“So do you?”
“Do I what?” she says, distracted by his scent and his closeness and those beautiful eyes.
“Forgive me.” His hands are on her back, and he expertly steers her through the crowd until they reach a sheltered alcove by the library.
“Tell me your sins, my child,” Holly says. She’s drunk on the music, on the night and the snow and her heady escape from her mother, who is actually beaming at her from across the room. On the heat of Robert’s hands. The way he’s looking at her.
“The list is long and illustrious,” he murmurs into her ear, and the feel of his breath makes her gasp. “Do you know that in all the years I’ve been coming to this party, you’ve never once given me a second glance? And you’re terribly oblivious to everything that isn’t a lab. I saved you a seat in front of me in that ethics class for a whole term, woman, without a single word of thanks.”
“We’re talking about your sins, not mine,” she reminds him. And then she can’t say anything else because he’s laying a tiny trail of kisses along her jaw.
“Fine. Mark me down for dishonesty. You have a terrible issue with punctuality, have I mentioned that?” he says between kisses. “So tonight I took fate into my own hands. Your roommate was taking your name in vain in the parking lot, and I promised I’d be responsible for you. I wasn’t waiting for a friend. I was waiting for you.”
“Dishonesty isn’t one of the seven deadly sins,” Holly says, but it comes out as a sigh, because now he’s kissing her collarbone. Her neck. The corner of her mouth.
He pulls away, looks her in the eye. “It’s not?” he says, and the absence of his mouth leaves such a hole in her skin that her hands of their own accord twine their way to the back of his neck, pulling him closer. “Then what is?”
“Lust.” The snow is falling like a thousand lost stars and the world outside the window gleams as if brand-new. Before he can say another word, she kisses him on the mouth and pulls the curtains of the alcove closed around them.
* * *
Holly stands quietly at her workbench, waiting for grief to release its hold on her. When the softness of vanilla finally fades enough to be replaced with the sharp odor of bleach, she moves to the far end of the room, where there is a refrigerated safe. She punches in her code and its door unseals. There are two drawers behind it. She reaches into the top one and extracts a bag of blood, still in its hazardous-materials packing. It came in yesterday from Cornwall, and with the Pixie Dust launch she hasn’t had time to handle it until now.
She carefully deposits the contents of the bag in a serum-separation tube, then places the tube in the centrifuge. It takes fifteen minutes for the blood to separate. Holly watches the entire time, keeping her mind still, trying to lose herself in the work and not think of Robert or Eden or any of the memories clamoring for her attention. Trying to breathe.
When the machine comes to a stop, she unlocks the lid. The red blood cells have collected at the bottom of the tube, the plasma and serum at the top. She draws off the plasma and serum into an unused sterile jar. She labels and dates the jar, then puts it in the top drawer of the safe.
Next she opens the bottom drawer—the freezer. Inside is a test tube of frozen blood and a thermometer. Holly checks the temperature, then shuts the door.
She takes the test tube containing the red blood cells out of the centrifuge machine and places it in a specially designed padded chiller bag, then locks her lab. She studies the video monitor to make certain she is alone before she slips out into the corridor.
Back upstairs in her main office, she nestles the bag into an inside zippered pocket of her leather tote. She takes one last look around the room, running through a mental list of tasks. Satisfied she’s not leaving anything undone, she pulls off her lab coat, tosses it into a hamper in the corner of her office, and leaves for home, shutting the door firmly behind her on any lingering ghosts.
Chapter Four
The apartment is silent when she lets herself in. There’s a note from Manuela, the housekeeper, saying there’s a roast chicken in the oven. Holly texts her that she can have the week off. She texts Barry too, telling him she’s on tomorrow’s flight out, that she’ll have Jack dropped off after school. And then she takes a deep breath, soaking in the quiet of the sanctuary she’s created.
With its clean-lined modern furniture and bright white walls, the apartment is about as far from her family’s London home as can be. No dust-collecting antiques, no gloomy corners, just white leather couches and gleaming hardwood floors. The first time Holly’s mother, Jane, visited, she’d taken one look and offered the loan of some family artwork. Not the Sargent oil, of course, which displayed Grandmother Wendy in all her luminous, adolescent glory, but perhaps the sketch he’d done of all three of the famous siblings? Holly thought of Great-Uncle Michael’s vacant stare and shuddered before firmly declining. It might be beneficial to trade upon her name at work, but she wanted no ties to the Darling family and its pedigreed history here.