An abrupt spin brought her face-to-face with Cecil, who’d brought his broom around to level the cinders in the circular drive. The fallen look on his face was as punishing as shame could ever be.
“Mum, I have to go.” She pocketed her phone and went to him. “Cecil, I’m so sorry. I was being stupidly facetious. My mum…she always brings out the absolute worst in me. I love you and Maisie like family.”
“I know, dear one.” He accepted her hug, patting her back as if she were the one who deserved to be comforted. “Is it true what you told her about the estate, that Lord Hughes lost it all in the stock market? Maisie and I, we thought your Poppa was just sad, that he missed his loved ones and wanted Penderworth to always stay the same.”
She took a deep breath, deciding Cecil deserved the truth. “No, he had no money to keep it up. Lord Alanford told me how it happened, just bad timing on a stock sale during the global crash. That’s why he worked at the university until the day he died.”
“The poor, poor man.”
She hooked her arm through his and walked him toward the cottage. “We’ve so much to talk about, Cecil. I promise it’s going to be all right. I’ll do whatever I can to see to it. Go fetch Maisie and let’s all sit down over tea and figure out how we can solve this together.”
“Wait.” He stopped abruptly and broke into a smile. “Does this mean we can take our pension now?”
* * *
“Have a seat, Shane. Would you like tea?” Lark had gotten an electric kettle for her office. Her tea habit was now officially out of control.
“I’m fine, thanks. Just downed an energy drink.”
“Do those really work? I always assumed they gave you a temporary buzz and then you crashed back to earth with a sugar headache.”
Shane was a handsome young man, clean-cut and sharply dressed in a pink Ralph Lauren shirt that retailed for around a hundred bucks. Lark knew because her curiosity had led her to look up the price online. Pretty fine rags for a research assistant living on an entry-level salary, as incongruous as his flashy BMW convertible. It was none of her business what he wore, what he drove, or that he marked time on the same Swiss watch as Gipson’s CEO. What concerned her today was the kiss she’d witnessed in the parking garage between Shane and a woman who left via an emergency stairwell that exited outdoors. Around her neck was a red lanyard like those worn by employees of Haas-Seidel, a German drugmaker with offices in the building next to PharmaStat.
Lark didn’t like the scenario for how those pieces might add up. All the pharmaceutical giants were in development with arthritis drugs, but competitive intelligence had Gipson out in front by twelve to sixteen months with Flexxene. A failed trial—especially one thought to endanger subjects with life-threatening side effects—could set them back long enough for one of the others to surge ahead. As farfetched as it seemed that a PharmaStat employee would sabotage a trial to give someone else the upper hand, she couldn’t ignore the possibility.
“You’ve worked on review teams before, right Shane? Some reviews go deeper than others, especially when the results are anomalous. Like the Flexxene trial.”
“I’ve taken part in reviews, audits, all of it…but none for Gipson. Before I say more, Dr. Batra is quite insistent that we aren’t to discuss any of our projects with rival companies.”
“You’re absolutely correct. Confidentiality is critical to Gipson as well. In fact, we’d be very disappointed to learn that our proprietary information was shared with another company, especially one that happened to be working on a similar drug.” Her office chair squeaked as she leaned back. “Speaking of other companies, I couldn’t help but notice you and a very pretty lady in the parking garage on Monday. She left through one of the side exits.”
He clearly was taken aback by the personal nature of her questions, but then his ears reddened and he managed a sheepish grin. “That would be Thilda Huber. She works at Haas-Seidel. But we never discuss our jobs.”
“Your girlfriend?”
“Not exactly…though perhaps if I’m lucky she will be. We only met last week in the line for coffee.”
It was easy enough to check if he’d exchanged prior calls or emails with Haas-Seidel from his PharmaStat phone or account. If the date held up she could rule him out—the Flexxene trial had already been suspended by then.
“I haven’t discussed PharmaStat trials with her, if that’s what you’re asking. Though I confess that I sometimes have misgivings about all the secrecy. I’d like to think as scientists, we pursue knowledge in order to share it with the world, not to hoard so we can enrich ourselves.”
So Shane was an idealist, naive but altruistic. That too could be motive for disrupting a proprietary drug trial.
“It’s probably best if you keep that philosophy to yourself around here,” she said jovially. “We do this to fight disease, of course, but the pharmaceutical industry is about making profits—billions of dollars in profits. I won’t attempt to defend some of the exorbitant prices or how much they spend on marketing. Just be glad you don’t live in the US, where there’s no limit on what drugmakers can charge. Bioscience is a capitalist venture. But it’s the potential for profit that drives the market to pour more money into research and development. Take away the profit and they stop investing. Take away investments and there’s less money for research. Take away research and…you get the point. At the end of the day, what really matters is if we’re making people’s lives better or worse.”
She hadn’t meant to go off on a philosophical soliloquy, but it didn’t hurt to underscore for Shane the human consequences of a failed drug trial that might have helped bring about a treatment for a painful disease. If he’d done something to disrupt the Flexxene trial, maybe a new perspective about the greater good would convince him to come clean.
“What was it that brought you to pharmaceutical research, Shane?”
She’d studied his résumé and found it thin for a twenty-six-year-old, owing to what appeared to be a pair of gap years bookending his university degree. There was no faulting his work however, as his performance evaluations were excellent.
“It’s not what I’ve planned for my career, pharmaceutical trials, but it’s good experience for what I’d like to do someday.” Other than the brief moment of embarrassment, he didn’t seem at all nervous about her line of questioning. On the contrary, he grew animated as he described his ambitions. “My goal is to go to university in America next year. Johns Hopkins in Baltimore. I’d like to get my doctorate in public health. After that, I hope to work on health policy in developing countries.”
“Wow, that sounds interesting.” Or totally contrived.
“Not to my dad. He’d have preferred I study engineering as he did. He’s absolutely gutted that I’ve no interest in taking over the company. My sister, though…she wants to build the stadiums and car parks. Let her have it, I say. I’d rather do something to leave the world a better place.”
So that was it—Shane came from money, enough to fund a comfortable lifestyle while he worked at an entry-level job. She’d verify his story, of course. If true, he probably had no financial motive for selling out Gipson.
The rest of her interview was dedicated to documenting Shane’s role in the process, something she’d done for each staff member associated with the Flexxene trial. His duties were limited to data monitoring and scheduling. “You’re saying you never actually handled any of the drug samples, is that correct? All of your work was here in the building.”
“Right, except there were a couple of Mondays when Wendi asked me to deliver the packets out to the clinics. Dr. Martin jammed her up with a special report, a last-minute thing, she said. We always try to step up for one another whenever one of us gets in the weeds.”
The packets he was talking about were sealed envelopes containing the prescribed treatment for a week, either Flexxene patches or the placebos. They were marked only with a subject’s identification number and the participating physician. No
way could the person delivering the packets know which drug was inside. “Do you recall the dates?”
“It’s probably on the fleet logs. I signed out a car both times.”
“If you could track that information down and email it to me, it’d be great. I’m reconstructing the timeline so we can rule out possible contamination of the contents. You verified the seals, correct?”
His eyes flickered with sudden concern. “Do you mean the individual packets? I didn’t check those, actually. The boxes for each clinic were sealed with parcel tape. I presumed they were intended for clinic staff only.”
It probably was nothing. There was no strict requirement in the protocols for couriers to break open the box and verify the seals on individual packets. Lark wouldn’t have noticed the omission at all had Wendi not explained in great detail her process for delivery, which included removing the packets in the presence of a staff clinician and checking each seal before getting a signed receipt for the contents.
What mattered now was what Shane recovered from the fleet logs. As long as his two delivery dates didn’t coincide with the medical emergencies, he was in the clear.
Chapter Eleven
“Give your bags to Oliver,” Kenny said as they made their way up from the parking deck on the Stena Hollandica, one of two luxury “super-ferries” that serviced the route between the English port town of Harwich on the North Sea and the Hook of Holland. “We’ll stow them in your cabin and meet you in the restaurant for dinner in twenty minutes.”
“Hmm…probably more like eight minutes,” Oliver mumbled cheekily. “And that’s assuming it takes four to drop off your bags.”
Channing proffered an exaggerated shudder of disgust. “Eww.”
“Oversharing?”
“Exceedingly. Here’s a thought. Let’s skip the restaurant and have a snack in the bar with drinks. It’s already half-nine.”
Oliver cocked his head as he considered. “She has a point, my lord. Might we find it more pleasurable to indulge our palates with spirits?”
“Stop speaking like that,” Channing snapped. “Kenny’s insufferable as it is.”
Absorbed in her smartphone, Lark missed the entire repartee. She’d been unusually quiet on the drive from Horningsea, fretting over an unpleasant discovery related to her office project. Channing was determined to snap her out of her agitated state, lest their entire weekend be shot.
It was her own fault Lark was disengaged, since Channing had been far too casual with the invitation. “Come with us” was for a ski trip or a clam bake, whereas “come with me” would have made her intentions unmistakable. They were sharing a cabin, for pity’s sake.
“Excuse me, miss…do you happen to have a phone in your bag?” Channing asked.
“Silly, it’s right here in my ha—” Lark stopped abruptly and made a dramatic display of turning off her phone and dropping it inside her bag. “You have a sassy mouth. Lucky for you, I like that.”
“I want you to enjoy the ferry crossing. They’re fun as long as you aren’t hurling your lunch. Let’s check out the shops.” Now that Lark’s hand was free, Channing hooked their elbows and began to stroll.
The shops aboard the Hollandica catered to a high-end crowd seeking luxury perfumes, jewelry, and electronics. A specialty clothing shop had several mannequins sporting stylish outfits, including a shimmery gold tunic she thought would look spectacular on Lark. “Look at that—it was made for you. Matches your eyes perfectly.”
Lark scrunched her face. “Really? I don’t think I’ve ever worn anything like that in my life. Not that I get a lot of invitations to the cocktail circuit.”
“Who says you have to save it for parties? Wear it to lunch, to the theater. Go out and dazzle people.”
“Like that black jumpsuit you wore on the plane? Put me down as dazzled, Lady Hughes. I spotted you the second you came through the door.”
The Rag & Bone from Saks, one of her favorites. In fact, she’d packed it for the weekend in case they dressed for dinner aboard ship. It pleased her a lot that Lark remembered. “If you noticed, then it had the desired effect.”
“So you dress to be noticed?” Lark asked.
“I dress to be happy with myself. Having the right people notice is a perk.”
“Consider yourself perked.” Lark hugged her arm now in a way that was charmingly possessive. “I’ve never had much of a fashion sense. Chloe was two years older, so I wore her hand-me-downs till I started college. It was annoying until I figured out I could call them vintage.”
“I happen to think you look lovely.”
Lark had called the day before to confirm the dress code for the weekend, or as she’d put it, for instructions on how to avoid looking as though she’d been purchased by the others from a street vendor. Her worn jeans and thigh-length cardigan came off as both blithe and stylish, a fashion triumph as far as Channing was concerned.
“I owe my fashion sense to my stepfather,” Channing said, her voice dripping with a resentment she’d cultivated for more than twenty years. “Calvin Guillory, prick of the first order. When I was seven, I was a flower girl at his sister’s wedding and I got to wear this gorgeous lavender party dress. Afterward, Mum let me wear it everywhere because I was growing so fast and she knew I wouldn’t have it long. Then one day I squeezed one of those juice boxes and it squirted out red punch all over me. Calvin said that was it, he wasn’t buying me any more nice dresses.”
“What an ass.”
“Not long after, his cousin had an engagement party. Calvin had me wear my school uniform, a tartan skirt with a green jumper. I was humiliated. When I was finally old enough to choose my own clothes, I’d ask myself if Calvin would approve. If not, then I bought it.”
“That’s exactly what I like about you, Channing. You don’t let anybody push you around.” She continued before Channing could point out the obvious, that she’d been Payton’s doormat for the last two years, “You wouldn’t have stayed with Payton if she’d kept stringing you along. Just like you didn’t stay with Albright. You have your line in the sand and nobody better step over it. It’s your terms or nothing.”
She’d not considered it that way, but Lark was right. In her own head, she’d marked her thirtieth birthday as the deadline for Payton to choose. They never got that far, but she liked to think she’d have had the courage to move on. The fact that she left Albright proved it.
“Forget I mentioned Payton, forget you mentioned your asshole stepfather. We’re here to have fun.”
“You’re right, Dr. Latimer. Did you hear that just now?” She paused beside the duty free shop and cupped her ear. “Why, I do believe someone is calling out for us. Sounds as if he might be trapped in a gin bottle. Come, we have to save him.”
She led Lark by the hand to the bar, where they secured a small table for four near a giant porthole that looked out onto the harbor.
“Sorry about my phone. I promise not to let work get in our way this weekend.”
“Is it really that bad, this situation at your office?”
“It could be. I wish I’d waited to open that last email from Shane. My weekend would be a lot more fun if I didn’t know how much shit was going to hit the fan on Monday. But there’s nothing I can do about it before then, so I’m not going to spend another second obsessing over it. Now where’s my drink?”
A gorgeous smile overtook her face, the brightest since their moment of recognition at the Crown and Punchbowl. Around her amber eyes were the creases of a thousand laughs. In the split second they connected across the table, something in Channing clicked hard. “You’re really very pretty, you know.”
The bustle around them fell away, a distant din. Their moment—an unbroken gaze filled with acknowledgment of mutual feelings—lasted only seconds before Kenny and Oliver slid boisterously into the adjacent chairs.
“Okay, who wants a Blow Job?”
* * *
Channing had a whipped cream mustache left over from her sho
t of Kahlúa and Bailey’s, ever so tiny but enough to drive Lark to distraction. She was torn between the urge to blot it with a cocktail napkin or watch for Channing’s tongue to slither out and wipe it away. Had Kenny and Oliver not been sitting there, she might have kissed it away. Surely that would have been all right—Channing had looked at her with traces of lust and told her she was pretty. Something was definitely brewing between them. It would seriously suck to be wrong about that.
The distraction finally proved too much. “You’ve got a little dollop…” She touched it softly with her pinky and popped it into her own mouth, earning a playful twinkle that settled it—they both were in flirt mode.
“Who wants another?” Kenny asked. “I’d be most delighted to fetch us another round.”
Channing eyed him cynically. “Of course you would. You only drink these for the perverse kick of ordering them. ‘Excuse me, mate. Would you mind terribly giving me a Blow Job?’”
Kenny puffed his lips and raised a finger as if to signal an important pronouncement. Then a drunken dramatic pause. “That’s possibly true.”
Lark had laughed along all evening at their lively banter, but she was ready now to ditch the guys. Actually she’d been ready from the moment Channing had taken her captive with that smoldering gaze. Making love to the rhythm of the North Sea had shot to the top of her bucket list.
“And you are possibly sloshed, my lord.”
“I’m bloody…blooming…bladdered. But I know an ace performance when I see it. Oliver was positively ace, wasn’t he?”
“He was indeed,” Channing replied, offering a fist bump to Oliver, who’d won their informal contest, the quickest to down the cream-topped shot without using any hands. He’d scarfed the cream in one bite and somehow slurped the liquid contents by rolling his tongue into a straw. Four seconds flat.
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