Cyprien wasn't making polite chitchat now; he really wanted to know. In a way, that curiosity was more invasive than his kidnapping her—which reminded her, she was the man's prisoner—and that spoiled everything. She pushed away the remainder of the bread pudding. "All you want is my speed, not my life story."

The misshapen head inclined her way. "I would still like to know why you became what you are."

She sipped some water. "We had a gardener, this old Polish guy named Stash. He was strong as a bull but a wizard with flowers, and he could grow anything."

"He was kind to you?"

"Not particularly. He grumbled whenever I played in the garden and told me not to touch anything." She wanted the wine now, wanted the warmth to thaw the ice inside her, but she wouldn't let herself drink it. Not here, not with him. "Stash had a big red nose with a sore on it that wouldn't heal. By the time he saw a doctor, it was too late. It was melanoma—skin cancer—and it was bad. His nose had to be amputated."

Cyprien made no crass comment, or any sound at all. He simply sat and listened.

"Stash came back to work with a big bandage over his face. Then he had to wear a prosthetic nose." She remembered how it had looked on his weather-beaten face, and the red, angry flesh around it. "Kids aren't very nice to old men, and some of our neighbors' brats came to the fence and called Stash names, like he was a monster."

"Did you do the same?"

"Nope. Once I saw him take off the fake nose to wipe some sweat away. I told him he just looked like a jack-o'-lantern, and he should take off his nose and scare away those nasty kids. I was six, I believe." She smiled a little, remembering. "After that, he'd take his nose off around me. Stuck it in the back pocket of his jeans. I didn't know at the time, but his face never really healed, and it hurt him to wear it. Most people can't stand to look at someone who doesn't have a nose, though. It's considered one of the worst disfigurements you can have."

"Is it?" Cyprien touched a mass of scar tissue on his face where his nose should have been. "What happened to this gardener?"

"He died a year after the surgery. They didn't get all the cancer, and it went up into his brain. That's when I decided to be a surgeon."

"For which I must be grateful," Cyprien said, his voice strained.

She stared across the table at him. For a moment, she saw the old gardener's flat, sad face superimposed over Cyprien's. I will not give myself Stockholm syndrome. "That's the reason. Satisfied now?"

He nodded. "Café au lait, Phillipe."

Alex felt like an idiot as she drank the cup of strong chicory coffee Phillipe brought her. Cyprien was a man who could heal in minutes. If there was some way to nail down and duplicate what his body did naturally, it would make a tremendous difference to patients like Luisa Lopez. It would, in fact, change modern medicine. Plus the man was holding her captive. She couldn't afford to be hostile toward him.

"That was the best meal I've had since… I can't remember." Being gracious was awkward; she was out of practice. Hostile was so much easier. "Thanks."

"You're very welcome, Doctor."

"I have some questions," she went on, probing cautiously. "Have you been able to spontaneously heal your entire life?"

He shook his head. "I acquired the ability as a young man."

Adolescence triggered some genetic factors. "Does it run in your family? Either of your parents have the same ability? Your grandparents, aunts, uncles?"

"No." He lifted his wineglass to his mouth.

"It still could be genetic." She put down her coffee cup. To isolate a gene for spontaneous healing would be the medical equivalent of finding a pink diamond mine. The applications were endless, but she didn't think of anonymous research. She thought of Luisa. "Mr. Cyprien, if I restore your features, will you allow me to run some tests? All I need—"

"No."

Patiently Alex began to explain what could be learned from studying him, until he held up one of his hands.

"Dr. Keller, I appreciate your enthusiasm, but my ability does not come without a heavy price." He placed his hand over hers. The bones and muscles felt heavy, the skin cool to the touch. "Imagine a war fought by soldiers whose injuries heal as quickly as mine. No conventional army could stand against them."

The bread pudding, which had tasted so divine, abruptly formed a solid lump in her stomach. "I see your point."

"I am glad." Cyprien merely finished his wine and rose. "If you're finished, perhaps we can adjourn to my chambers? You can inspect your equipment."

Alex blinked. "What equipment?"

"Éliane obtained what you requested." He walked over and offered her an arm, and she realized he was a lot taller than she'd thought. "Come, I'll show you."

Chapter Five

Ten minutes later Alex sat down on the edge of the surgical table. All around her, diagnostic equipment hummed and glass-paneled cabinets showed off shelves stocked with every conceivable instrument and medical supply. She stared at the portable lab and X-ray machine, their related processors, and the latest in alloplastic and autogenous grafting materials in refrigerated cases.

She stared up at Cyprien. "This isn't equipment. This is a whole freaking field hospital."

He sat beside her and turned as if watching her face. "It is what you will need, is it not?"

"Uh, yeah. I could treat a hundred patients here." She pushed herself off the table and tapped the surface. "You'll be first."

Alex took blood and tissue samples, using syringes that appeared to be made from the same bronze metal as the knife. "Why aren't these needles stainless steel?"

"Copper is the only metal that can penetrate my skin."

"Get out of here." She removed the needle from his arm and watched the tiny hole it had left disappear. "What moron told you that?"

He sighed. "Think of it as a severe allergy."

To keep from snickering, Alex rolled over the portable X-ray and took a full head series. Luckily she still remembered how to develop the plates from her intern days. Once the films were developed, she placed them on a light table and studied the results.

The results were unspeakable.

Cyprien got off the exam table and joined her. "What is it?"

"This could be your skull. I think." She pointed to the jagged contours of his distorted bones, and then remembered he couldn't see. "Sorry. It looks like someone put a puzzle together with all the pieces jammed in the wrong places." She glanced up at him. "How are you able to walk around like this without bumping into things?"

"I've always had an excellent proximity sense." He reached out and tapped the end of her nose with one finger. "And your voice is very easy to follow."

The touch was casual, even friendly. But Alex didn't want to be friendly with Cyprien. She wanted to be in Chicago.

"My mom always said she could hear me a block away." She surreptitiously rubbed her nose and then studied the films again. "I'll need to see any other X-rays of your head taken prior to the accident."

"There are none."

It wasn't her lucky night. "Okay, then I'll need to see a photograph of what you looked like before this."

"I've never been photographed."

"Not for a passport or a driver's license or… you're kidding, right?" When he shook his head, she released a frustrated breath. "You're not. Of course. Great. How am I supposed to restore your face if I don't know what it used to look like?"

He turned in the direction of their silent chaperone. "Phillipe, obtenez la peinture de la bibliothèque et apportez-l'au docteur."

Phillipe disappeared, and then returned a few minutes later carrying a huge painting of a knight in a white mantle and armor.

The face of the man in the painting was handsome, if a little cruel-looking around the mouth and eyes. Maybe he was upset about all the crushed, bleeding bodies around the feet of his horse.

"Nice picture," Alex told Cyprien, "but that's not going to help much."

"Will it not?" He seemed surprised. "Before the accident, I looked exactly like the man in the portrait."

"You looked like this badass white knight on the black horse stomping over a bunch of dead people?" she asked, to be sure. After all, Phillipe could have picked the wrong painting. "He looks like he's waiting for three other guys to show up in the bloodred moonlight."

"Perhaps he was." The hole of his mouth bent up on the ends. "In his time, however, he was considered to be a rather handsome, dashing fellow."

"If you like guys who wear tin cans to work, I guess." The painting was actually quite detailed; she moved closer to it and studied the face. "I can't give you back the mustache and beard unless I can uncover some hair follicles, and you'll need to dye the rest of your hair to lose the Cruella De Vil effect. I can manage the features, though, if I can figure out how to keep you from healing around my scalpel."

"I have also had all the instruments coated with copper. It… delays the healing." He gestured toward the cabinet. "Is there anything else you require?"

She didn't even hesitate. "Three surgical interns, four nurses, an anesthesiologist, a sterile environment, a blood bank, an ICU, two weeks to prepare and test the graft materials, and my head examined. You know. Just the little things."

"I will serve as your nurse," Éliane said. "The alloplastic grafts are already prepared."

Le Bitch was seriously beginning to get on Alex's nerves. "I prefer to harvest my own grafts, thanks. Just what do you think you know about craniofacial reconstructive surgery, Blondie?"

"I know enough to hand you the correct instruments." She turned to Cyprien. "Shall I set up the trays now, maître?"