Prescription for Romance

by Marie Ferrarella

  Eventually, the house stopped accepting his markers. That was when someone else did. And his life took a turn for the worse.

  Addled by his desire to recoup his losses and to prove that his groundless certainty that he could win it all back if he just kept at it long enough was right, he went on to accept the loan for a large sum of money. The loan had come from a well-dressed, older man with the flattest eyes he’d ever seen.

  And now, now he was in so far over his head that he despaired he would ever break through the surface again. Lying on top of the rumpled bed in the shabby Atlantic City hotel room, he dragged both hands over his face in abject despair.

  What was he going to do?

  The demands for payments were relentless. And the threats, the threats frightened him most of all. Not just against his life, but against his parents and the institute, as well.

  The threats hadn’t been in so many words, but when he was late with his third payment, a payment that had become swollen out of proportion because the interest that had been slapped on it grew at a prodigious rate, his “benefactor”—as the man had referred to himself at first—quietly slipped him a news clipping. The clipping was from a West Coast newspaper from approximately six months ago. The photograph that was at the top of the article showed a once-famous hotel going up in flames.

  “The owner of that piece of property didn’t think he had to pay on time, either,” was all the man said to him in that raspy voice that came across like a poor imitation of Marlon Brando in The Godfather.

  Derek never asked who the benefactor was referring to. He didn’t want to know. The lesson was crystal clear. If he didn’t continue to pay off his loan on time, the institute would be burned to the ground.

  He sold everything he owned and still, it wasn’t enough. Having nothing left, immersed in maintaining a facade, Derek was left with only one source of money to tap. He handled the institute’s finances. So he set aside his conscience and did what he had to do.

  It was either that or watch the institute burn.

  He refused to think of the consequences of his actions, but he knew they were coming.

  And soon.

  In the meantime, he would continue to burn the candle at both ends, trying to stay alive one more day. Hoping that, at the end of the day, there would be some kind of miracle that could save him. It was the only way he could go on. Searching for a miracle. And praying that his luck had changed.

  Chapter Eight

  Paul had to admit that the press release looked even better in newsprint than it had on the antiseptic white pages that Ramona had handed him to read several days ago.

  He put down the first section of the Cambridge Chronicle. The periodical had been sitting on his desk when he’d walked in this morning, opened to the page with the pertinent article on it.

  Aside from the Donner-Demetrios announcement, there was mention of the clinic’s high success ratio, and the article brought attention to the fact that, not all that long ago, the institute was the first of its kind to offer hope to childless, infertile couples longing for a baby of their own.

  The article ended by emphasizing that the institute was still on the cutting edge of the field, still leading the way. Hiring Bonner and Demetrios to conduct their research at the institute just ensured that they would continue on that path.

  “So, has she earned her keep?”

  Derek walked into his office grinning and looking extremely satisfied with himself. Paul wasn’t aware that his brother had even bothered to knock.

  “Did you leave this on my desk?” he wanted to know, indicating the newspaper.

  That possibility hadn’t occurred to him until Derek had asked the question. He’d just assumed that Ramona had left the paper to prove to him that she was doing her job.

  “Had to,” Derek responded. Rather than take a seat, he perched on the corner of the cluttered desk. It created the aura of looking down on his brother. Paul had a feeling Derek did it on purpose. “You walk around here the way you do through life, with blinders on. Not seeing anything until it’s pointed out to you.” Derek’s grin grew wider. “I bet you didn’t even notice that our new PR manager is one hell of a babe, did you?”

  That’s where you’re wrong, Derek.

  Whether or not his brother meant his question in a belittling way, he couldn’t help resenting the way Derek said it.

  “I noticed that she was a very attractive woman,” Paul answered, “but I wouldn’t have insulted her by describing her in those terms.”

  Derek shook his head. “Don’t know how we can possibly share the same DNA and be so damn different.”

  “One of the mysteries of science, I guess,” Paul replied coolly. Derek continued smirking at him. “And if you’re here to gloat—”

  “I am,” Derek confirmed breezily.

  Paul refused to rise to the bait. “One success doesn’t make your case for you.”

  Derek stared at him, clearly surprised by this opposition. “Don’t tell me you still want to get rid of her.”

  “What I’m telling you is that I’m still reserving judgment.” Other places had a three-month period during which a newly hired employee could be let go if he or she didn’t live up to expectations or performed poorly. Why not here at the institute, as well? “I see this place as being a tightly knit family. I’m not convinced that she belongs yet.”

  Derek laughed shortly, clearly not in agreement with his twin. “That’s exactly your problem, Paul. The institute isn’t a family, it’s a business and as such, it needs to have people savvy about their particular sphere of business running it.” Rising, he patted Paul on the shoulder. Paul pulled back from his brother’s patronizing gesture. “But that’s not your concern. You just go on doing you job and I’ll make sure that you can keep on doing it.”

  Paul wasn’t as dense as he assumed his brother thought him to be. He saw through the rhetoric. “I’m not handing over my right to challenge your decisions, if that’s what you’re after.”

  Derek pretended to snap his fingers like an old-fashioned villain and declared in a pseudoexasperated voice, “Curses, foiled again.”

  Paul relaxed just a little. “You’re in a particularly chipper mood today.”

  Derek’s grin broadened even more. “Why shouldn’t I be? The sun is smiling down on our institute and all is right with the world.” And then he added the crowning piece. “And I feel lucky.”

  Paul didn’t understand what his brother might be referring to. “Lucky?”

  “Lucky to be part of all this,” Derek said, neatly smoothing out the unfortunate slip he’d just accidentally made.

  Last night he’d left the table slightly better off than when he’d first walked into the casino. It was the beginning of a streak, he could feel it. He’d flown back to Cambridge early this morning, but he intended on going back again as soon as he was able to delegate his responsibilities for the upcoming weekend. He didn’t want his streak to get cold.

  “By the way,” Derek interjected, stopping at the door just before leaving the office, “have you told her you liked the article?”

  “I gave it my approval initially,” he said evasively. Derek continued staring at him. “I haven’t had time to talk to anyone but you,” Paul protested. “I haven’t even left my office yet.”

  “Then leave it and go tell her,” Derek prompted. “Everyone needs a little positive reinforcement once in a while. I’m guessing that you haven’t given her any substantial feedback. I don’t want to risk losing the woman to someone else—even if you do.”

  He hated it when Derek insisted on putting words into his mouth or second-guessing his thoughts. “That’s not necessarily true,” Paul contradicted.

  “Such passion,” Derek quipped, placing his hand over his heart. “Well, you’ve convinced me.”

  Paul held his tongue. Sarcasm wasn’t something he indulged in with any sort of regularity, but his brother seemed to have cornered the market for both of them.

&n
bsp; “I’ll see you later,” he told Derek, hoping that would help usher his brother out the door.

  Derek paused again, his hand on the doorknob. “As a matter of fact, you won’t. I have some unfinished business to tend to,” he said evasively.

  According to Derek, he had just been in New York. Unfinished business would indicate that he was returning there. “You’re flying back to New York?”

  “Yes.”

  His brother seemed antsy to leave now, but Paul still wanted to find out what was prompting all these trips. Was Derek involved with someone in the city? Or was there something else going on? “Mind if I ask why? You were just there.”

  Derek had his explanation ready. “I’m trying to hit up some corporate types for donations to the institute. That requires wining and dining and a lot of kid-glove attention, something you wouldn’t know anything about,” he pointed out, “because I take that burden off your shoulders.”

  That still didn’t make any sense to Paul. “I thought that was why the institute holds several different annual fundraisers each year.”

  Derek sighed wearily. He’d never liked having to explain himself, especially when things were not quite what they seemed. “In case you haven’t noticed, the price of everything is going up. If the institute was a play, I’d say we needed angels backing it,” he explained, thinking that the metaphor was lost on his brother.

  Paul let the hint of sarcasm pass. There was no point in taking offense. It wouldn’t resolve anything. Another sigh, this time one that had nothing to do with impatience, escaped.

  “Yes, we need angels,” Paul murmured, more to himself than to Derek. Dealing in the creation of tiny beings was more in the domain of angels than anything else, he thought.

  Derek had taken the opportunity to make good his exit.

  Paul half rose in his seat. “Let me know how it goes,” he called after his brother. Derek merely waved an acknowledgment without looking back.

  “Good piece.”

  At the sound of Paul’s voice, Ramona’s heart jumped into her throat. She hadn’t expected anyone to walk in and she was busy doing research on the institute and its founder, Gerald Armstrong. Caught off guard, doing her best to look surprised rather than guilty, it took her a second to compose herself.

  “Excuse me, Doctor?”

  “I saw the press-release article you wrote about Bonner and Demetrios in the Chronicle,” he explained as he came in. “Nice to see something in the newspaper about the institute without veiled accusations running through it.”

  Ramona’s response was a knowing smile. Barely moving her hand so that she wouldn’t call any attention to it or the monitor facing her, she deftly pressed down on a combination of keys that brought up a neutral screen. She had a feeling that the doctor wouldn’t exactly be thrilled if he knew she’d been researching those very articles.

  It looked as if she and Armstrong were finally getting on better footing. She needed to feed that. “By the time I get finished working on the institute’s image, people are going to think of it as being on the same plane as the Grotto of Lourdes.”

  “Setting your sights a little high, aren’t you?” he asked, amused.

  She had never approached life any other way. “If you set your sights too low, you never get to accomplish anything noteworthy. Life is a series of challenges. You’re not going to meet them if you’re sitting on the sidelines,” she told him.

  He turned her words over in his head and then laughed.

  Was he laughing at her? She’d thought he was too polite and well mannered for that. “What’s so funny, Doctor?”

  “I just can’t picture you on the sidelines of anything,” he told her honestly.

  For a second, she was silent. And then she said, “Thank you,” very quietly. “Do you realize that’s the first time you’ve given me a compliment?”

  He didn’t want her to get carried away. “It’s not meant as a compliment,” he felt bound to tell her. “It’s just an observation.”

  Another man would have taken advantage of that, she thought. Apparently honorable wasn’t just a word in the dictionary to Dr. Armstrong. That definitely made him different from his father. So far, she’d compiled a rather formidable pile of dirt on the senior Armstrong, who’d been a womanizer—and there was enough to go around as far as Derek Armstrong was concerned. But she was after more than that. She wanted to find something that would substantiate the notion that Gerald had played fast and loose with patients’ eggs and sperm, at times possibly even substituting an egg or sperm from donors rather than his patients. So far, she had nothing concrete.

  And as for Paul, she hadn’t uncovered anything on him yet. Not even a whisper of any sort of scandal much less wrongdoing. Either he was very, very good at hiding his tracks—or he was clean.

  She was beginning to lean toward the latter.

  “Well, I’m taking it as a compliment,” she told him. An impulse hit her. Ramona glanced at her watch. It was only eleven. Early by most standards, but she’d been up since five. “You have any consultations or procedures set up?”

  The question, coming out of the blue, caught him by surprise. “For when?”

  “Now.”

  What was she driving at? he wondered. He’d come in early to catch up on some paperwork and to review several trials that had been conducted on a new kind of medication that just might be able to help with fertility. There were no appointments on his calendar today.

  “No. Not until later.”

  “Good, then.” Ramona rose to her feet. Ingrained manners had him rising, as well. “I’m taking you to lunch.” She saw him look at his own watch. “An early lunch,” she amended before he could protest that it wasn’t officially lunchtime. “My treat.” She took her purse out of the drawer where she kept it. “You can’t turn me down. I’m celebrating.”

  Had he missed something? Or was the woman talking about the article making it into print? “Celebrating what?”

  Her eyes crinkled when she smiled, he noticed. And she was smiling enough to light up two rooms. “My boss just gave me my first compliment,” she told him cheerfully.

  The woman was making entirely too big a deal out of this. “Ms. Tate—”

  “Oh now, don’t go spoiling it by going all formal on me,” she chided him. “I’ve been here more than a week. Certainly that’s long enough for you to remember my first name.”

  “I remember your first name,” Paul protested. “It’s just that—”

  She wouldn’t allow him to finish. “Good, then you can use it.”

  He found himself laughing and shaking his head. “Are you always this pushy?”

  There wasn’t even a moment’s hesitation on her part. “Always,” she confirmed. “I find I get more things done that way.”

  And with that, she led the way out of the office.

  “So, how do you like working at the institute?” Ramona asked once they were seated at a table in Stella’s, the quaint Italian restaurant a block or two from the clinic. The food was as old-fashioned as the decor and just as tasty as the aroma drifting in from the kitchen promised it would be.

  The server took their orders and retreated, leaving them with bread sticks that were out of this world.

  “Shouldn’t I be the one asking you that?” Paul wanted to know, looking at her. Her hair looked somewhat darker in the dim light. It was medium gold instead of bright blond, Paul caught himself thinking. Either way, it was incredibly attractive.

  “I already know how I feel about working at the institute,” she answered. “But you must have had a hard time, trying to walk in your father’s shoes.” Her eyes were on his, looking for a reaction as she said, “If I had to guess, I’d say that Gerald Armstrong was a hard act to follow.”

  He shrugged. “I just try to do justice to his vision.”

  Paul loved his father, she realized, and couldn’t help wondering if that affection was returned, or if the senior Armstrong had been too wrapped up in his work an
d in the women who’d fawned on him over the years to even realize the precious thing he was ignoring.

  She bit off a piece of bread stick, then asked as nonchalantly as she could, “And, in your opinion, have you succeeded?”

  His eyes narrowed as he picked up a bread stick of his own. “I thought you were asking me out to lunch, not an interview.”

  She needed to dial it back a little, Ramona told herself. She had a tendency to come on strong. That would be a mistake here.

  “This isn’t an interview,” she told him innocently. “I’m just trying to get a few things more clear so that I can tell your story better when I get around to writing it.”

  He straightened, abandoning the last of the bread stick. “Tell my story to whom?”

  “To the general public,” she answered. “I was thinking of putting together a piece on the institute. You know, on how it came about, the changes that were implemented when you and your brother and sister took over, things like that. I want to send it to one of the papers that has a Sunday magazine. Part of the reason you have to put up with rumors and detractors is that not enough people understand what it is you do. I think that too many of them regard you as being on the same level as Dr. Frankenstein—trying to create life out of thin air and coming up with Boris Karloff.”

  He couldn’t say that he liked the idea of being dissected in public, or even held up to scrutiny. Not because he had anything to hide, but because he was and always had been a private person. The spotlight was for people like his father and Derek. They enjoyed it. He just wanted to be left alone to do his work.

  But for now, he made no protest. He could always do that later. “Who else have you interviewed?”

  “No one.” Which was true. She was relying on sources for that. “I thought I’d start at the top and work my way down.”

  Their food arrived, the aromas enticing them to start eating.

  “If that’s the case,” Paul said, continuing where they had left off, “you probably should have started with Derek.”

  She waited until she’d taken a bite before contradicting him. “Derek’s not at the top, you are.” Then, in case he didn’t understand her criteria, she told him, “Derek might be the chief financial officer, but you’re the heart of the institute, Dr. Armstrong.”