He slipped out from under the covers and grabbed his shorts from the floor. Nealy alternated between staring at him and trying to spare the baby the sight of a buck-naked, fully erect man.

The Demon was making more happy sounds, giving Nealy the adoration she normally bestowed on him. Apparently the baby believed she had him right where she wanted and was now free to move on to her next conquest. Not far from the truth.

She dropped her head and pressed her wet mouth to Nealy’s chin. For a moment Nealy just lay there, then she cradled the baby’s head. At the same time, her mouth set in this stubborn line that told him she wanted to cry, but wouldn’t do it.

He forgot about snapping his jeans. “What’s wrong?”

“She’s just so perfect.”

He gazed down at the baby, who had now plopped her thumb in her mouth and stretched full length on top of Nealy. He started to make some wiseass remark about how nobody could call the Demon perfect, but the words stuck in his throat because they looked so beautiful lying there together.

Then he started seeing visions of hair bows, Barbies, tampons, and thirty-six shades of lipstick. This was not what he wanted! He needed to get out of this room—he felt claustrophobic—but he couldn’t leave with Nealy working so hard at keeping her eyes dry.

He scooped up the baby and sat on the side of the bed. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

For a moment she didn’t say anything, and then the words came in a rush. “I’m afraid I’ll hurt her. It’s . . . When I was young . . .” She struggled to hold it back, but couldn’t. “There was a photograph taken of me when I was sixteen. In Ethiopia, with a baby who was starving . . .”

“I remember.”

“The baby died, Mat. Right after the picture was taken. When I was still holding her.”

“Oh, sweetheart . . .”

“And that wasn’t the end. There have been so many since then. Babies in terrible agony, suffering from starvation, from unspeakable diseases. AIDS babies. Crack babies. You can’t imagine . . .”

As it all spilled out of her, he understood the price she’d paid for those photographs of America’s immaculately groomed, perfectly poised First Lady holding an afflicted infant. It was no wonder she believed she was somehow cursed.

“I couldn’t stop. There’s so much need. But I . . . I started thinking of myself as the—” Her voice broke. “The Angel of Baby Death.”

He put the Demon on the floor and drew her against his chest. “It’s all right, sweetheart . . . It’s all right . . .” He stroked her bare, soft back, whispered goofy stuff into her ear, did everything he could to take away the hurt.