It didn’t matter.
He still missed her. The feeling was a part of everything he did, everything he thought. And a piece of him hoped, however irrationally, that there was some kind of explanation for what had happened. Hoping that the betrayal wasn’t a betrayal but something else.
Yeah, like what? Face it, buddy, you were played. Now get over it and move on.
Paul knew that that would be the right thing to do, the smart thing, to move on with his life. But he just couldn’t do it. What was he supposed to move on to? And how?
Sitting at his desk now, he glanced at his calendar. It had been years since he’d had a vacation. Maybe it was time for him to take one. But go where? Do what?
Wherever he went, he would be taking his malaise with him. That wasn’t a solution.
It occurred to Paul that he didn’t even have a close friend to turn to, no one to vent to or share these jumbled-up feelings with. Despite the very short time they’d spent together, Ramona had been the one he’d talked to more than anyone, even more than the members of his family. They all expected things of him. She just wanted him to be him.
Yeah, right, so she could pull the wool over your eyes.
Enough with this pity party, he upbraided himself. He had work to do. There was no time to behave like a mooning adolescent. He was way too old for that.
Feeling lost and caged at the same time, it took Paul several minutes to realize that he was staring at a folder on his desk that he didn’t recognize. Where had it come from? He was fairly certain that he hadn’t placed it there, even though the space on his desk was far from orderly this week.
How long had that folder been there?
He was really losing it, Paul thought, dragging a hand through his dark, wayward hair. This had to stop. He had to get a grip.
Pulling the folder over, he opened it. Inside were two spreadsheets. He recognized them instantly. They were the ones that Ramona had tried to get him to look at last week. The day he fired her.
His first impulse was to sweep them into the wastebasket. Instead, after a moment of mental wrestling, he began going over the figures.
Ramona had been right, he thought darkly as he continued to review the spreadsheets. The figures didn’t tally. If she hadn’t pointed it out to him, he might have never even noticed the shortfall. He didn’t focus on the money end of it beyond making sure that the department was properly funded to provide him with the things he needed to continue his work.
If he had noticed that they were short, he would have just chalked it up to a mistake and corrected it, maybe even funding it out of his own pocket. But the “mistake” occurred in several other places, affecting a number of totals.
Too many to be a coincidence. Someone was playing with the numbers, stealing the money. Why?
Briefly he considered the theory that Ramona was behind this. It could be just another smoke screen she’d set up to divert attention from what she was actually doing. But then he went back to the database where she’d gotten her original figures. Hitting File Stats showed him that no changes had been made to alter the figures during the time that Ramona had been working at the institute.
The data he was looking at had been input by someone else, someone who worked here before Ramona started. Someone who was robbing the institute and had been for what looked like several months now.
Paul stopped and rocked back in his chair, thinking. He was going to have to get someone more knowledgeable than he was to untangle all this and then hopefully track it down to the person who was responsible for the embezzlement.
There was no other word for it. Embezzlement.
He wouldn’t even have known about this if not for Ramona.
He also wouldn’t have been gutted and vivisected if it hadn’t been for her, he reminded himself. And he, Derek and Lisa wouldn’t have had to scramble to reverse the media’s harsh opinion of the institute—and his father—if she hadn’t written that damn article.
Oh hell, how stupid could one man be? he berated himself. He’d actually told himself, when he first saw the article, that she couldn’t have written it. That she wasn’t the type of person who could do something like this. She wouldn’t have betrayed and used him this way
Well, obviously, she could and she did and wishing seven ways from sundown that she hadn’t would not change a damn thing. Now it was time to move on.
He picked up the landline, about to tell his assistant to put a call through to Harvey Nordinger, a discreet accountant who could conduct an audit without arousing anyone’s suspicions, when someone knocked on his door.
Paul replaced the receiver. The accounts weren’t going anywhere, he’d make the call later. Maybe this was Derek to tell him if there’d been any further progress defusing the volatile situation the accusations in the medical journal had brought about.
Ever the optimist, he thought wearily. “Come in.”
On the other side of the door, Ramona took a deep breath.
Here goes nothing.
Pasting a broad smile on her face, she swung open Paul’s door and walked in.
Had she not had an iron backbone, the look on Paul’s face would have destroyed her.
“Hello, Paul.” She’d thought of addressing him by his formal title, but somehow, calling him “Dr. Armstrong” seemed artificial, especially after the moments—hours—they’d shared.
She did her best not to focus on the last part.
For a split second, when he saw Ramona in the doorway, his heart had skipped a beat. But then the memory of how she’d lied to him, how she’d used him, kicked in with the force of an angry mule.
It didn’t help. He still cared about her.
Damn it, why was she here? He was too vulnerable to see her now—because he knew he wanted her badly enough to forgive her anything.
He couldn’t have her talking her way back into his life. Not until he could think clearly.
“Get out,” he told her.
Rather than comply, Ramona calmly looked at him and said, “No, I won’t.” Just before she turned around and locked the door. “Not until you hear me out.” Taking the key out of the lock, she underscored her statement by slipping the key down the front of her blouse.
Did she think he wouldn’t go after the key there? Or was she hoping he would? “That’s a little melodramatic, don’t you think?”
“Maybe.” She patted the region between her breasts, pushing the key against her skin. “But I also know you’re gentleman enough not to try to retrieve it.”
His eyes narrowed as he envisioned the key’s hiding place. “Don’t count on it,” he warned.
Actually, there was very little she wanted as much as having his hands on her right now. The only thing that trumped that was the desire to make him listen to her—that and getting him to forgive her.
She shook her head. “I know you better than you know yourself.” She took an envelope from her purse and placed it on his desk.
He eyed it, but made no attempt to reach for the envelope. It remained where she’d placed it. “What’s this?”
“A signed and dated statement from my mother’s doctor that he diagnosed her with leukemia six months ago.” Why wasn’t he picking up the envelope? Did he think it was a trick? “Dr. Richard Sanger is one of the best oncologists in the state.” She raised her eyes to his. “If you don’t believe him, I also brought along a copy of my mother’s lab work. It’s all there.”
This time, the envelope she took out of her oversize purse was a thick manila one that made a small thud when she dropped it on his desk.
“I wasn’t lying to you. My mother is seriously ill and she does need a bone-marrow transplant. I took this assignment because I needed the money and because I needed to find out if she had any other children I could reach out to.” She took a breath, trying to subdue the building panic she felt. “I don’t have much time.”
She was handing him the proof on a silver platter. The last of his unfounded hope splintere
d. “So you did write the article in that journal.”
“No,” she insisted. “My editor wrote it. When he called to see how far along I was and I told him I’d only taken photographs of the files, he made me send him the photographs and my notes. I told him I’d only do that if he didn’t have someone else write the article. I also told him I needed time to separate fact from rumor. He gave me his word he wouldn’t have anyone else write it.” Anger entered her voice as she continued. “Technically, he pointed out when I called him on this, he’d kept his word. He wrote the article himself.”
Paul’s frown deepened. “Potato, po-tah-to,” he concluded sarcastically.
Ramona laughed shortly. “That’s what I said to him when I gave him back his advance—and quit.”
That surprised him. “You quit?”
She knew he wouldn’t believe her. That was why she’d brought proof. “You want to see the letter of resignation?” As she asked, she began digging through her purse. “I can’t work for someone I can’t trust.”
Getting up, Paul rounded his desk and put his hand on hers, bringing her search to an end. “That won’t be necessary. I believe you.”
Suspicion, created out of fear, warred with relief. She raised her eyes to his again, searching to see if he was telling her the truth. “Why now?”
“Because you were right about there being monetary discrepancies. Because I’ve already called around, making inquiries, and found out that your mother’s on the transplant list.” It had taken calling in a string of favors, something he’d never done before. It had also taken bending a few rules, something else he’d never done before. But this was for a woman who, God help him, he loved.
She would have rather that he’d believed her on his own, without searching for proof, but she couldn’t exactly blame him, seeing as how she had come to work here with a hidden agenda, determined to substantiate the rumors about unethical practices conducted at the institute.
Renewed hope suddenly flourished through her. “Does that mean that you’ll give me the name of my mother’s child?”
“I don’t know the name,” he told her, and her heart sank. “But I do know the name of the family.”
Paul was being literal, she realized. He’d thought that she was asking him for a first name. That was only of secondary importance. Where she could find this sibling was what came first.
“Oh, thank God. What is it?”
First things first, he schooled himself. “Before I tell you that, I have to tell you that you might have been right.”
Thoughts were swirling in and out of her head, making it hard for her to concentrate. Making it even harder to follow what he was saying without some kind of cue card. “About what?”
“About misconduct going on. Not now,” he quickly amended because he didn’t want her to think that he was in any way responsible for it, “but during the years when my father ran things.”
This wasn’t easy for him. There was no love lost between Paul and his father, but he’d always had the utmost respect for the man as a physician and as a pioneer in his field. What Gerald Armstrong had done to up his success rate, to forge a reputation as being the person to come to in order to solve infertility problems, cast a dark shadow across all his true accomplishments.
“From what I could ascertain, the recipient of your mother’s ‘donation,’” Paul said delicately, “had no knowledge that her own eggs weren’t being used. According to the records, the recipient couldn’t produce healthy, viable eggs. But she had been adamant about having my father use her eggs along with her husband’s sperm to create an embryo. From what I saw in my father’s notes, he knew if he did, the procedure was doomed to failure. So he made a substitution without telling either her or her husband. The result,” he told her, “produced a little girl—and a great many generous monetary donations to the institute over the years.”
She only wanted to know one thing. “And their name is?”
He hesitated for only a moment, his dedication to the patient’s right to privacy warring with his desire to possibly save the life of her mother. Life won out over privacy.
“Welsh. Hayden and Estelle Welsh.”
Her eyes widened as the information sank in. “The New York Welshes?” she cried, stunned. “As in richer-than-Rockefeller Hayden and Estelle Welsh?”
Paul nodded. “The very same.”
She closed her eyes for a moment, both overjoyed to finally discover that she had a sibling, someone who might be able to save her mother, and at the same time significantly daunted—because approaching this young woman who had grown up believing that Estelle Welsh was her biological mother was not going to be easy. The young woman had absolutely no idea about her real origins. Most likely, she would think she was being lied to for financial gain.
But to save her mother’s life, Ramona was more than willing to walk through the very gates of hell if she had to. Cornering an heiress should be a cakewalk in comparison.
“Thank you,” Ramona said with sincerity. She knew that telling her had to cost him. He had gone against his principles. “Thank you for tracking all this down for me—for my mother,” she amended, since she had a feeling he was still angry at her for her initial deception. For not trusting him enough to be honest from the start.
She couldn’t read the expression on his face. Was he still angry, or had he gone on to indifference? She wasn’t sure which was worse.
Taking a breath, she knew she couldn’t leave until she told him everything. “I just want you to know, I never meant to hurt you. And I never meant to fall in love with you,” she added in a much lower voice, saying it almost to herself. “It just happened.”
A flicker of surprise came and went from his eyes, but he gave no other indication that he had even heard her. “There’s more,” he told her.
Ramona’s face lit up with hope. “More siblings?” she asked eagerly.
She’d misunderstood, he thought. “No. But I managed to pull a few strings.” He wasn’t about to go into any detail as to what favors he’d called in. That was for him to know, not her. “Your mother’s at the top of the recipients list now.”
Tears instantly filled her eyes as Ramona steepled her fingers before her lips to keep the sobs back. Pulling herself together, she murmured a heartfelt, if perforce, very quiet “Thank you.” Blinking back tears, she reached down her blouse into her bra and drew out the key she’d hidden. She held it out to him. “I guess you’ll be wanting this now.”
He took the key from her. Contact with her skin had made the metal warm. Paul closed his fingers around it, savoring the heat.
“There’s no hurry,” he told her. “The door can stay locked a little while longer.”
A ray of sunshine stirred inside her. She told herself not to entertain any false hopes. But, being the optimist she was, she couldn’t help it. “Oh?”
He answered her question with a question of his own. “Were you serious just then?”
“I was completely serious about everything I said,” Ramona told him solemnly. “What part are you referring to?”
There was a hint of a smile on his lips. “The part where you said you fell in love with me.”
Had she made a mistake, letting that slip out? Paul probably felt as if she was putting him on the spot, cornering him. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable—”
His eyes held hers as he cut her off. “Did I say I was uncomfortable?”
“No, but—” This time she was the one who stopped herself abruptly. “Paul, where is this going?” She knew where she wanted it to go, but she couldn’t read her own feelings into his words. It would be too disappointing when she turned out to be wrong.
“I don’t know yet,” he admitted, measuring his words out slowly. “I’ve never been in this kind of situation before.” Sitting on the edge of his desk, he put his hands on her hips and drew her to him. “Although, when two people feel like this about each other, it usually ends with some kind
of ceremony,” he theorized, and then added, “generally a wedding.”
Ramona’s mouth fell open.
She’d come here to try to convince him to forgive her. This was something she hadn’t even contemplated because she felt it was too far out of her reach. “A wedding?” she echoed.
He was going too fast, Paul thought. But that was because he had no experience with this. The proper way to conduct a relationship, the proper way to do anything with a woman was really out of his realm of expertise.
“I’m not rushing you,” he assured her quickly. “We’ll take it one step at a time. But I want to warn you that I mean to do everything in my power to convince you to say yes.” The more he talked about it, the more right it felt to him. “Being with you made me see that the world comes in colors, not just black and white. I want you with me forever, Ramona, so that I never take myself so seriously that I forget why I’m doing all this again.”
She couldn’t begin to find a word for the way she felt, but stunned would have to do until she came up with something better.
Her head was spinning. “Are you asking me to marry you?”
“Yes. No,” he said almost immediately after he’d said yes. “Eventually,” he finally amended. “When you get used to the idea.”
Ramona grinned and her eyes began to shine. “I’m used to it,” she declared.
He’d expected that convincing her to marry him was going to take a few months, not a few seconds. “Really?”
“Really,” she murmured just before she offered up her mouth to his.
He took the hint instantly.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-4631-1
PRESCRIPTION FOR ROMANCE
Copyright © 2010 by Harlequin Books S.A.
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work in whole or in part in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including xerography, photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, is forbidden without the written permission of the editorial office, Silhouette Books, 233 Broadway, New York, NY 10279 U.S.A.
Prescription for Romance Page 15