He smiled, took a knee and gave her the grin that had turned half the female population in the U.K. into rabid F1 racing fans.
“Cassidy Miller, will you marry me?”
She covered her mouth with a hand. Her vocal cords had seized up, so she managed a nod.
He reached for her hand, and she could see his weren’t steady either.
“What are we doing?” she whispered.
“I don’t just love you, Cass. I don’t think I can live without you. Just open it, would you?
She tossed the cap aside, opened the box, and withdrew a perfect solitaire flanked by sapphires.
A watery giggle escaped her.
His eyes narrowed. “What? The blue? It reminds me of your eyes,” he said, defensively thrusting the ring onto her finger.
She pulled him up by the shoulders. “I love you. You and your damned luck.”
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
About the Author
High Octane: Fueled
Rachel Cross
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Rachel Cross.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-8450-8
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8450-3
eISBN 10: 1-4405-8451-6
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-8451-0
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author's imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © iStockphoto.com/GlobalStock and 123RF/David Manno and 123RF/Yurly Panyukov
For Chris
Acknowledgments
Many thanks to Ashlinn Craven and Jennifer G. and, as always, thanks to my wonderful editor Julie Sturgeon and my Crimson Romance team, especially Tara Gelsomino.
Chapter 1
Brynn Douglas stared numbly at the numbers on her computer screen. Nearly every value was in the abnormal category. Prognosis? Terminal. Brynn would not be getting her neighbor’s grandmother enrolled in a clinical trial after two rounds of treatment for blood cancer—instead she’d be lining up hospice care. That made five patients this week. Her eyes burned and she reached for a tissue. Three years into her practice and giving that news to patients never got any easier. What she needed was a little more professional distance. A tear tracked down her cheek. When would she learn that? Not today, apparently.
Moments later there was a rap at the door.
“Just a sec,” she called, but her colleague, Jacob Green, was already walking into her office, trailed by an older, vaguely familiar, distinguished-looking gentleman. Thank God for the makers of waterproof mascara. She disposed of her tissue and rose from her chair, masking her irritation with what she hoped was a welcoming smile.
“What can I do for you, Jacob?”
The men crossed the room, and Brynn came around her desk, extending her hand.
“Dr. Douglas, meet Carl Belamar,” Jacob said.
Her smile faltered.
Carl Belamar?
The millionaire who had become a billionaire investor backing one successful start-up after another in the Bay Area was in the oncology department?
He took her hand in his firm clasp, and she scrutinized him for outward signs of illness so closely, she forgot to say anything. His tan hid any pallor; he was wearing a very conservative business suit.
When she didn’t find anything notable, she raised her eyes to meet his, which were assessing her with equal intensity. He laughed. “You doctors.” Belamar released her hand and turned to Jacob. “Thank you, Dr. Green. That will be all.” He indicated the door with an outstretched arm and a smile, lest the man not understand he was being dismissed.
“Of course, of course,” Jacob said backing away. “Whatever you need, Mr. Belamar, the hospital, we … anything.”
Brynn stared at her colleague in amazement. She’d never seen Jacob so flustered. The man was more machine than flesh and blood—he was a brilliant administrator and a genius with digging up research money. Unfortunately, his Arctic bedside manner meant his patients had flocked to her three years ago when she’d joined the practice, irreparably damaging his ego. He’d had it out for her ever since.
“I’ve got two patients here waiting—” Brynn called out to Jacob before the door closed.
He popped his head back in. “I’ll see them,” he replied, then pulled the door closed.
What the hell was going on? She didn’t want Jacob near either of her patients. Her lips twisted and she turned back to her visitor.
“Please, have a seat, Mr. Belamar,” she said, debating the wisdom of rescheduling her patients rather than having them see Jacob.
“You, too, Dr. Douglas,” he said waiting for her to take the chair next to him before seating himself. “You’re quite beautiful, you know,” he said, dispassionately.
“Thank you,” she said feeling the heat rise in her face. Was that a requirement for his oncologist?
“You have an excellent reputation,” he began. “UCLA undergraduate degree in biology, UC Davis Medical School, residency at Stanford, oncology-hematology fellowship at Sloan-Kettering.”
The degrees were all there on the wall, but he didn’t even glance at them, so either he’d talked to Jacob or he’d researched her.
“Single. No children,” he continued.
Brynn’s back stiffened.
How was that relevant?
“How can I help you, Mr. Belamar?” she asked, retaining her smile with effort.
“I’m in need of a doctor while I do some traveling this year.”
“There are lots of physicians doing concierge medicine these days, Mr. Belamar. I’m not one of them.”
“I realize that. But my needs are … specific. I have multiple myeloma,” he stated conversationally.
“I’m sorry to hear that. What stage?”
“One.”
“Symptoms?”
“Fatigue. Back pain.”
In a man his age—mid-sixties, early seventies—multiple myeloma wasn’t uncommon. With aggressive treatment, he could expect to live three to five years or more and have a reasonable quality of life.
She grabbed a pad of paper and a pen from her desk. “Where were you diagnosed?”
“Will Adams at Memorial Sloan-Kettering last week,” he stated.
Adams was the best. She’d trained with him during her fellowship. She laid the pad and pen in her lap. This was not a medical consult then. Not if he had worked with the thought leader in her field just days ago.
“I know my treatment options. They want me to start the stem cell transplantation immediately, but I have to go on the road for the next four months—overseas.”
She frowned, leaning forward in her chair, meeting his clear, intelligent blue eyes. “Where?”
“A number of places.”
She sh
ook her head. “Mr. Belamar, your disease damages the immune system. The overproduction of the cancer cells prevent normal production of antibodies, which leaves you susceptible to everything from pneumonia to bladder or kidney infections—”
“I’m aware.”
“There’s also the danger of fractures, kidney damage, anemia. Your best bet is to start the stem cell transplantation immediately and go from there. Traveling is out of the question.”
“My doctors have explained all that. Unfortunately, this trip is necessary. I leave for Europe in less than two weeks.”
Brynn rubbed a hand over her face. The Gates Institute had a number of affluent patients and many of them came into her offices unwilling to accept the disease and the toll it would take on their physical and mental health. These were people who refused, at least initially, to accept on some level that it could no longer be business as usual after a cancer diagnosis. Her job was nearly as much about helping people come to terms with the mental aspects of a cancer diagnosis as the treatment options.
“I don’t know too much about European hospitals, but I imagine the care—”
“Then I head to Asia, Russia, Texas, South America, and finally Abu Dhabi by the end of November.”
Brynn sat straight up in her chair.
“You can’t do treatment and travel like that,” she said, horrified. “I don’t know what Adams told you, but continuity of care is crucial, even if you elect intravenous or oral treatment in the interim. Your cancer can be difficult to manage, and it advances rapidly, leading to organ damage—”
“I can travel if I have my own personal oncologist.”
He sat forward in his chair, hands clasped together, the smile on his face not reflected in his eyes.
Clearly no one at Sloan-Kettering had effectively explained the seriousness of his condition and the impossibility of what he was proposing. Surely whatever business he had could wait? For crying out loud, he was a billionaire; he could make these meetings come to him. His cancer had a high rate of response to intervention, but no one in his right mind would take on multiple myeloma treatment and that kind of travel schedule. Without immediate intervention, stage one could go right to stage two in the blink of an eye.
“You can’t—” she began.
“Rest assured I’ve had everything medical explained a hundred times over by people like you, who are very resistant to the idea. But if I have to delay all treatment for a few months—”
“Out of the question,” she sputtered.
“I’ll do that,” he finished, ignoring her interruption. “Now, if I have a hematologist-oncologist traveling with me, we won’t have to delay.” He settled back. “I have a contract drawn up—with a release of medical responsibility if anything goes wrong. I advise you to have an attorney review it—”
She held up her hands to stop him. “No, I mean, I can’t.”
“Let’s talk terms.”
Terms?
He thought she would be his road-trip oncologist? She coaxed her features from what must be a stunned expression into something she hoped was persuasive.
“I can’t be your doctor,” she said automatically. “I have patients and … and a position here.”
“Hear out my proposal, take a few days to consider it. Then give me an answer.”
“I don’t need a few days. I can’t accept.”
“I’ll pay off your $400,000 of school loans.”
Brynn’s eyes widened. Living in San Francisco, one of the most expensive cities in the world, even her oncology salary didn’t allow her to make much of a dent in those loans—not after year after year of scraping by during her internship and residency. Doing her fellowship in New York City hadn’t helped her finances either. At this rate it would take her a good ten years to pay them back. Not to mention changes to borrowing regulations meant the loans prevented her from buying a decent car—not that she needed one here in San Francisco—and a decent place to live, not that she could afford one. Her one-bedroom condo was cramped but only twenty blocks from the hospital.
“Tempting,” she admitted. “But I might not have a job when I return.”
“That’s true. But that might be more of a blessing than a curse, yes?”
She stiffened. What the hell had Jacob Green been telling him?
“Excuse me?”
“Dr. Green thinks the research focus of this institution may not be for you—says you thrive in direct patient care.”
She fumed inwardly. What right had Jacob Green to reveal their professional conflicts to this man? She’d had such high hopes for this job. Unfortunately, Green didn’t share her philosophy about palliative care and they battled continuously over treatment modalities for some of her adult blood cancer patients. Then there was the pressure to spend every waking hour she wasn’t seeing patients on research—she’d thought the grind would end when she established herself in practice, but it was just beginning.
“I’m sorry. I’m still going to have to say no.”
She rose.
He remained seated, a patient expression on his lined face.
“I’ll pay off the loans and pay you the same amount for four months that you’d make here in a year—”
She stared. He couldn’t possibly know how tempting that offer was to someone overwhelmed with student loans.
“—with the understanding that your caseload will be shifted to the oncologist of your choosing. I take it that won’t be Dr. Green.”
She sat back down heavily. There was a new hematologist-oncologist in the group, Kristy Thomas, who didn’t have a full caseload yet, but they shared a patient care philosophy. If Kristy were willing to take her cases … no, she couldn’t just leave.
“There’s a bit more to it,” he rubbed a hand over his eyes. “This part is—distasteful. Publicly, you’ll be my—my girlfriend, not my doctor.”
“What?” Brynn couldn’t have heard him right. Was she being propositioned?
His expression was sheepish.
She stood again, this time for good, fist clenched. “Get out of my office.”
He raised both his hands, standing also. “Not actually my girlfriend. I’d need you to pose as my girlfriend.”
She studied him with the attention she would give a slide under a microscope, her heart thundering, the heat of anger coursing through her veins.
“Why?”
“Mine is a delicate business—I’ve put in a bid to bring an American team to Formula One racing. The people who make those decisions have been vetting me for most of three years. Business, ethics, interests. Everything public and personal. This team could be my legacy. I’ve turned over the day-to-day operations of my investment business to my successor, and with the cancer … Well. It’s now or never. Best case? There will be an American Formula One team next year. Worst case? I get to follow my favorite sport around the globe this year when I don’t have many healthy years left. The man who has the final say about which teams are admitted to F1, Henrico Villers, told me my age counts against me. They need the money another team would bring in; they’re interested in an American investment but they want long-term stability. If they find out I have cancer, that will scare them off. I can’t travel with an oncologist, but if you travel with me as my girlfriend? They’ll assume I’m—” despite his age his smile was wolfish, “—in damn good health.”
She clenched her hands into fists until she could feel the bite of her nails into her palms. “And you think people will believe I’m your girlfriend? I’m twenty-nine!”
She rubbed her hand across her face to wipe away the disgust crimping her mouth.
He shrugged. “Villers will. He’s my age and has girlfriends younger than his kids.”
Gross.
“You’re attractive enough for it to be believable. It’s not all that unique—not among the group we’ll be with on the circuit.”
“And your current, er—”
“I’m unattached as well.”
Brynn pr
ided herself on her open-mindedness. She lived in San Francisco, a city that had bludgeoned her Midwestern sensibilities to death; nevertheless what he was proposing was repulsive.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Belamar. I sympathize with your plight. I really do. But I can’t be part of that kind of charade. I … I don’t even … it’s just—”
This whole thing was wrong. First there were the very real risks to treating his cancer overseas. She didn’t know where these races were held or the state of the medical facilities in those cities. What if something happened in Asia or Russia? Then what the hell would she do? She didn’t speak any language but English. And he’d continually be exposing an already weakened immune system to potentially unhealthy people, crowds, disease. If he had a crisis, she’d have to make sure their interventions didn’t conflict with her care. It was sometimes difficult to manage that in hospitals here.
What he was proposing would give any oncologist fits.
Not to mention his ludicrous plan to have her pose as his lover. Her chicken Caesar salad lunch churned. She rubbed the area under her ribcage. That was not happening.
“You’d travel in the very lap of luxury, my dear, to some of the most beautiful places on earth. I know you’re not well traveled.”
There it was again. That suggestion that he knew her. Knew about her. This was no shot in the dark; he’d had her extensively investigated.
“No,” she said, standing as she’d been taught in medical school to indicate the consult was over.
There was that smile again, patience rounded out with something that was either confidence or condescension.
“You drive a hard bargain.”
“Much as I’d love to get rid of my school loans, my debt, and collect a salary, I’m not—”
“Publicly, you’ll have play the role of my girlfriend and sell it. Privately? I can’t contract you to celibacy—at least my attorney tells me I can’t. So as long as you’re discreet, I don’t care what you do.”
Yeesh, thanks for the crumb of dignity. She hadn’t been in a relationship, a real relationship, for two years. And now she was supposed to have a fake one? With allowances for her libido? Brynn suppressed an inappropriate laugh.
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