Laughing, she backed into the foyer. “Are you going to just stand there and gawk or do you want to come in?”
“I not sure I can move. I’m a little weak at the knees.”
“Mike, for heaven’s sake! I’m getting goose bumps in places no woman should. Come in.”
Seven
For the next forty minutes the towel proved superfluous. So did Mike’s overcoat, suit, shirt and tie.
He’d intended to display a little couth this time. Show Zia his smooth, sophisticated side as opposed to the barefoot beach bum and everyone’s favorite uncle. The two of them had been so pressed for time in Galveston, so surrounded by their loving but in-the-way families. Despite having stolen her away for two memorable nights, he hadn’t had time to show her that he could be as comfortable in her world as he was in his own.
Time wasn’t the only issue that had factored into his decision to go for more suave and less hot and hungry. As every one of his sisters had tried to hammer home to their brothers and spouses, women need romance. Wooing. Candles and flowers and, yes, heart-shaped boxes of chocolates.
Mike had considered various strategies to up the romance quotient on the flight from Houston. New York offered all kinds of possibilities. A carriage ride in the park, an elegant dinner for two at the latest in spot, a Broadway show. He’d even been prepared to man up and take her to a concert or opera if she’d preferred.
Then she had to open the door and drain every drop of blood from his head. He’d damned near had a coronary right there in the hall. The hour that followed would remain etched in Mike’s mind for the next hundred years.
Now they were lazing side by side on a sofa angled to catch the heat of a roaring fire, both of them more or less fully clothed. She was in warm, well-washed sweats and fuzzy slippers. He’d pulled on his shirt, pants and shoes. He liked the way her head rested on the arm he’d stretched across the back of the sofa. Was glad, too, that they’d decided to order Chinese instead of going out in the cold. Empty cartons littered the coffee table and surrounded a half-consumed bottle of California cabernet.
Mike played with a strand of her hair and let his appreciative gaze roam the elegant room. The duchess’s salon, as Zia had termed it, featured parquet floors, antiques and a ceiling so high it was lost in the shadows. Flames danced in a fireplace fronted with black marble, and a tiny Bose Bluetooth speaker filled the room with the haunting strains of a rhapsody. Liszt’s “Hungarian Rhapsody No. 5,” Zia had informed Mike. One of nineteen he’d composed based on folk music and Gypsy themes.
“This is nice,” he announced, wrapping a finger around the silky strand of hair. “Much better than a carriage ride. We’ll have to go that route next time I’m in New York, though.”
She tipped her face to his. The firelight added a rosy glow to her cheeks but didn’t do anything for the shadows under her eyes. Mike found himself wishing he could banish them by keeping her in bed for the next week or month or decade.
“Is this a horse fetish,” she wanted to know, “or just a Texas thing?”
“Neither. My secretary pulled up a list of the ten most romantic things to do in New York.”
“You’re kidding.”
“Nope. A carriage ride through Central Park was near the top of the list.”
“Not in January!”
The laugh accompanying the protest was easy, natural. But when she tugged her hair free of his loose hold and sat up to retrieve her wineglass, he could feel the subtle withdrawal.
Well, hell! He’d overplayed his hand. The doc had let it be known back in Galveston she didn’t want to get in too deep, too fast. Yet he’d just pretty well let drop that he was already in up to his neck.
With deliberate nonchalance, he redirected the conversation. “How’s the proposal coming?”
The ploy worked. Groaning, she dropped back against the sofa.
“I had no idea getting a major research project approved was such a complicated process. I’m on the third draft of the proposal now and have yet to finalize the lab protocols. And I still have to meet with one of the consultants the hospital recommended. Evidently there’s a whole subspecialty of ‘grant professionals’ out there who make their living seeking out and securing funding for studies like this.”
Mike nodded. “We’ve worked with a few of them.”
“I’m going to make an appointment tomorrow. If nothing else, they can give me a reality check on the dollar figures.”
“Want me to take a look at them?”
“Would you?” She hesitated and bit her lip. “Or would that be a conflict of interest? If we come to GSI for funding, I mean.”
He flashed her a grin. “Not unless you intend to skew your study to show that GSI operates the cleanest, most bacteria-free ships at sea.”
“Not hardly.” She laughed again, once more relaxed. “I don’t even know how I got interested in the incidence of MRSA aboard ships in the first place. Wait! Yes, I do! You and Rafe reeled me with all those statistics.”
Some women were wowed by money, Mike thought wryly. Others by extravagant romantic gestures. The way to Anastazia St. Sebastian’s heart, apparently, was through a germ.
“Get your draft and let me take a look.”
She pushed off the sofa and retreated down a tiled hall. When she returned, she flipped on the overhead lights, killed the music and deposited a thick file secured by a paper clip on the coffee table.
“I’m assuming you’re not interested in the list of publications or bibliography.”
“You assume right. Let me see the description of facilities and resources, then we’ll take a look at the budget.”
Nodding, she slid off the paper clip. “The research center at Mount Sinai is state-of-the-art. We’ll use the computers there to collect and analyze data. Also to test samples.”
“Good.”
“Here’s the estimate of start-up costs and first-year operating budget, broken out by personnel, equipment and overhead. The second and third pages project the costs out for an additional two years, assuming the initial results warrant continuation.”
As Mike skimmed the neat columns, her commentary took on a hint of nervousness.
“I ran the figures by the hospital’s assistant comptroller. She sucked some serious air when she saw the bottom line. That’s when she suggested I talk to a grant professional.”
“I’m not surprised. One-point-two million isn’t exactly chump change in today’s environment.” He flipped to the next page, studied the numbers, returned to the summary. “You may want to take another look at your ratio of direct to indirect costs in year two. You show a shift to more field sampling at that point, so your direct costs will increase more than you project here.”
Frowning, she leaned in for another look. “Damn! You’re right. I’ve worked these numbers until I was cross-eyed. How did I miss that?”
“Because you worked the numbers until you were cross-eyed.”
“Yet you caught it on the first pass.”
“Unfortunately, I spend most of my time these days looking at numbers and not nearly enough with salt spray in my face.”
He lazed back against the sofa, enjoying the way the firelight shimmered against the glossy black of her hair.
“Which brings me to another item on the top-ten list. Not as romantic as a carriage ride in Central Park maybe, but a lot more exciting.”
“Mmm.” The deep crease between her brows told him she was still crunching her numbers. “What’s that?”
“Next month’s Frostbite Regatta, hosted by the New York Yacht Club. A friend of mine is a member. He and his wife have been inviting me... Correction. They’ve been daring me to come up and help crew for years. I’ll tell them I will if I can bring along a third mate.”
He had her full attention n
ow. Incredulous, she glanced from him to the draped windows and back again.
“Let me get this straight. You’re inviting me to go sailing? On the open sea? In February?”
“Actually, we’d be sailing Long Island Sound, not the open sea but...” He rubbed his chin and appeared to give the matter some thought. “I can see how that might not appeal as much as the midwinter races in Kauai. I’d rather do those, too, if you can get away for a week.”
“Kauai, like in Hawaii? Oh, Mike! You know I can’t. I’ve got too much going on right now.”
“Yeah, I figured that was out. But circle Saturday, February thirteenth, on your calendar. That’s the date of the Frostbite Regatta. And as an added incentive, everyone who survives the regatta will rig themselves out in long gowns or tuxes for the big Valentine bash at the 44th Street Clubhouse that evening.”
She was getting that cautious look again. Pulling back. He could feel her retreating into herself. Away from him.
“I don’t know my February schedule yet.”
“No problem. Just give me a call when you do and we’ll plan accordingly.” He kept it easy, casual, and made a show of looking at his watch. “I’d better head back to the hotel.”
“But you...” She stopped, restarted more slowly. “You could stay here.”
“I’ve got two fat notebooks to review before the board meeting tomorrow morning. Besides...” He brushed a fingertip under the sooty-black lower lashes of her left eye. “You look whipped. Get some sleep, and I’ll see you tomorrow evening. We’ll go out for dinner, this time.”
He shrugged into his suit jacket and pulled on his overcoat before issuing a final word of warning. “Just don’t answer the door in a towel again. My system can’t take another shock like that.”
* * *
Zia flipped the locks behind him and shuffled slowly back down the tiled hall. She wasn’t sure her system could take another shock like the one that had hit her when she’d opened the door, either.
The jolt of delight had come fast and cut deep. She shouldn’t have ignored that warning. Shouldn’t have engaged in the silly exchange about the Romans and laughed at his admission of going all weak at the knees. And she most definitely shouldn’t have enticed him into bed again. Not that he’d required much enticing.
She wandered back into the salon and gathered the empty cartons to carry to the kitchen. The possibility she’d worried about in Galveston was now looking all too probable. She’d thought then she could fall in love with Mike Brennan. She knew now it was more than a mere possibility.
The old hurt, the one buried deep in her heart, sent out a familiar stab of pain. Dropping the cartons in the trash, Zia flattened both hands on the kitchen counter and fought back.
Why not take the tumble, dammit? Why not let herself start imagining a future that included Mike? He knew she couldn’t have children. She’d shared that agonizing reality with him their first night together. She still couldn’t quite believe she’d opened up to a stranger the way she had but even then, when they’d only known each other for a few hours, he’d called to something inside Zia. His humor, the intelligence behind his easy smile, his obvious affection for his nephew and Davy’s for him...
Her raging inner debate stopped dead. As her flattened palms curled into fists, all she could hear was an echo of his sister’s bitter revelation. Mike’s ex-wife refused to give him children...and had broken his heart in the process.
“A francba!”
Thumping the counter with her fists, she whirled and stalked out of the kitchen.
* * *
She woke the next morning prey to the same wildly conflicting emotions. She wanted to have dinner with Mike that evening. She even wanted to be crazy stupid and go sailing with him in the dead of winter, then feel his hands and his mouth and his body covering hers in the coming weeks and months. Years!
Yet wanting wasn’t enough. Was it?
What about Mike? His needs, his desires? Did she have the right, the incredible selfishness, to tie his future to her past?
She was still torn between waiting and wanting when she hit the hospital. As always, she sublimated her personal life to the hectic routine. Team meetings, patient exams and family-centered rounds consumed most of her morning, but she used a late lunch break to review the list of consulting firms the assistant comptroller had given her yesterday. As much as she hated to divert any of her project’s potential funding to consultants, their success rates in securing that funding overcame her initial reluctance.
The head of the first firm she contacted was out of town until the following week. His office manager offered to set up an appointment with an assistant but given the amount of money involved, Zia opted to wait for the main man.
She tried the second firm, Danville and Associates, and was put through to the boss himself. As brief as their conversation was, Zia’s description of her proposal fired Thomas Danville’s interest.
“Sounds like you’ve done a lot of preliminary work, Dr. St. Sebastian.” He spoke fast, his words staccato and filled with energy. “But one of the key services we provide is a thorough scrub before a draft proposal goes final. We’re very skilled at nuancing research projects to make them more salable to private foundations and corporations.”
Judging by the successes posted on their website, Zia could believe it. But given the interest Mike and Rafe Montoya had already expressed, did her proposal need nuancing?
Danville sensed her hesitation and jumped on it. “You have some reservations about working with a consultant, right? Understandable. Look, why don’t we get together and I’ll explain exactly what we can do for you?”
“It’ll have to be soon. I want to get this in the works.”
“Not a problem. In fact...I’m having dinner with another client at La Maison tonight. It’s just a few blocks from the hospital. I could swing by and meet with you beforehand. Or, better yet, you could join us for dinner. Get a firsthand testimonial from a satisfied customer.”
“I’m sorry, I have other plans for dinner tonight.”
“Drinks, then. It’ll be easier to talk at the restaurant than at the hospital.”
That was true enough. Her beeper never seemed to stop going off here at work.
“What time do you finish your shift?” Danville asked.
He was certainly persistent. Probably not a bad trait for a grant professional.
“I should be done by seven.”
“Perfect. That’ll give us an hour before my other client arrives. I’ll see you then.”
Feeling as though she’d just been swept along on a high-energy tide, Zia tried to reach Mike. She guessed he was still in his board meeting and sure enough, her call went to voice mail.
“About dinner tonight. I’m getting together with a grant consultant at seven o’clock at La Maison on East 96th. He’s hooking up with another client at eight, so you could meet me then and we’ll go from there.”
* * *
Mike wasn’t in the best of moods when the Maritime Trades Association executive board meeting finally adjourned.
The US Coast Guard had presented an excellent update on their new electronic credentialing program. Mike and most other ship owners hailed it as a welcome advance, one that would allow the crews manning their ships to apply for recertification via any computer in any country in the world.
Unfortunately, someone had gotten to the reps from the Seafarers International Union. Citing growing concerns over government surveillance of electronic communications, they’d dug in their heels. They wanted a detailed account of built-in safeguards to protect personal, medical and psychological information. Not an unreasonable demand but the resulting exchange was as exhaustive as it was acerbic. As if any system could guarantee 100 percent protection, Mike thought grimly as he retrieved his voice mails.
Thinking he might have to step up his campaign to convince her otherwise, Mike hit Play. His gut unkinked as he listened to her invitation to meet her at La Maison. He checked his watch and saw he had just enough time to go back to his hotel to shower. Better scrape off his five-o’clock shadow, too, he thought, scrubbing a palm over his chin. What he had planned for Dr. St. Sebastian tonight involved some very sensitive patches of skin.
* * *
Mike had been in business long enough to know as many deals were cut over drinks or dinner as they were in boardrooms. He hadn’t thought twice about Zia meeting this consultant at what turned out to be a very small, very elegant restaurant on the Upper East Side...right up until he walked into the dimly lit bar and he spotted the slick New Yorker in the thousand-dollar suit crowding her space. Ignoring the fact that his own suit and tie had been hand tailored in Italy, Mike started toward them.
The consultant caught sight of him first. In one narrow-eyed glance he assessed the newcomer’s style, size and attitude. As a result, he didn’t need either Zia’s warm greeting or the quick, proprietorial kiss Mike dropped on her lips to understand he was skirting dangerously close to territorial waters. He acknowledged as much with a cool smile when he stood to shake hands.
“Good to meet you, Brennan. We were just talking about you.”
“That right?”
“Zia...Dr. St. Sebastian...says your corporation is a source of funding for her research project.”
“A potential source,” she corrected, shooting Mike an apologetic glance. “Actually, I was relating some of the statistics you and Rafe shared about the rate of MRSA incidents among ships’ crews.”
“A correlation worth exploring,” Danville said smoothly.
Too smoothly. Mike concealed his instinctive dislike behind a polite nod.
The Texan's Royal M.D. Page 9
