Quade made a mental note to take a late lunch on Monday. Though it was completely out of character for him, Quade made it his business to waylay Petrocelli in his office before the man could be called away to the first of a multitude of meetings.
Taking advantage of the fact that Petrocelli’s secretary was away from her desk, Quade hurried past it and into the man’s inner office.
Adam Petrocelli, an average-looking man in an above-average suit, looked a little surprised to see Quade enter. “Mr. Petrocelli, I’m Dr. Quade Preston” He tried not to seem as uncomfortable as he felt in this new role. But there was a great deal more at stake here than just his comfort.
Even with the name, it appeared to take Petrocelli a moment to remember who Quade was. When the man finally did, he extended a wide paw, grasping Quade’s hand and giving it a hearty shake.
“Oh, right, you’re the new research physician who started last Tuesday. We met just before I flew to Dallas. So, how are you finding your way around?”
“Fine.” Quade had no affinity for small talk because it got in the way of more important things. The only way he knew how to proceed was straight ahead. “I heard rumors that Wiley Memorial was running low on funding and that certain programs were going to have to be cut or reduced.”
“And you’re worried about your job,” Petrocelli surmised. It was no secret that nine years ago, the man had been brought in by Wiley Labs to shore up their beaches. Petrocelli had an MBA and was very good at what he did, managing finances and finding money. He knew a little about medicine, but a great deal about how to make things work financially.
Quade could tell that the man was debating telling him that the rumors were wrong. Quade saved him the trouble.
“No, that’s not why I’m here. Dakota Delaney is interested in hosting a fund-raiser for Wiley Labs and I thought you might want to put someone in touch with her.”
Petrocelli stared at Quade for a moment, as if digesting what he’d just been told.
“Dakota Delaney?” he echoed, then blinked. “You know Dakota Delaney?”
Quade hadn’t meant to give that impression. He wouldn’t have known the woman if he’d tripped over her. “Indirectly.”
Confusion registered on Petrocelli’s face. “How indirectly?”
Quade hurried to give him the complete picture. “Her assistant producer, MacKenzie Ryan, is my next-door neighbor. Actually, she was the one who suggested that Ms. Delaney would be willing to host a fund-raiser when I told her that I’d heard Wiley might be having some financial difficulties.”
Admiration lit up Petrocelli’s dark brown eyes. “You really roll up your sleeves when you work for a place, don’t you?”
Quade had never been thought of as a joiner before, as someone who was part of a team. It was a novel concept for him and not one that was entirely distasteful, given the present situation. “I don’t believe in half measures.”
Petrocelli made himself comfortable, treating him, Quade noted, as a confidante. That, too, was a new experience for him.
“Thank God for that. Of course I’d welcome her help.” Petrocelli smiled broadly, his eyes all but disappearing into the expression. “And any money that something like that could generate.” For just a moment, he looked older than his forty-six years. “I just spent the last four days in Dallas with my hat in my hand, begging the Malfi Foundation for more money.” Quade knew that the eighty-year-old organization underwrote the largest part of the money used for the research conducted at Wiley Labs. Petrocelli shook his head. “I didn’t get it. I guess it’s true what they say.”
Quade didn’t follow him. “What is?”
“When one door shuts another one opens up.” Petrocelli blew out a breath that seemed to have the weight of the world attached to it. “I can’t tell you how gratified I am that you did this.”
“I didn’t actually do anything.”
Petrocelli waved away the protest. “Modest, brilliant and good-looking. You must be beating them off with a stick, Doctor.”
If he hadn’t felt uncomfortable before, this would have done it. Whether work-related or personal, Quade hated having attention drawn to him. He preferred moving in and out of things like smoke.
“Most of my time is spent at work. There’s no one to beat off,” he said, hoping that would be the end of it. Digging into his lab coat, he pulled out one of the cards that MacKenzie had given him. “That’s MacKenzie’s number. She can put you in touch with Dakota Delaney, or whoever is going to be orchestrating this thing.”
Rising, Petrocelli took the card, his fingers closing around it as if it were a good-luck talisman. “Wonderful. Wonderful.” His wide, round face wreathed in a smile, he shook Quade’s hand. “And when all the details are finalized, I’ll get back to you. I want you to deliver the keynote speech.”
The salvo came out of nowhere, torpedoing the nascent good feeling that was beginning to nestle into Quade’s system. “Excuse me?”
“You came with an incredible long list of accolades from your previous employer. Who better to tell the people with the deep pockets what we’re doing here?”
Quade could come up with an entire fleet of people better suited to delivering a speech, up to and probably including the janitor. The thought of standing up in front of a room full of people and speaking threatened to erode the lining of his stomach.
He settled for the most logical protest. “But I’ve only been here a week.”
“You’ve been working at finding a cure for leukemia a great deal longer than a week, Doctor. Besides, they’ll want to hear from someone who’s in the trenches, not someone who got his degree in glad-handing.” The smile Petrocelli gave him was meant to encourage Quade. “Trust me, your type is in.”
This was what he got for becoming involved, Quade thought. The sidelines were looking better and better. At least he couldn’t make a fool of himself from there. “Type?”
“Modest, brilliant and good-looking,” Petrocelli reiterated. “If I had a daughter your age, I’d be bringing her in to meet you.” He looked at the card in his hand as if it were a miracle that had materialized on call. “God, I can’t thank you enough.”
“Not necessary,” Quade muttered under his breath. Damn, how had he gotten himself tangled up like this? All he’d intended to do was be a messenger, a go-between. How had he gotten caught in the middle?
The intercom buzzed. The secretary’s voice followed a beat later, reminding Petrocelli of his first meeting.
“On my way, Hannah,” he told her, then looked at Quade. “I’ll get back to you,” he promised.
Shell-shocked, Quade could only say, “Right,” as he left the room. He was vaguely aware that Petrocelli had uttered another “thank you” in his wake.
If the man really wanted to thank him, he’d pass the responsibility of making a speech to someone else. Someone whose tongue didn’t suddenly feel as if it weighed ten pounds at the mere thought of delivering a speech.
He made his way out, oblivious to the secretary he passed.
That was twice in three days that he’d felt as if he’d ventured out into a minefield without realizing it, Quade thought. Kissing MacKenzie might be momentarily more pleasurable than giving a speech, but both were equally unnerving to him. Both guaranteed to make his system go haywire.
Having lost what little of his appetite he’d had, Quade skipped lunch and went back to the lab. Hoping work would get his mind off everything.
It didn’t.
Work only managed to reinforce what was on Quade’s mind.
He’d done his part, passed along MacKenzie’s number and Dakota Delaney’s offer to Petrocelli. Technically he was out of it—except for the speech he’d gotten roped into giving. But even that might be gotten around, he thought. At least it was worth a try.
What he couldn’t get around was that he owed MacKenzie a call. After what she’d done it was only polite to fill in his neighbor on Petrocelli’s reaction.
Stripping off
the latex gloves he’d been wearing, Quade moved back from the table and dipped his hand into his pocket. The other business card MacKenzie had given him was still there. Taking it out, he pressed the numbers that connected him to her cell phone.
She answered on the second ring, sounding a little breathless. A whole series of questions popped up in his head. He banked them down and launched into the reason behind his call.
“I gave your card to Adam Petrocelli. He’s the chief financial officer for Wiley Memorial.”
The sound of his voice warmed MacKenzie. She wondered if he realized that he hadn’t identified himself or even bothered to say hello. MacKenzie smiled to herself. The man was an original.
“I know. He already called. Sounds very excited.” She heard what sounded like a suppressed sigh on the other end of the line. She would have thought that Quade would be happy about this. “Something wrong?”
He was about to say no. It wasn’t as if he were even remotely accustomed to sharing his feelings about things, especially things that bothered him. But in a way, he supposed she was involved in this.
“Petrocelli wants me to give the keynote speech at the fund-raiser.”
“Excellent.”
He could almost hear her beaming. The woman probably gave speeches in her sleep.
“Not so excellent,” he told her. “I don’t know the first thing about giving a speech, keynote or otherwise.” If he had anything noteworthy to say about the research he was doing, he put it in writing to share with other researchers. He’d never once gotten up in front of a group to talk about the small headway he was making or about the numerous setbacks he’d endured.
“But you know about your work, don’t you? Just talk about that,” MacKenzie suggested.
She heard a small, dry laugh. The sound rippled along her skin. She pressed the receiver closer to her ear.
“And put everyone to sleep?”
“It won’t be as bad as all that,” she assured him. She’d never met anyone as self-effacing as Quade was. “Tell you what—you can practice on me if you like. And maybe I can help you keep the speech from turning into the next big cure for insomnia,” she teased. She hesitated for a moment, not wanting to throw another wrench into the works, especially since he’d been the one to call her, but she might as well make the arrangements now. If she didn’t, she’d only have to seek him out later. “By the way, Dakota would like to meet you.”
For a man whose chief goal in life was to be left in peace, he was certainly drawing an incredible amount of fire. “Excuse me?”
“Dakota’s always been a people person and she likes meeting the people who are involved in a cause when she gives her name to it.”
He could understand that. What he didn’t understand was what the star of …And Now a Word from Dakota wanted with him. Other than drawing a salary for his work, he hardly figured into this. “Isn’t she meeting with Petrocelli?”
“Yes, but you’re the one who first brought this to light.”
Quade paused. He tried to remember how all of this had originally unfolded. “I mentioned it to you over dinner. I was just making conversation and nothing else came to mind.” And let this be a lesson to him, he thought. From now on, he was going to limit his conversations to simple one-word answers, nothing more.
“You can tell her all that when you meet her,” MacKenzie told him cheerfully. “It’ll just be for a few minutes,” she assured him. “Relax, I’ve never known Dakota to bite.” She laughed and he tried to block the sound, but it was too late. It worked its way into his system, unearthing the same response he’d had to her the other day. When he’d kissed her. “And even if she did, I’m sure you’ve got something down at Wiley Memorial that covers that.”
He sighed. He didn’t have to be a war veteran to know when he was outflanked. Quade had no doubt that MacKenzie would go on talking until he surrendered.
“There’s no way out of this, is there?” Even as he asked, he already knew the answer.
“Well, she’s not the Queen of England—she can’t command you to come, but it would be a nice thing if you did.”
He wasn’t interested in being nice, just in being left alone. But even he knew that you got more things with honey than you did with vinegar and, right now, Wiley Memorial needed all the honey it could find.
Still, he felt it was only fair to warn the woman who had put herself out on a limb for him. “You said she was a people person. I’m not. I’m a loner. I do best when I’m left alone.”
“Later,” MacKenzie promised, “when this fund-raiser is behind you and Wiley Memorial is back on its way to thriving, you can go back to being a loner. Right now, I’m afraid that your company needs you,” she quipped.
MacKenzie was right. Much as he didn’t want to, Quade had no choice but to agree with her. “So when do you want to set up the meeting?”
“As soon as possible. Petrocelli is coming by on Wednesday. Why don’t you come by the set tomorrow? One o’clock’s a good time.”
“Why don’t I just come with Petrocelli?” he asked. That way, he wouldn’t have to say too much. Petrocelli was the kind of man who took over a room whenever he entered. It wasn’t in his nature not to.
“Because she wants to meet you first.”
“Why?”
“Who knows?” she lied.
She knew exactly why Dakota wanted to meet him separately. It had to do with the damn cameo. Dakota was convinced it held some kind of magical power and she was fixating on the fact that Quade had turned up a day after MacKenzie had begun wearing the necklace.
But since Dakota was going out of her way to arrange for the fund-raiser, the least MacKenzie could do was go along with this.
However, saying any of this to Quade was a guarantee that the man would head for the nearest mountain range and hide there.
“Who knows” was definitely the safer route to go.
MacKenzie was right, Quade thought, walking out of Dakota Delaney’s dressing room the following day. The hostess was a vivacious, outgoing woman who didn’t seem jaded by either her fame or her lavish upbringing.
The meeting MacKenzie had arranged had lasted twenty minutes. Twenty minutes that were filled with hot-and cold-running people, an endless stream of interruptions and dozens of last-minute details that had to be attended to before Dakota went on the air that afternoon. With MacKenzie at her side, the woman multitasked and never missed a beat of the conversation between them.
His own head was spinning.
It was utter and total chaos within the small room and he had no idea how either Dakota or MacKenzie functioned. To his surprise, and despite his efforts to remain polite but distant, he’d found himself liking the woman.
And liking MacKenzie even more.
The latter really troubled him.
Her ever-present clipboard in her hand, MacKenzie was quick to follow Quade out into the hallway after the short interview was over.
She beamed as she caught up to him. “Didn’t I tell you she was great?”
He nodded. It wasn’t in him to voice the kind of enthusiastic rhetoric the way she did. “For someone in the TV industry, she’s very nice.” And then he paused, unable to repress the question any longer. “How do you stand it?”
“What, Dakota being nice? I put up with it as best I can,” MacKenzie deadpanned.
“No, working in that kind of environment.” He jerked a thumb back at the dressing room to get his meaning across. A tall, thin makeup artist was just rushing into the room Quade had vacated moments ago. “I couldn’t hear myself think.”
She shrugged. “Fortunately, I seem to be able to think louder than you do. Silence makes me edgy.”
He looked at her a long moment. “I guess we’re really opposites.”
“I guess so,” she agreed. And they seemed to be. In so many different ways.
So why do I want to kiss you again so much? he wondered. Why do I want you to kiss me? And why the hell does my brain feel like sc
rambled eggs every time I’m around you?
“I’d better get back to the lab,” Quade murmured.
She nodded. There were places she had to be, as well, instead of here, basking in the shadow he cast. “I’ll be in touch.”
“I’m sure you will be,” he said, turning on his heel. The fact that she would be invading his life again and soon didn’t bother Quade nearly as much as he thought it should.
Which bothered him.
Chapter Ten
Stumbling through the maze of small tables scattered about the floor of the dimly lit club known as the Laugh-Inn, Quade lowered his head and growled against MacKenzie’s ear, “Haven’t they paid their electricity bill?”
She tried not to let the feel of his breath along her skin scramble her synapses any more than they already were. His warm breath, which was raising goose bumps along her flesh, was nothing more than exhaled air from a fellow mammal.
It didn’t help.
Perhaps because she’d been kissed by this particular mammal, or because the man looked like the dream fantasy of every woman with a pulse. Package that dream fantasy with considerable brain power and you had the perfect male.
Almost.
What kept Quade from attaining the title of perfect male, in her estimation, was his brooding manner. Granted, a great many women out there wanted to experience life with James Dean. They were the same ones who loved the idea of having a “bad boy” they could try to reform, but she wasn’t among them. Bad boys belonged in corners, facing the wall, not as one’s life partner.
Not that she was contemplating getting a partner, she reminded herself as she stepped around a table occupied by a couple kissing each other into oblivion. At this point in her life, she just wanted to get through her day without any major mishaps and then crash into bed at night.
This evening’s crash had been temporarily postponed because she and Quade had been commandeered to lend moral support to Aggie.
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