He wasn't sure why the blood l.u.s.t was dormant, but he didn't intend to waste the opportunity. Holding her close, reveling in their love, he felt like he stood in a gilded moment forever set apart from the stream of time.

"I love you," he whispered again.

She shivered at the words, and slid her hands up to tangle in his hair. "I love you, too. Now kiss me."

He chuckled at her sweet demand, and fitted his lips to hers. She melted beneath him. Pulling his head down, she intensified the kiss, even as he slid his hands under the waistband of her jeans to press her closer, against his arousal.

A gentle fire was building inside him, but he felt no urgency. He could stand here forever, caressing Rebecca and celebrating their love.

Wanting more freedom for his explorations, he undid the b.u.t.ton and zipper on her jeans, and pushed her pants over her hips. She wriggled out of them with a shimmy that temporarily stole his breath. Then he undid his own pants. Tilting his head back, he sighed in pleasure as she guided the clothing past his arousal and slid it to the floor.

Soon they were completely naked, heated flesh pressed to heated flesh, and still he drifted in a haze of happiness, willing to stay in her arms forever.

She sighed, and nibbled his lips with delicate kisses. "Tell me that you brought the condoms home from Las Vegas."

"I did." He dusted her lips with b.u.t.terfly kisses. "Did you want me to get them?"

"Yes, please."

He chuckled. "So polite."

"Of course I am, when you're being so very, very nice to me."

"I can be better," he whispered.

"That's why we need the condoms."

Reluctantly, he pulled away from her. She pursed her lips in an adorable little pout, and rubbed her arms.

"It's cold without you."

"Get under the covers. I'll be back in a minute."

He opened the closet door, and quickly found the box he'd thrown in his suitcase. Turning, he was struck by the sight of Rebecca in his bed. The black satin comforter and ebony headboard accentuated her creamy skin and gray eyes, and the dark green sheets and pillows seemed made for her l.u.s.trouschestnut hair. Pa.s.sion flushed her cheeks, and her kiss-swollen lips beckoned him back to sample their sweet honey.

"You are so beautiful," he said.

"You're not bad yourself. But you'd look a whole lot better close up."

Desmond laughed, and soon joined her beneath the covers. She immediately nestled close to him.

"Mmm. You're so nice and warm," she purred.

He stroked her back, pressing her closer, and guided her arms around his neck. "You don't feel cold to me."

"That's because you make me so hot." She giggled. "I can't believe I just said that."

Because of his altered metabolism, he was no judge of proper body temperature. Still, he brushed the back of his hand against her forehead. It did seem a little warmer than he expected. Were her cheeks delicately flushed from pa.s.sion, or from fever?

He clutched her in a tight embrace, burying his face in her lemon scented hair. He never should have told her he loved her.

"You do seem a little warm," he said, finally. "I'll get the thermometer so we'll know for sure."

"Now?" she wailed.

The romantic moment had succ.u.mbed to dread. She couldn't be sick. He must be wrong. But he had to know. "Now."

As he pushed aside the covers and got out of bed, she shivered. He tucked the thick comforter around her, alarmed at the way she burrowed under it. Her voice m.u.f.fled by bedding, she mumbled, "Hurry back."

He raced through the living room to Gillian's bathroom, and flung open the medicine cabinet. The thermometer sat on the second shelf, along with a bottle of Children's Tylenol. Desmond grabbed both, filled a plastic cup with water, and hurried back to Rebecca.

While he was gone, she'd curled into a tight ball beneath the covers. Leaving his things on the night stand, he slipped into the bed beside her, and gathered her trembling body close to his warmth. She wrapped her arms around him and twined her legs with his.

Her shivers slowly subsided. When she eased herself away from him to find a more comfortable position, he asked, "Better?"

"I'm warmer now. But I feel funny. All wiggly."

His heart turned to lead. Picking up the thermometer from the night stand, he said, "Let's check your temperature. All right?"

"Do I have to come out from under the covers?"

"No."

"Then okay."

When he opened the covers, she curled a little closer to him, but only shivered once. Placing the thermometer beneath her tongue like an obedient patient, she drowsed against his chest. He silently counted off the agonizingly long seconds, then pulled the thermometer out. She didn't open her eyes.

"Well?" she murmured.

"You're running a low-grade fever."

"Low-grade? Nope. I only have premium, A-1 quality fevers. Never settle for second best." She tried to smother a giggle, but it escaped.

"No, I meant...never mind."

He lifted her to a sitting position, and guided the cup of water to her lips. She sipped it, took the Children's Tylenol he offered her, and swallowed the rest of the water. The comforter fell from her shoulders, but she didn't seem to mind. Was her fever abating or getting worse?

"Rebecca?"

"Mmm?"

"I love you."

"You don't have to sound so sad about it. I love you, too."

His only answer was to wrap his arms around her and cradle her against his chest. She was burningup.

"Rebecca, I am so, so sorry."

He buried his face in her hair, lost in an agony of recrimination. Philippe had tried to warn him, but he hadn't listened. He'd let his desires overwhelm his good sense. He should have sent Rebecca on her way as soon as the bone marrow transplant was through, or let her recover on her own in the hospital. He never should have made love to her. And he definitely should have never said he loved her, and called down the power of his curse on her.

She shifted in his arms, her eyelids fluttering and then opening. "Desmond?"

"Yes?" He hardly dared to breathe.

"I'm sick, aren't I? With the neukocytes."

"Yes. My curse is killing you."

"Don't be ridiculous." Her voice, though weak, held it's familiar tone.

He blinked. "But-"

"How is this curse supposed to be killing me?"

"You said it yourself, you're sick."

"I have a fever. My body's immune system is fighting off an infection."

"But that infection is my cursed blood."

"Desmond, listen to me. I don't know how you and Philippe got to be like you are. A Voodoo curse is as good an explanation as any. But everything after that has happened according to scientific principles.

What is this inst.i.tute for if not to research the science behind your condition? Why does your daughter get shots if you can't fight the curse?"

Her words cut through the fog of fear that had surrounded him, letting him think rationally about the situation. "The only time you could have become infected is last night. So the neukocytes were in your system already, before I told you I loved you. I didn't invoke the curse."

She nodded. "Now you've got it."

"And if your sickness is a natural, physical reaction, it can be cured."

"Yes."

His momentary optimism deserted him. "But we don't know how to cure it."

"But you can fight it."

"If it's similar to Gillian's reaction." He tightened his hold on Rebecca, giving her a fierce hug, then disentangled himself and climbed out of the bed. "There are plenty of needles in the kitchen. I'll take a sample of your blood to Doctor Chen. He can have an answer in a few hours."

"Good idea."

He hurried to the kitchen, the apartment's floors cold on his bare feet, the air chill on his bare skin.

Grabbing a needle from Gillian's supply, he checked the clock. Gillian and Mrs. Waters weren't due home for another four hours. Good. The last thing he needed was for his housekeeper to see him running naked around the house.

He raced back to Rebecca's side. She held out her arm, looking away as the needle pierced her skin.

The reservoir of the needle filled quickly with blood. Pressing her other thumb to the spot, he withdrew the needle.

"Hold down on it until it stops bleeding. I'll take this to Doctor Chen right away."

"Could you bring me a pen and some paper?"

"You want to work while I'm gone?"

Her eyes shadowed. "I have to do something."

"I'll get it for you. Anything else?"

An impish smile lit her face. "Yes. Put on some pants."

REBECCA CROSSED out the last sentence, and frowned at the letter she was trying to compose.

She remembered Olivia's letter in her nightstand, and shivered at the eerie parallel. She wasn't cursed.

She wasn't going to die.

But just in case...Sighing, she picked up a new sheet of paper, and began again. Dear Mom, I'm sorry it's taken me so long to come around to your point of view. You only ever wanted what was best for me, and thought an imaginary hero made a better father for a little girl than a fallible man. When my father came back, you had no way of knowing if he'd stay, or be frightened into leaving again. And so you didn't take the chance. For you, the promise of love wasn't worth the risk. Then, and now, I'm willing to risk everything. That doesn't make either of us wrong, just different. I hope you can forgive what I said and did when I left, and that I can see you again.

There's someone very special that I'd like you to meet. And if anything happens to me before we have that chance, remember that I thought love was worth the risk, and am happy with the decisions I've made.

Rebecca read the letter again. That was as good as it was going to get. She was too tired to try any more.

She gathered up the other papers into a loose pile and pushed them onto the floor. Her mother's letter, she folded neatly, then wrote what she knew of her mother's address on the back. She set it and her pen on the nightstand.

Burrowing beneath the covers, she let her eyes drift closed. She hoped Desmond would return soon.

"ARE YOU CERTAIN?" Desmond asked.

"They're the same," Doctor Chen repeated, laying two colored charts on the desk in front of him. Two identical colored charts.

The doctor tapped the rightmost chart. "This is the a.n.a.lysis of your wife's blood, okay?"

He slid the other chart beneath it, where it lined up perfectly. "This is an a.n.a.lysis of the blood cells I created before your daughter's transplant, to prove a child of yours could act as a bone marrow donor."

"But what does that mean for Rebecca?"

"It means her blood chemistry is stable, like yours or Philippe's."

"She'll live?"

"Yes." Doctor Chen held up a hand, cutting off Desmond's jubilation. "At least, if she survives rejection sickness."

Rejection sickness. The specter that haunted each of Gillian's transplants. Rebecca's body was trying to purge itself of the tainted blood.

"What can I do?" he whispered.

"Keep her fever down. If it gets too high, bring her to the hospital."