, he said gently, "Dr. Chen will only need your help for three days. After that, you'll be free to go, with my thanks."

  She tilted her head and studied him. "Three days? That's what I agreed to?"

  "Yes."

  "But I've already been here for one. So I'll only be here for two more days." Her bold gray gaze challenged him to deny her, to admit he was lying or changing the rules.

  He waited until she looked him square in the eyes, then pronounced each word with crystal clear precision. "Three days of helping Dr. Chen. You haven't begun to help him yet."

  "Why does he even need my help? Can't I just donate enough blood for him to do the tests?"

  "You already promised you would help him."

  Either his expression or his tone convinced her not to argue any further. Instead, she leaned down and picked up the suitcase.

  "Three days," she agreed. "Then I'm out of here."

  Desmond turned, leading the way back down the hall, past a door she'd overlooked in her rush for freedom. If she ran now, she'd be out the door before he could catch her.

  Shaking her head, she trudged after him. She'd be running across the desert in dress pumps, carrying a suitcase. How long would it take for him to catch her? No, let him think she'd resigned herself to being his "guest." If he was telling the truth, she'd be leaving in three days. And if he wasn't, he wouldn't be expecting her to try to escape again.

  They climbed a wooden staircase at the end of the hall. The second floor hallway echoed the first floor, even to the placement of a keycard-locked door opposite plate glass windows. Rebecca glanced out at the black desert and scattering of stars in the sky. She couldn't even see the road. She'd made the right decision, not to run.

  Desmond touched her arm, pulling her attention from the view. "My daughter is asleep. Please be quiet."

  "You mean no one is watching her? You left her alone?"

  He shrugged. "I didn't expect to be gone for an hour. And she's not unattended. My housekeeper is with her."

  "I'll be quiet." Just because she was angry at Desmond, that was no reason to take it out on his daughter, especially if the girl was as sick as he claimed.

  He unlocked the door with his keycard and guided Rebecca into a large living room, dimly visible by the moonlight streaming through the doorway. He touched a dimmer switch beside the door, bringing up the track lighting that encircled the room. Light reflected off the bright white ceiling to bathe the room in a soft glow, drawing her attention to the supple white leather couch reigning over the gleaming wooden floor, and the middle-aged woman dozing on it.

  The woman snapped awake as the light struck her face.

  "Mr. Lacroix, you were gone so long— " She spotted Rebecca, and her expression turned icy. "Who's this?"

  "Rebecca, this is Mrs. Waters. Mrs. Waters, meet Rebecca Morgan." Desmond whispered. "More thorough introductions can wait until the morning."

  "Of course," Mrs. Waters answered, gathering her things. "We don't want to disturb Gillian."

  While the two of them talked, Rebecca studied the room. A smaller love seat and glass topped coffee table completed the minimal furnishings. Three doors, normal doors without those stupid keycard scanners, lined each of the walls on her left and right. Another door in the far wall mirrored the position of the front door. Every detail precise, coordinated and controlled, typical of the man beside her.

  After Mrs. Waters left, he led Rebecca across the living room and through the far left-hand door into a bedroom. The simple Shaker-style furniture in an apple-green finish seemed strangely innocuous. She'd expected the bedroom of a dead woman to be furnished in heavy, dark wood, like the setting of a gothic thriller. This reminder of normalcy heartened her.

  She tossed the suitcase onto the bed, where it settled into the thick, ivy-patterned comforter with a soft thwump.

  "The bathroom's there." He pointed to the door she'd thought was a closet. "The front door's alarmed, so don't try sneaking out. I don't want you disturbing my daughter."

  He started to leave, then turned back. "Oh, and I suggest you leave the light on. The windows are electronically polarized, and activated by external light. When you wake up, they'll be completely black."

  He closed the door before she could ask him why. Conditioned by recent events, she immediately ran over and made sure she could open the door. She opened and closed it three times before she trusted it to stay unlocked.

  She set the suitcase on top of the dresser, unzipped it, and dug through her clothes until she found her cosmetic case. Her camera was still inside. He hadn't searched the contents of her luggage at all. Rebecca let out a deep breath.

  Three days. She didn't like it. She'd still rather leave right away. But now that she was above ground and the end was in sight, she'd be able to survive. She had three days to find out exactly what was going on around here. The Institute conducted real research. Desmond had convinced her of that. But his methods and his motives remained obscure. And suspect.

  Desmond's effect on her went beyond the normal reaction to a heart-stoppingly handsome man. There was something darker, more sinister. How had he manipulated her original agreement? She'd uncover his secret. Even if she never used the information, she had to know. For her own safety.

  She picked up her night shirt and walked into the green-tiled bathroom, careful to find the light switch before closing the door. She intended to search everywhere for clues.

  A second door opposite the one she'd just come through called for immediate attention. If the room beyond was unoccupied, she could examine it now. She pressed her ear to the wooden door. No sounds reverberated from the other side.

  Ignoring the bathroom for the moment, she eased open the door. Another bedroom. This one done in black and dark green Art Deco style furniture. A shiver rolled
down her spine.

  Desmond's room, the one he'd said was next to the room she'd be staying in. She pictured him in that big bed, covered only by the satin comforter the same glossy black as his hair and cushioned by a pillow the same brilliant green as his eyes. Maybe she should have run after all.

  Rebecca retreated back into the bathroom and closed the door. His bedroom would be the best source of clues about Desmond, but she didn't want to risk being discovered while she searched. Especially not at night. Bedrooms became more than just another room at night, with starlight glittering on the black satin. She remembered the feel of his arm around her when she'd woken from her shock. Warm. Possessive.

  It must be the aftereffects of shock and the adrenaline of her escape wearing off that made her tremble.

  She ran cold water into the sink and splashed her face until she felt normal. Then she examined the bathroom. It was fitted out with a pale green fiberglass shower/tub enclosure. The lower walls and floor were tiled in the same pale green, with a row of darker green tiles at waist height. The upper walls were a pattern of alternating dark and light tiles. Was green Desmond's favorite color? Or had it been his wife's?

  A man's electric razor sat on the dark green vanity counter, along with a bottle of after-shave. She hesitated, her fingers on the cold glass of the medicine cabinet. If she could possibly learn anything, she had to look. She opened the medicine cabinet.

  It was empty, except for a rose-patterned plastic cup upended on the bottom shelf. Obeying her instincts, she took it down, and a brown plastic prescription bottle fell out. She picked it up. The bottle was empty. Why would someone keep an empty medicine bottle?

  The prescription was for Dr. Olivia Lacroix. Rebecca blinked. A doctor. Desmond had been married to a doctor. She read the rest of the prescription, making a mental note of the drug's name to look up later. Dated three years ago, the medicine could be taken up to eight times a day "as needed for pain." Eight times? She placed the bottle and cup back where she'd found them, and closed the cabinet.

  In a daze, she changed into her night shirt and went back to her room. She tossed her ruined suit onto the simple wooden chair beside the window. No wonder Desmond was so determined not to see his daughter go through the same suffering. Was it the same sort of insidious disease that had taken Rebecca's father? She'd been told he lingered for months in the hospital, not dead but not truly alive. When the monitor finally flatlined, it had been a relief to all concerned. Except Rebecca. He hadn't lingered quite long enough for her to find him.

  She forced her attention to the present, and searched her bedroom for clues. The dresser drawers and closet had been emptied. Even the night stand drawer was bare. She slid the drawer closed, and heard the faint crinkle of paper.

  She pulled the drawer out, lifting it off its track, then reached inside the cabinet and felt around the dry wood. Her fingers brushed across a piece of paper crushed against the back, and she pried it loose. Smoothing the piece of flowered stationery against her leg, she noticed the many cross-outs and revisions. Olivia must have been drafting a letter, and had put it away in the night stand. She'd never gone back for it.

  Feeling a bit like a voyeur, Rebecca read the text. Or tried to. Olivia wrote as incomprehensibly as most doctors.

  My darling,

  You probably think I'm a fool, blinded by love. At first I was. Not anymore. But how could I speak of what was kept silent for so long? Now that it's too late—

  Olivia had scratched out four attempts to finish the sentence. Rebecca couldn't decipher any of them, and her tired mind spun fancies as romantic as the Victorian roses on Olivia's stationery. It sounded like an apology of some sort. But for what?

  Rebecca sighed. Desmond no longer seemed quite so sinister. Only sad and rather tragic. She forced her sympathy aside. Things happened in everyone's lives. That didn't give them the right to interfere in other people's lives. Past injuries were no justification for present transgressions.

  She looked out the plate glass window. It couldn't be opened. A false sash was glued to the outside, so it appeared to be a normal window. But the illusion failed on this side. The inch thick glass was already murky and difficult to see through. The sky was graying in the east, stars fading as dawn approached. The sun wouldn't rise for a few more hours, but the night was over.

  She crawled under the crisp cotton sheets printed with sprigs of ivy. The pillows smelled of rain fresh fabric softener. It was a reassuringly normal smell, and she felt the tension draining out of her. But she left the light on.

  REBECCA YAWNED and stretched. She'd been so tired, and Desmond had insisted on waking her every hour. He must have finally decided she didn't have a concussion and let her sleep.

  She fumbled for her watch. Ten o'clock. She tossed off her covers and padded across to the window. The glass had turned completely opaque. Not the slightest glimmer of light leaked through. She didn't want to admit it, but she was glad Desmond had warned her.

  She dressed and opened the bedroom door. A soft glow filtered off the bright white ceiling of the living room, and she realized the room had been designed without windows. The distinctive buzz-click of the keycard lock drew her attention to the front door. She hurried toward it.

  "Des?" a man's voice called. A brown-haired man in a black leather jacket pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  "Hello," she began. "I'm— "

  "What are you doing here?" Eyes narrowed, he advanced on her. "Using your feminine charms to get what you want?"

  He lunged forward with the speed of a striking snake, and grabbed a fist full of her shirt. The fabric tore, and two buttons bounced loudly on the hardwood floor. She jerked out of his grasp and backed away, keeping a careful watch on him. The man was crazed. She wasn't letting him close enough to touch her again, but she didn't want sudden movements to provoke him.

  "Rebecca, Philippe, I see you've met." Desmond's voice came from behind her, and she spun to face him, anticipating another attack. "I was about to go down and see you."

  "I thought you'd have come to your senses by now," Philippe said. "Didn't you listen to anything I said?"

  "Did you listen to me?"

  "I heard you say you'd do anything. I didn't think you were that desperate."

  Desmond glanced her way. His eyes narrowed as she gathered the fabric of her gaping shirt together. No other gesture or expression betrayed his feelings, but the emerald fury blazing in his eyes was so fierce, Rebecca took an instinctive step back.

  He turned from her and locked his attention on Philippe, his voice soft with unspoken menace. "Is that your opinion of me? After all these years?"

  "You were upset." Philippe spread his hands. His lips twitched in a nervous smile as he backed toward the door. Desmond glided forward, each precisely placed step moving him relentlessly closer to Philippe. The madman was backing away now, but if Desmond cornered him, he might put up a fight. She sensed that neither man would pull his punches, if they ever came to blows, and she didn't want to be an innocent bystander caught in their crossfire. For once, a sense of self preservation overrode her curiosity, and she started edging toward her room.

  "Last night I was upset. But now?" Desmond's hand curled into a fist. "You thought I broke my vow."

  "No. Of course not." Philippe's lips quivered, shaking his smile. "She's a reporter."

  "And thus without morals or rights to be used as I see fit, without regard to her consent?"

  Rebecca froze, chilled by Desmond's words. They were too close to her own fears for her to leave without hearing the rest of this argument.

  "A woman's body is a useful tool, one she might be willing to use to learn your secrets." Philippe scowled at her, his gaze pure venom. She'd just made a very powerful enemy.

  "You overstep your bounds, brother."

  Brother! As the two men glared at each other, Rebecca tried to spot a familial resemblance between them. They were the same height and basic build, although Desmond's frame was solidly
muscled, while Philippe was too thin. Instead of Desmond's striking combination of black hair and pale skin, Philippe's brown hair and darker skin made him appear muddy. But Philippe's brown eyes shone just as vividly as Desmond's green ones, and they both projected the same air of controlled force. In Philippe's case, however, the control had definitely slipped.

  The tension between the two silent, staring men was so intense, Rebecca's stomach clenched in sympathetic anxiety. A child's cry broke the tableau.

  "Daddy!"

  Desmond jerked like a sleepwalker coming awake.

  "Philippe, you're no longer welcome here. Get out."

  "Daddy!"

  Desmond hurried to his daughter, leaving Rebecca alone with Philippe. She edged toward the nominal safety of her room. Philippe glared at her, his lips curling back in a snarl.

  "This is all your fault."

  "What? I'm not— " Wait. Weren't you supposed to agree with crazy people? It might at least keep him quiet until she reached her room. "Yes. It's entirely my fault. I'm sorry."

  "Sorry? No, you're not. Not yet. But you will be," he threatened. Black hatred coiled in the depths of his eyes, trying to draw her into his madness.

  She turned and ran the last few feet to her room. Once inside, she slammed the door shut, and shoved the chair under the door knob. Hunched in the far corner of the bed, she clutched a pillow to her chest and watched the door.

  Oh, God, she wanted out of this nut house. Yesterday. She wouldn't say a word about any of it to anyone.

  The front door slammed, and she slumped down. Then her muscles started to shake. First hypnotized. Then electrocuted. Now attacked by a madman. What next?

  In the living room, Desmond soothed his daughter. Although Rebecca couldn't hear his words, the reassuring timbre of his voice carried clearly. She relaxed and let the calming tone carry away her fears, hungry for the same reassurance. He would protect her and keep her safe. No one would hurt her while he was here. She had nothing to fear.

  She put on a new shirt, unblocked her door, and went out looking for answers.

  Desmond sat on the couch, cradling his daughter on his lap. Her head rested on his shoulder, her midnight black curls mingling with his. The noise must have woken her from her nap, as she was dressed in a red and yellow play suit and bunny slippers. One small fist rubbed at her eyes, and she yawned and snuggled closer to her father. Her bunny-clad feet kicked at nothing, and she sighed back into sleep.