Part 24 (1/2)
”Just these two bags, ma'am?” he asked.
”Yes. No, wait.” She searched the room for the cooler, but didn't see it. Reluctantly, she turned to Desmond. ”Where's the cooler?”
”I put it out of the way.” He retrieved the small plastic case from where he'd stowed it under the desk, and handed it to the bellman.
The elevator ride down to the lobby was accomplished in awkward silence. Rebecca couldn't help contrasting it to their earlier trip in the elevator, when they'd been unable to keep their hands off of eachother. Now, they stood in opposite corners, like boxers before the starting bell.
They reached the car, and Desmond tipped the valet and bellman. He spoke to each of them. But he didn't say anything to her.
He opened her door and held it for her, but he didn't extend a hand to help her in, or draw down the seat belt for her. She'd started to expect his chivalrous signs of affection, but they were gone now. He couldn't be chivalrous when he was afraid to touch her. A dull ache started to pound in her temples, and at the base of her neck. Discovering she'd clenched her teeth together, she forced her jaw muscles to relax.
He wheeled onto the Strip, and she shut her eyes against the garish intrusion of light. She didn't want to be reminded that she was surrounded by happy, laughing people. She especially didn't want to be reminded that only a few short hours ago, she'd been one of those happy people.
She felt the car turn and b.u.mp over a slight curb. Opening her eyes, she saw a small gas station, dwarfed by the huge casino complexes surrounding it. Desmond pulled up to the pumps, and got out of the car.
”This won't take long,” he a.s.sured her. At least he was still speaking to her.
”Take your time.” She put the seat back and closed her eyes. It was very late, almost three o'clock, and the events of the day had tired her out. Since it had taken them five hours to get to Las Vegas, they should get back to the Inst.i.tute around eight in the morning. She wasn't going to wait until then to go to sleep, especially since she and Desmond weren't likely to say anything to each other the whole ride back.
The car shook as he climbed back in, lightly scented with gasoline fumes, and slammed his door closed. He revved the engine, and accelerated into traffic. Rebecca kept her eyes closed, feigning sleep, until a sudden swerve tossed her against the door frame.
Desmond glanced over at her, his eyes unreadable in the highway darkness. ”Did I wake you?”
”I wasn't really asleep,” she admitted. ”Just resting.”
She glanced outside, but wasn't able to see anything. At first she thought it was too dark, but then she realized the scenery was moving by too quickly to focus on. She sneaked a peak at the speedometer.
”One hundred and forty miles per hour! Are you trying to kill us?”
He turned to answer her, and she shrieked, ”Don't look at me. Look at the road!”
He sighed, but kept his attention fixed on the road where it belonged. ”No, I am not trying to kill us. I am trying to get us home in the shortest time possible.”
”You can take longer. I don't mind.” She risked another look at the speedometer. One hundred and fifty. She gripped the dashboard, even though she knew it wouldn't help her if they got into an accident.
”But I do. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. Both the Lamborghini and I are perfectly capable of handling these speeds. And the roads are ideal driving conditions-well paved, straight, and empty.”
She had to admit, he wasn't having any problems controlling the car. He handled a slight curve with ease, and she relaxed enough to let go of the dashboard. It didn't feel that fast. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend they were only moving at sixty miles per hour.
Desmond's voice interrupted her thoughts. ”If you're not going to be sleeping, and I a.s.sume you want me to keep both hands on the wheel at all times, could I trouble you to put a CD in?”
”Sure.” She leaned down and pulled the case out from under her seat. They wouldn't be discussing the music, this time. The lighthearted mood of their earlier car trip had been destroyed. She had destroyed it.
”What one do you want?”
”Edvard Grieg's Piano Concerto in A Minor.”
She found the disk he wanted and slipped it in. The melancholy notes of Grieg's music wafted out of the speakers, and she s.h.i.+vered. If Desmond was hoping to be cheered up by that music, he must be feeling as miserable as she was. And it was all her fault.
Leaning back in her seat, she closed her eyes again. At the rate he was driving, they'd be home in two hours. Recalling the twisting roads around the Hoover Dam, she adjusted her estimate up to two and a half hours. It would probably be the longest two and a half hours she'd ever spent.
She grimaced, and turned her face toward the door. That music wasn't helping her mood any, either.Chapter 16 REBECCA AWOKE with the feeling that something was wrong. She glanced around her room and saw nothing out of place. The overhead light burned steadily, and yesterday's clothes lay neatly folded on a chair.
Yesterday! With a rush, memories of the beautiful wedding and its hideous aftermath filled her mind.
She must have dozed off in the car, and Desmond put her to bed when they got home.
She tossed off her covers and got out of bed. Her bed. Not the bed she and Desmond were supposed to have shared. Just another indication of how badly she'd ruined everything between them. Shrugging into last night's s.h.i.+rt as a makes.h.i.+ft bathrobe, she took a moment to gather her courage before knocking on the connecting door to his room.
When he didn't answer to a second, louder knock, she pushed open the door and peeked inside. The room was dark, and the bed showed no signs of having been slept in.
She leaned her forehead against the cool tile wall of the bathroom. It was even worse than she'd thought. Not only couldn't Desmond stand to sleep in the same bed as her, he couldn't bear the thought of sleeping in the same apartment. She had to find him. They had to discuss what had happened last night, or it would fester between them, poisoning their marriage. That is, if they still had a marriage.
She scoured the silent apartment for any trace of her husband. Nothing. He wasn't only gone, but in a telling lack of consideration, he had left no note to indicate where he could be found or when he expected to come back.
Standing in the middle of the living room, she admitted the truth. He didn't want her to find him. She'd driven him away, just as her mother had driven away her father.
Rebecca stiffened her shoulders and set her jaw. She wouldn't let it happen again. She'd find Desmond, and force the issue. Yes, she'd behaved horrendously, but that didn't give him the right to leave her. She could get counseling, straighten herself out. Maybe even just understanding her motivations was enough to get rid of the problem. They could make their marriage work, if only Desmond stayed committed to it.
She could convince him when she saw him. But her first task was to find him. Perhaps he'd joined his daughter at Mrs. Waters's?
Remembering the Access program he'd shown her, as soon as she was dressed she went into the study and turned on the computer. When the locator prompted her for the name of the person she was searching for, she entered Desmond's name. A blue dot blinked into existence on the map, three levels down in the lab section of the Inst.i.tute. After experimenting with different keys, she managed to enlarge the display of that section of the map, labeled ”Administrative Offices.” The room surrounding the blinking blue dot was labeled ”Office of the Director.”
He'd gone to his office. A sudden relief swept through her, leaving her limp. Faced with the terrible things that had happened last night, he'd turned to his work. It was a reaction she could understand, a reaction she sympathized with. He hadn't abandoned her.
A sharp knock on the apartment door startled her out of her musings. As she stood up and went to answer it, she wondered who it could be. Not Desmond. She'd just seen he was in his office. Gillian, back from her picnic? No, she would be with Mrs. Waters. What about Evan? Desmond might have sent him over to check on her, or to deliver an explanation for his absence.
Her steps speeded up and she reached for the door, only to stop short at the sight of the keycard reader.
”Wait a minute. I forgot my card,” she called through the door.
”You don't need it,” a m.u.f.fled voice responded. ”Press the authorized entry b.u.t.ton, and my card will open it.”
She studied the scanner, and found an unlabeled black b.u.t.ton on the corner of the panel. She pressed it. The lock rewarded her with its customary buzz-click, and she opened the door. To Philippe.
”Good morning, Rebecca.” He slid his foot forward just enough to keep her from slamming the doorshut in his face. His vacation had been good for him, as he looked calm and relaxed. ”Is Desmond at home? I need to speak to him.”
”No. He's not.” She tried to shut the door anyway, but only succeeded in banging his shoe.
He pushed the door back open. ”It's important. Do you mind if I wait for him?”
”Yes.”
He caught the door as she tried to close it, forcing it back open with easy strength. ”I realize I made a poor first impression on you. But since you're going to be here until Gillian makes a permanent recovery, we'll have to at least learn to tolerate each other.”
She let go of the door and stared at him, feeling the blood drain from her face and icy foreboding close around her heart. ”What do you mean?”
”I mean that's a long time to carry a vendetta, especially one that doesn't accomplish anything.”
”No. What did you mean about Gillian?”