Prescription for Romance

by Marie Ferrarella

  This was the first time anyone had ever accused him of having a heart, much less infusing its blood into the lifeline of the family business. It both pleased and embarrassed him.

  “I’m hardly that,” Paul told her, punctuating his words with a careless shrug.

  “Oh, but you are,” Ramona insisted. She smiled as she watched him shift in his seat. She was a student of body language. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”

  He wasn’t about to confirm or deny that she had. “I’m just not accustomed to talking about myself.”

  “You weren’t,” she pointed out. “I was. So how did it feel, stepping into your father’s shoes?” she pressed.

  He thought of that first time, when he realized that he was flying solo. That his father was no longer there, making every decision, large or small, without consulting any of them. His father, in his eyes, had been a brilliant dictator.

  “A little unnerving,” Paul admitted quietly before he could think better of it and keep his own counsel.

  Ramona nodded. “I would imagine. Did you ever want to override one of your father’s accepted methods, but you hesitated because you felt he’d disapprove?”

  Paul laughed quietly. He’d spent the entire first year constantly second-guessing himself. “Only every hour of every day.”

  “Well, the statistics I’ve seen so far seem to say that your success ratio is very, very high.”

  Ramona bit back the impulse to ask if that was due to implanting too many viable embryos. It was too soon to be that honest. She had to get him to trust her a bit more before she went after answers to questions like that.

  But she couldn’t help anticipating.

  Chapter Nine

  Looking back, in Paul’s estimation lunch had gone by much too quickly.

  Instead of being eager to make a hasty retreat, the way he’d anticipated when Ramona had first extended the invitation to him, he found himself wanting to linger even after the plates had been cleared away and the coffee was all but gone.

  Which made no sense because he did have paperwork to catch up on. And besides, he’d never liked being subjected to questions, and lunch had been fairly littered with them, although she’d presented them amicably. Despite his natural tendency toward privacy and aversion to talking about himself, there was just something, some nebulous “thing” he couldn’t put his finger on or explain, that had him enjoying this vibrant woman’s company.

  And wanting more.

  “I guess we’d better go,” she told him when the server finally cleared away their coffee cups. “You’ve probably got a full schedule this afternoon.”

  Ramona signaled for the check and when it arrived, he reached for it. She was faster and all but stole it right out from under his hand.

  “I said it was my treat, remember?” Ramona reminded him.

  His had always been a life of privilege. He wasn’t accustomed to having someone else pay, especially not someone who was in his employ.

  “Yes, but—”

  Ramona guessed at what he was going to say. “You didn’t think I meant it.” She grinned as she continued, “Or is it that in the world you come from, men still pick up the tab no matter what?”

  He didn’t know if she was laughing at him, or just flashing another one of her incredibly sunny smiles. He would have liked to think it was the latter. “Perhaps a little of both,” he allowed quietly.

  “Well, I did mean it,” she told him. “So you’re going to have to adjust your thinking a little about the roles of men and women.”

  “You don’t earn enough to toss money around like that,” he pointed out.

  That meant he’d reached for the check because he was being thoughtful. She wondered if Armstrong even realized that.

  She offered a compromise. “Tell you what, I’ll let you pay the next time.”

  Next time.

  The words hung in the air like a red banner. As in going out to a restaurant again. Together. When had this been taken for granted? Paul felt as if he’d somehow grabbed hold of one of those horses on a merry-go-round and someone had upped the speed, making the carousel go faster and faster and preventing him from getting off.

  Maybe he’d heard wrong.

  “Next time?” he repeated.

  “Next time,” she affirmed. “As in some other time after this.”

  She’d unnerved him, Ramona realized. Paul Armstrong, in his own way, was rather sweet and sheltered, she decided. He was like a throwback to another century despite the fact that he was only eleven years older than she was.

  The man was, she mused, utterly unlike his brother, and she was beginning to think that wasn’t such a good thing—at least, not for her. Being in his company had a very strange way of blurring her parameters. She was going to have to watch that and keep sight of her priorities, Ramona silently chided as she surrendered her credit card to the waiter.

  Going out to lunch with Ramona had thrown Paul off schedule, not to mention him, as well. Consequently, when he returned to the institute, he planned to stay and catch up on paperwork long after everyone else had left.

  At least, that was his plan when he walked back into his office, but it slowly wound up changing over the course of the afternoon, as he caught himself thinking about his parents more than once. Especially his father.

  That was Ramona’s fault, he thought grudgingly. Her cheerful but endless questions had touched on his childhood and focused more than once on his father. That and the fond way she’d spoken of her own mother the rare time or two that the conversation had veered away from all things institute and shifted to her.

  He caught himself envying her for the close relationship she shared with her mother. From what she’d told him, Ramona had grown up at a severe disadvantage, with a mother who frequently had to work two jobs in order to provide for things that he and his brother and sisters had taken for granted.

  But no amount of privilege would outweigh the love Ramona had had while growing up, and from the sound of it, continued to have to this day. Paul and his siblings were closer to each other than to either parent. Their father seemed to always be away, busy at the institute or off to numerous conferences. Their mother never picked up the slack. Instead, she’d been distant, occupied with her society friends and obsessed with looking as if she had cornered the fountain of youth for her own private use.

  If either parent took any notice of any of them, it was Gerald, who appeared to be marginally partial to Derek. Paul had a feeling that the founder of the fertility institute saw himself in Derek. Both were outgoing and outspoken—and very flirtatious, even silver-tongued. Paul knew he didn’t possess any of these traits and that made him all but invisible to his father.

  Listening to Ramona speak fondly of her mother, Paul found himself wishing that he had favorable memories of his parents to draw on in times of stress. Sure, he’d always loved them. But he had no illusions about the sentiment being returned. He knew that it was a one-way street.

  He needed to do something to change that. Maybe he could begin with a little more close contact with both parents. It had been a while since he’d been back to the house where he and his siblings had grown up. It was more like a mausoleum than a home, but that didn’t change the fact that he was long overdue for a visit.

  The silent debate went back and forth for a while. Finally, just as the clock approached five, Paul powered down his computer and left.

  Ramona, who was just getting off the elevator located on the far side of the corridor, saw him walk out the front entrance.

  And made a mental note of it.

  Maybe he should have called ahead, Paul thought as he approached the winding driveway. His parents might be entertaining and then he would be guilty of crashing their party.

  But there were no valets racing back and forth, parking expensive automobiles. There wasn’t even a single vehicle parked before the edifice that could only be described as a mansion. From the looks of it, his parents were alon
e.

  That was in keeping with what was becoming, more and more, his father’s reclusive nature.

  For a moment, Paul thought of turning around and just going home.

  But he was here now, he might as well stay, he told himself. Nothing was ever going to change if he didn’t make an attempt to change it. Waiting for either of his parents to make the first move would only be an exercise in futility.

  Leaving his vehicle parked in the driveway, he walked up to the three-story front doors and rang the bell. Several minutes later—long enough for him to think about leaving again—the door opened.

  Anna, the Armstrongs’ longtime housekeeper, looked surprised and then pleased to see him. “Well, hello,” the older woman said warmly. Her eyes fairly sparkled as she smiled.

  “I know,” Paul responded as he walked in past her. “It’s been a while.”

  “I was just thinking how nice it was to see you, Dr. Paul.” The small, squat woman who had once been his nanny and had graduated to her present position when the old housekeeper retired, silently closed the door. “Your parents are in the front living room,” she informed him. “Together for once,” she added.

  There was no judgment in her voice. It was just a simply stated fact. An unusual one since even when he was growing up, his parents were rarely in the same room at the same time, unless it was for a public function or there was a photographer involved.

  “Thank you, Anna. You’re looking well.”

  The woman smiled gratefully. “I’m looking older, but thank you for that. Will you be staying for dinner, Dr. Paul?”

  He glanced toward the living room. The doors were opened, but at this distance, he couldn’t see in. “Depends on how this plays out.”

  “I’ll put up a plate,” Anna told him confidently.

  Lengthening his stride, Paul crossed to the living room. He stopped just short of the doorway, then quietly looked in.

  Situated on opposite sides of the room, neither his mother nor his father seemed to notice him. Or each other, for that matter.

  Theirs had been a marriage of inconvenient convenience. Gerald Armstrong had married Emily Stanton because he wanted a wife on his arm who had a pedigree and brought a considerable amount of money to the merger. Emily had married Gerald because even though the dynamic young doctor was socially beneath her, he was exciting and a future with him promised to be the same.

  They’d both been disappointed in their expectations, but for the sake of appearances remained together. At least in theory.

  As Paul stood there, silently studying these two people whose blood ran through his veins, his mother, beautifully groomed as always with every hair in place, was the first to notice him. If she was taken aback by his unannounced appearance, she covered it skillfully.

  “Paul, what are you doing here?” Crossing to him, she brushed the air beside his cheek with a kiss. The same kiss she shared when greeting friends who weren’t really friends. Stepping back, she appraised her son, searching for some kind of telltale sign of trouble. Artfully penciled eyebrows rose just the slightest fraction. “Is something wrong?”

  He shook his head and forced a shadow of a smile to his lips. “Nothing’s wrong, Mother. I just realized this afternoon that I hadn’t been by for a while and thought I’d drop in on my way home.”

  His father, seated in the wheelchair he regarded as his prison, turned sharply away from the fireplace and looked at him.

  “I’m not dead yet, if that’s why you’re here,” Gerald snapped at his son.

  “Didn’t think you were, Dad,” Paul said, keeping his voice mild as he came closer.

  He went through a minor adjustment period every time he saw his father like this. Gerald Armstrong had been a giant of a man, both physically and in stature. But now, he seemed to have folded into himself, a whispered memory of the man he’d once been. All that was left was a booming voice that somehow seemed misplaced, as if it belonged to someone else and Gerald was just borrowing it for a little while.

  Taking a breath, Paul tried to lighten the atmosphere a little. He smiled at his father and said, “Someone has a birthday coming up.”

  “Everyone has a birthday coming up,” Gerald responded, scowling darkly. “Unless they have the good fortune to be dead.”

  Emily Armstrong waved away her husband’s sour comment, then deliberately turned her back on Gerald and addressed her words to her son.

  “Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s been in a mood all week. You have no idea what I’ve had to put up with.” She sighed dramatically, her longing for the life she’d once led evident in every word she spoke. “I’m beginning to think I liked him better when he was busy with his work and his women.”

  Paul’s eyes widened. He remembered the rumors, remembered, too, hearing Derek tell him that he’d made a play for their father’s mistress after the senior Armstrong had grown tired of her. Emily had been in the next room and Paul, horrified, had ordered Derek to shut up. He’d been foolish enough to think no one else knew about their father’s wandering eyes and grasping hands, least of all their mother.

  Even so, her comment caught him off guard. “Mother!”

  To his surprise, his mother laughed. “You look stunned, Paul. What? You think I didn’t know? That I believed all those stories of his about having to go off to conferences? No one goes to that many conferences,” she jeered.

  “You never said anything,” Paul tried to explain.

  Emily shrugged, turning her attention back to the liquor cabinet. Taking out a bottle of aged scotch, she poured the deep amber liquid into a glass. She took a long sip and savored the first taste for a moment before answering.

  “I never said anything because there was no point in talking about it.” And even if there was, she wouldn’t have mentioned it to a child. Looking at her son’s face, Emily anticipated what was going on in his orderly mind. He needed convincing. “There’s a difference between not knowing and not caring.” She slanted a glance at the man who was no longer handsome, no longer held any kind of attraction for her. “Sadly, I stopped caring a long time ago.”

  “What are you two whispering about over there?” Gerald demanded. Not waiting for an answer, he pressed one of the buttons on his right armrest. The automated chair instantly brought him right to them.

  “Nothing that concerns you, Gerald,” Emily answered evasively for the sake of peace. It was obvious she didn’t want another scene.

  “I don’t believe you,” Gerald snapped.

  The evening degenerated from there.

  Paul left right after dinner, feeling he’d done enough penance for one day. Possibly for a month.

  It seemed to Paul that over the course of the next week and a half, Ramona Tate appeared to be everywhere. Their paths crossed at least half a dozen times a day. It got to a point that he was beginning to wonder if perhaps she had a global positioning satellite planted somewhere on his person that enabled her to find him wherever he went.

  The thing of it was, he was beginning to look forward to seeing her.

  Toward the end of the following week, Paul finally commented about it to Ramona. He tried not to make it seem as if he was calling her out on it, but he wanted an explanation. It almost seemed like too much of a coincidence.

  When he walked into her as he was about to go into the lab and she was coming out, he said, “Our paths keep crossing.”

  The comment seemed to surprise her. “Now that you mention it, I noticed that, too.”

  “How do you explain it?” he asked, curious.

  “Small building?” she offered with a beguiling smile. “There aren’t that many places to go and since I can’t really do my job sitting in my office for eight hours straight, per force I have to be mobile.” Her mouth curved in that grin he had realized he looked forward to seeing far more than he should. “What’s your excuse?” she wanted to know.

  He stared at her, befuddled. Had she just turned the tables on him? “For what?”


  “For turning up every place I am,” she told him with a shrug.

  The gesture was innocent and beguiling. The silky peasant blouse she wore slipped down her shoulder. She tugged it back in place under his watchful eye. He told himself he shouldn’t be staring, but he couldn’t look away.

  “I don’t know, you tell me.” And then she pretended to hazard her own theory. “Maybe you decided you’d like to get to know me better and you don’t know how to go about doing it.”

  He stared, stunned. “Ramona—Ms. Tate—” Words failed him.

  She came to his rescue. “Relax, Dr. Armstrong. I’m only kidding,” she teased. “I already told you, it’s a small building. It’s all coincidence. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to take a trip up to the third floor.” Stepping into the elevator he’d just vacated a few moments ago and that had been standing at the ready, she pressed the button for the third floor. “I have an appointment to talk to Dr. Bonner.”

  A score of red flags seemed to suddenly pop up in his head, as if warning him that something was off. Something was wrong.

  “What are you planning on talking to him about?” he wanted to know.

  “About his work, of course,” she answered.

  What kind of questions was she planning on asking the man? He thought that the threat of unrest was over. The article she’d written had appeared almost two weeks ago and since then, he’d heard no more rumors. Everything seemed to be fine.

  So why was she talking to Bonner and who knew who else?

  The last thing he saw before the silver doors closed was the expression on Ramona’s face. She was smiling at him, but the look in her eyes was unfathomable. And that made him nervous.

  Chapter Ten

  It was hard to think of a mere thirty-eight-year-old as a science wunderkind, but that was exactly what the medical community had dubbed Ted Bonner. Even his detractors thought he was brilliant and his cheering section went on endlessly not just about his incredible mental acuity, but about his dark good looks, as well.