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  What she lacked in skill, she made up for with enthusiasm. About half of her food ended up smeared on her face or clothing, with another quarter decorating the kitchen table. Very little food seemed to actually make it into her mouth. Even so, she was finished and playing with her silverware before either adult was done.

  "She doesn't eat much, does she?" Rebecca said.

  Desmond stiffened. "No. I don't think any child does, at that age."

  She hadn't meant the comment as evidence of Gillian's illness, but that's obviously how he'd taken it. Trying to clarify what she'd meant would only sound awkward.

  She couldn't help staring as he took a third helping for himself. Where did he put it? The turtlenecks and clinging silk shirts he favored would have ruthlessly exposed the least ounce of body fat, had he possessed any. Which he didn't.

  "Something wrong?" he asked.

  "No." She swallowed and studied the table, mortified to be caught staring. "I was just wondering how you stayed so thin."

  "I have a very high metabolism."

  "Oh." Should she say more? Or was that a part of his illness? He didn't seem to feel any need to elaborate. If she continued with this topic, she'd end up offending him. Normally, she wouldn't care what he thought of her, not if she could get information for her story. But her feelings of being connected to him, united in pursuit of a common goal, were too new and precious to risk trampling. Better just to drop it.

  "Uh, you want any help with these dishes?"

  "There's no need," he answered automatically, then reconsidered. "If you could rinse them and stack them in the sink, I can start cleaning up Gillian."

  "I'm not dirty, Daddy," Gillian protested, showing him the hand she'd managed to keep clean. "See?"

  Rebecca had to hide her smile behind her napkin.

  "You did a wonderful job of staying clean, sweeting," he told Gillian, with a perfectly straight face. "But I think you should have a bath anyway."

  "I don't want a bath. I don't need one, Daddy, `cause— "

  "Bathtime Pooh will be very lonely without you."

  Gillian considered this new information, her little face screwed up in concentration. Then her eyes lit up. "I'll give Pooh a bath. I don't need one."

  Desmond coughed, not looking at Rebecca. Gillian just grinned, confident that her solution made perfect sense.

  "All right," he agreed. "You can give Pooh his bath. But I think it would work best if you were in the tub with him."

  "Okay, Daddy."

  He pulled her out of her booster seat, careful of the food smeared across her shirt, and carried her out of the kitchen. Their departure left Rebecca strangely sad, and she sighed as she started gathering up the dishes.

  She'd devoted all her time and energy to her career, first putting herself through school, then working two jobs while she established a reputation as a dependable freelance journalist. Every liar, cheat and crook she'd exposed along the way had strengthened her conviction that people couldn't be trusted. Now she realized she may have made a mistake by focusing on the seamier aspects of society. What else might she have been wrong about?

  Her few relationships with men had been brief, fed from the scant time and energy left over from her work. Assuming that any relationship was bound to fail, she'd ended them before she could be betrayed. How different might her life have been if she'd trusted one of those men enough to stay with him? Might she be married by now, with her own little girl?

  She rinsed the last dish and stacked it on top of the others, pleased that her hand didn't shake. She didn't have time for a husband, much less for a child. No point regretting her decisions now.

  She looked back at the table. The dishes were taken care of. What about the leftovers? Should she leave them out? No. They might spoil. She'd cover them back up and put the casserole dish in the refrigerator.

  Moving a carton of milk aside to make room, she discovered a collection of black glass bottles. Their arrangement echoed the precise rows of Gillian's medicine bottles, and she turned one to read its label. These belonged to Desmond.

  She stuffed the casserole dish onto the shelf and wandered into the living room. How sick was he? He looked healthy enough, except for being so pale. But then, except for being so thin, so did Gillian.

  Laughter and splashing sounded from across the living room. Rebecca turned away. Now was the perfect time to sit down and write up her story. Yet she couldn't bring herself to do it. Instead, she sat down on the couch and leafed through a discarded coloring book, in a vain effort to distract herself.

  The pages depicted classic fairy tales, with smiling princesses standing before beautiful castles. The sting of imminent tears pricked her eyes, and Rebecca set the book aside with a sigh. When she was a child, she'd dreamed of finding her Prince Charming. The image of her prince changed with her moods, but when he rode up to greet her, dressed in his royal finery, he invariably resembled the photographs of her father in his uniform. Her mother's stories had filled Rebecca's head with visions of her father as a proud, brave hero, who had given his life for the country he believed in. But that man had been as much an illusion as her daydream prince.

  The gurgle of the tub brought her back to the present. When it stopped, she could hear Desmond's voice rising and falling in smooth, melodic phrases. She couldn't catch the words, but knew from the tone that he had to be reading Gillian a bedtime story. The ebb and flow of sound soothed Rebecca as well, lulling her into a drowsy stupor.

  She jumped when Desmond dropped next to her on the couch in a sprawl, his arms outstretched across its back. She hadn't seen him come in.

  Moving to the side, she instinctively put space between them. Then, realizing what a foolish picture she must make hunched over the arm of the couch, she leaned back, trying to act casual. As if she couldn't feel the heat of his arm behind her shoulders. As if the hairs on the back of her neck weren't standing on end, drawn to him like iron filings to a magnet. Yes, that was a good analogy. He radiated invisible lines of force, too. And she felt herself aligning with them, as if she had no control over herself.

  She needed to distract him, distract herself. Her fingers brushed across the discarded coloring book, and she held it out to Desmond.

  "I was admiring your daughter's work." She forced a lighthearted smile. "Although I didn't realize princesses had green faces."

  "I'm happy she finally mastered staying on the paper. Realistic colors come later, when she's older. Don't you remember that from your own youth? Or were you the youngest?"

  "I was an only child." She turned aside, discouraging any comments.

  Her mother had denied her the chance to have siblings. True, she had half-brothers and -sisters. But they didn't count. She'd never known about them while she was growing up.

  They'd grown up with the father she'd thought was dead. She clenched her jaw, fighting against the bitter anger she still felt toward her mother.

  He brushed his fingertips across her shoulder. "I didn't mean to offend you."

  He must think she was angry at him. She forced her rigid muscles to relax, and leaned her head back against his arm. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then counted to ten and let it out.

  "You didn't. You just reminded me of something."

  He curled his arm around her shoulders, offering silent sympathy. She soaked up his warmth and vibrancy, feeling the life beginning to flow back into her.

  "You're doing so much for me, and for Gillian." He hesitated, his uncertainty only making him more appealing.

  "You seem so sad," he continued. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

  "No." She shook her head and looked away. Her eyes felt funny again, and she didn't want him to think she was crying. "It's nothing. Old news, over a long time ago."

  He reached out, cupping her chin in his hand, and turned her to face him. She still refused to look at him. He held her jaw until she met his gaze.

  "It may be over, but you're not over it. Perhaps talking
about it will help."

  She'd never told the whole story to anyone before. Why would she, when they'd only use it against her? But Desmond was different. She felt that she could confide in him. The unfamiliar trust surprised her.

  "I never knew my father," she began. "When I was a little girl, I'd spend hours in front of his picture. I made my mother tell me the stories about him over and over again, until I thought I knew every minute of their two years together."

  He placed his hand over her chilled fingers, fisted in her lap, and gave them a reassuring squeeze. She searched his eyes, but saw no hint of censure, only encouragement.

  "Everything would have been fine if it hadn't been for the Vietnam War Memorial," she continued. "When I told my mother we should go see it, she became distraught. She forbade me to go anywhere near it."

  "But you went?"

  "I went." Rebecca smiled wryly, "I always was very determined."

  "I'd noticed." He returned her smile, but also tightened his grip on her hand.

  "I emptied out my savings account and bought a bus ticket from upstate New York all the way to Washington. The line for the memorial was very long, full of people bringing gifts and mementos for the loved ones they'd never had a chance to say good-bye to. Somehow, I felt connected to all of them, bound by a common purpose. We all wanted to see the wall and touch the one special name chiseled into the stone, as if that could make the deaths real. As if that could bring them home."

  She bit her lip, determined not to cry. The day was engraved upon her memory, as if it had been only yesterday. The elderly man in front of her, leaning on a cane and smelling of camphor, who clutched a pair of shoes to his chest. The weeping woman behind her, who held a bouquet of carnations and babbled on about how they were her son's favorite flower. And between them, the girl whose innocent love was about to be destroyed by the cold, hard truth.

  Desmond pulled her close, cradling her in the warmth of his embrace. His arms held her safe, protecting her from her memories, until she could continue her story. She listened to the steady thud of his heart beneath her head, felt the rise and fall of his chest with each slow inhale and exhale of breath. Gradually her pulse slowed to match his, and her breathing steadied. But she didn't move, unwilling to look at his face as she finished her tale.

  "When my turn came, I stepped up to the directory of names, my heart pounding and my mouth dry. I knew the date I wanted, and ran my finger down the list, looking for Private Charles Morgan. He wasn't listed."

  "Not listed?"

  "No. I flipped backward and forward in the book, thinking that maybe my mother had gotten the date wrong. He wasn't listed anywhere. He wasn't listed, because he hadn't died." She took a deep breath, and finished her explanation in a rush of words. "That's why my mother hadn't wanted me to see the wall. Because I'd find out how the story really went. Charles Morgan hadn't been a young hero, killed before he could return to his young wife and infant daughter. He'd been a frightened teenager, who'd returned from the most harrowing experience of his life only to be confronted by his girlfriend and a baby she insisted was his. He couldn't deal with either one."

  Desmond's arms tightened around her, and he rocked her gently, murmuring soothing words into her hair. He stroked his hands down her back with slow, rhythmic warmth.

  She sniffed. "I promised myself I wasn't going to cry."

  "Go ahead and cry. For your father, and for you."

  She looked up, surprised at the husky note in his voice. His eyes seemed unusually bright, as well, so she blinked to clear her tear-smudged vision. His gaze met hers, and she forgot to breathe.

  His eyes gleamed with the brilliant green of sun-dappled leaves, as he lowered his gaze to her mouth. She knew he was about to kiss her, and that she could stop him with a word. But she didn't want to. She'd never felt so close to another human being, and couldn't bear the thought of pushing him away. It would be like pushing away her own heart.

  He bent closer and touched his lips to hers. As if he'd closed a circuit, an electric thrill coursed through her at the contact. Her eyelids fluttered closed, and she gave herself up to the sensation. He slid his kiss to the corner of her mouth, then whispered against her lips.

  "Did you ever see him?"

  She wanted to stay floating in the soft fog Desmond's kiss inspired, insulated from her past. But his words called her back. The story seemed somehow distant, though, as if she was listening to herself tell it, rather than telling it herself. That made it easier.

  "No. I spent years trying to find him, and eventually tracked him down. He'd gotten married, and had three sons and two daughters. I met his wife when I went to see him, determined to find out why he'd abandoned me. She's the one who told me he was dead. For real, this time. A victim of Agent Orange, a few months before I got there."

  "After all those years, to miss him by a few months must have been terrible."

  "Not as terrible as what she said next. You see, she knew who I was. My father had told her about me." Rebecca shivered, seeing again the pity in the woman's eyes. And the fear when she glanced toward the yard where her own children played.

  Again, Desmond's touch drew Rebecca back to the present. She turned to him, blindly seeking comfort to ease the freshly opened wound. "After he'd recovered from his experiences in the war, my father came back and tried to patch things up with my mother. She turned him away. My father wanted me, and she told me he was dead!"

  Rebecca hid her face in Desmond's shoulder, shaking as the long-denied emotions rocked through her. Desmond stroked her back, her shoulders, her hair, soothing her pain until he made her shiver with a different kind of need. Turning her face, she captured his lips in a kiss.

  She didn't need him to distract her anymore. She'd faced her memories. But she wanted a new memory, a better memory, of love and caring, to replace the old memory of betrayal and neglect. And Desmond cared more than anyone else ever had.

  He stilled, as if sensing the change in her, then wound one hand in her hair and pressed her even closer. She opened her lips beneath a fiery onslaught that seemed to draw the very air out of her lungs. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think. She could only feel.

  Feel, as his tongue traced the edge of her lips. Feel, as his mouth slid across her jaw, and down the sensitive column of her neck. She twisted her head to the side, encouraging his exploration. His tongue rasped across her tender skin, and he pressed a kiss to the sensitive pulse point.

  His hand in her hair tightened, pulling her head back and lifting her throat to his kiss. Her breathing quickened, rapid butterfly breaths. She wanted this. She wanted him. Here. On the couch. On the floor. Anywhere. As long as it was now.

  Desmond tore himself away from her and Rebecca moaned, low in her throat. He struggled to control his breathing, waging a harder battle to control his hunger. He'd only meant to comfort her, not to become carried away like this.

  As soon as her first powerful memories had struck him, he'd raised his mental shields. Strong thoughts carried clearly, even if the other person wasn't telepathic, and he had no wish to pry. But such strong shielding took a lot of energy to maintain, and he'd lowered the shields at the end of their conversation, wrongly assuming that her calm appearance indicated a calm mind. Rebecca's last thoughts had been vividly erotic.

  She reached for him now, eyes closed, tuned in to her own world. He caught her hand and guided it away from him, back to her. Not that he didn't want to make love to her. He ached with wanting her. But not now. Not like this, in blind response to the emotions called up by her memories.

  When they made love, it would be because they'd chosen to. Because they were ready. That day would come. He was sure of it. And when it did, they'd not only share the pleasures of their bodies. They'd share the passion of their blood.

  The drink his researchers had invented freed him from ghoulishly haunting hospitals and other sites of death, as he'd once done to satisfy the needs his curse created. Yet there had been times when livin
g bodies had sustained him, had offered more than mere sustenance.

  His gaze dropped to Rebecca's arched throat, slick with a layer of sweat. He imagined her beneath him, her pulse racing, the thick, sweet taste of her blood mingling with the salty taste of her sweat. He swallowed, eyes closed, picturing the ecstasy of their joining.

  She whimpered softly and he opened his eyes to look at her. She leaned back into the couch, her neck stretched provocatively. Her pulse hammered faster than before, her shallow breath coming in quick pants. He'd caught her up in his fantasy somehow. Maybe not the details, but the general slant of his thoughts certainly seemed to have gotten through. But how? He'd been guarding his thoughts from transmission.

  The explanation struck him with the force of a lightning bolt. She'd picked up on his thoughts the same way she'd countered his earlier attempts to mentally control her. By using her own mental powers. She shared more than just a blood type with Gillian. She shared the telepathic gift as well.

  Obviously, she didn't know how to use it. She probably didn't even recognize the ability. To most people, she'd just seem to be remarkably intuitive and unusually persuasive.

  Look what she'd done with only her raw telepathic ability. With training, she might have skills equal to his. He'd need to find out just how strong she really was, but he already knew the most important thing.

  This changed everything.

  Chapter 6

  DESMOND PREFERRED to spend his mornings with Gillian, whenever possible. But today he needed to see Philippe. Their disagreement had lasted long enough. After 150 years, a few ill-chosen words spoken in the heat of anger shouldn't drive them apart.

  He'd already dressed and fed his daughter, and put her to bed for her morning nap. She wouldn't miss him if he left while she slept. At least, that had been his reasoning when he called Mrs. Waters and asked her to come over early. She arrived just after Gillian drifted to sleep.

  "Thank you, Mrs. Waters. She should sleep for another hour or so."

  "I'll be quiet."