The Texan's Royal M.D.

by Merline Lovelace

  “I agree. I’ve reviewed Dr. St. Sebastian’s draft proposal, but my VP for Support Systems will have to do an in-depth analysis of the final before he brings a recommendation for funding before our board.”

  “Of course.”

  Zia picked up on the chill in the air. Her brows rose, but her smile stayed in place as she rose and hooked her coat off the back of her chair.

  “I appreciate you squeezing in time to meet with me, Tom. I’ll email the draft proposal to you tomorrow.”

  “I’ll look for it.”

  Yeah, Mike just bet he would. He didn’t comment, though, until he had Zia in a cab and she turned to him with an exasperated look.

  “What was that all about?”

  “I didn’t like the guy.”

  “Obviously. Care to tell me why?”

  “He was too smooth. And he was poaching. Or trying to.”

  “Poaching? What on earth do you...? Oh.”

  “Yeah. Oh.”

  Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Please tell me you’re not serious.”

  The irritation he’d clamped down on in the restaurant gathered a whole new head of steam. Dammit all to hell! He backed off every time Zia turned all wary and skittish. Folded himself almost in half trying not to push her into something she wasn’t ready for. There was only so much a man could take, however.

  “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m dead serious.”

  “I don’t believe this. I assumed... I thought...”

  She broke off, shaking her head in disgust. Mike should have let it go at that point. Given them both time to cool down. Perversely, he fanned the fire.

  “You thought what?”

  “I thought this Texas cowboy stuff was just another layer! One of the many that make up Michael slash Mike slash Uncle Mickey.”

  He had to smile. “You forgot Miguel. He’s in there, too. Probably the most anachronistic part of the mix.”

  “Anachronistic?” Ice dripped from every syllable. “Or chauvinistic?”

  “They’re pretty much the same thing where I come from.”

  “And that’s supposed to make me feel better?”

  “No,” he replied, realizing too late that he needed to tread carefully, “it’s not supposed to do anything but put you on notice.”

  Her chin came up. A dangerous glint lit her dark eyes. “Of?”

  Mike knew it was too soon. He’d intended to give her time. Calm her doubts. Let her get used to the course he was steering. But the angry set to her jaw told him he’d just run out of windage.

  “Remember the deal we made back in Galveston?”

  Anger gave way to the wariness that hit him like a right cross. “I remember,” she said cautiously. “Do you?”

  “Every word. I said I would tell you if and when I approached the hurting stage.”

  He reached for her hand. She resisted but he folded it between both of his. Was that a slight tremor in her fingers or the hammer of his own pulse? He didn’t know, didn’t care.

  “I’m there, Zia. I’m in love with you, or so close it doesn’t matter.”

  The admission came easy and felt so right he asked himself why the hell he’d waited this long. He got his answer in the quick flare of panic in the dark eyes locked on his face.

  “Mike, I...uh...”

  “Relax.” He forced a grin. “This isn’t a race. Doesn’t matter who gets where first. And,” he said when the panic didn’t subside, “you don’t need to come up with an appropriate response right this minute. You’ve got a whole month to think it through.”

  “A whole month?”

  “Okay, three weeks and some change. Until the Frostbite Regatta,” he added in answer to her blank look.

  “Holy Virgin!” Her expression went from blank to incredulous. “You’re not really planning to participate in that insanity, are you?”

  “Not unless you do. Although I have to say...” His grin widened. Curling a knuckle under her chin, he tipped her face to his. “My sisters all insist I look pretty hot in a tux.”

  Her disbelief melted into a reluctant laugh. “Do they?”

  “Word of honor.” He puffed out his chest. “Be a shame if you didn’t get to see me in all my splendor.”

  “And I can’t do that without freezing my ass off aboard a sailboat as it cuts through the icy waters of Long Island Sound?”

  “Nope. That’s the deal. You, me, wind and waves.” His voice softened. Caressed. Challenged. “C’mon, Doc. Live dangerously.”

  Eight

  Despite her unrelenting schedule, Zia was thrilled when the duchess and Maria finally returned from their Texas sojourn the last week in January. She’d rattled around in the empty apartment during her hours off for well over a month. The week in Galveston and Mike’s brief visit had provided welcome diversions. She’d also had lunch or dinner with her brother and Natalie several times during the interval. But she was ready for the companionable presence of the duchess.

  Thankfully, the vicious Arctic cold and damp that had caused Charlotte’s bones to ache so badly had loosened its grip on the city. The temperature hovered at a balmy forty degrees the evening Charlotte, Maria, Gina and the twins arrived home. Jack was in Paris for some high-level diplomatic meeting, while Sarah and Dev had flown back to LA.

  That left Dom and Natalie and Zia to greet the remainder of the Texas contingent when they drove in from the airport. The three St. Sebastians waited in the lobby with Jerome, who’d lingered an additional forty minutes after his shift ended to greet the travelers.

  “We can’t stay,” Gina said as she hopped out of the limo to distribute hugs all around, including a big one for the delighted doorman. “The girls are tired and cranky. I need to get them home to bed. I’ll see you this weekend, Grandmama, after you’ve rested and recovered.”

  She hopped back in and left it to the welcoming committee to escort the duchess inside. Zia noted with some concern that Charlotte leaned heavily on her cane as they crossed the lobby. So did Jerome. The doorman and Zia exchanged a speaking glance but neither wanted to spoil the homecoming by commenting on her uneven gait.

  Yet after everyone else had dispersed and it was just the duchess and Zia settling in for a chat before the fire, Charlotte’s first concern was for her great-niece. When Zia delivered the aperitif her aunt insisted on, the duchess’s paper-thin skin of her palm stoked her cheek.

  “I hoped to find the shadows under your eyes gone, Anastazia.”

  “It’s been crazy here, Aunt Charlotte. I’ve been so busy.”

  “I can imagine.” She accepted the snifter Zia handed her. “How did your presentation to the faculty go?”

  “Great! Fantastic! Really, really good!”

  Chuckling, the duchess hefted her glass in a salute. “Tell me.”

  Trying not to sound too self-congratulatory, Zia gave a quick recap of the nerve-racking session in front of the faculty and her fellow residents.

  “They all found the statistics detailing the increase in Methicillin-resistant Staphylococcus aureus infections in neonatal facilities sobering.”

  “I should think so!”

  “And no one challenged my correlation between the increasing number of MRSA incidents and staffing levels in neonatal intensive care units. Or,” she added with deliberate nonchalance, “the need for more intensive study of MRSA in controlled environments similar to NIC units.”

  “Such as crew compartments on seagoing vessels?”

  She shot the duchess an incredulous look. Charlotte chuckled and took a sip of her brandy. “Don’t look so astonished. Mike Brennan paid me several visits after you left.”

  “He did?”

  “He did. I suspect,” she added drily, “he holds the mistaken impression I wield as much infl
uence over my family as his abuelita does over his.”

  The comment struck Zia the wrong way. She couldn’t believe Mike hadn’t told her about these visits. Or that he might be conducting some kind of an end run by enlisting the duchess to exert her influence.

  “Is that what he did? Ask you to plead his case for him?”

  “Of course not. He’s too intelligent for that. We discussed your research proposal...among other things.”

  “What other things?”

  The abrupt demand had the duchess lifting a haughty brow. Skewered by that regal stare, Zia issued a quick apology.

  “I’m sorry. It’s just...Mike didn’t tell me he’d spoken with you when he was here a few weeks ago.”

  “I’m not surprised,” Charlotte returned. “Reading between the lines, I gather the time you two have spent together has been...” She paused. “Shall we say, intense.”

  Coming from the duchess, the delicate wording put spots of heat in Zia’s cheeks. She took a few moments to regain her composure by downing a healthy gulp of pálinka. “I guess that’s as good a description of our time together as any,” she admitted.

  The duchess’s eyes might be clouded with age but they lingered on Zia’s face with disconcerting shrewdness. “The man’s in love with you, Anastazia. Or so close to the edge you could push him over with a single poke.” Her voice softened, and her face folded into fine lines. “Why aren’t you poking?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  “Tell me.”

  “I...”

  “Tell me, dearest.”

  The quiet command broke the dam. Abandoning her chair, Zia dropped to her knees beside the duchess. The private pain she’d shared with no one but her brother—and Mike Brennan!—spilled out in quick, disjointed phrases.

  “I had a hysterectomy. When I was in college. They had to do it to save my life. And now...now I can’t have children.”

  She dropped her forehead. The words came more slowly now, more painfully.

  “You saw Mike. He loves kids. He’s terrific with them. He deserves someone who can give him the family he—”

  “Bull!”

  Zia’s head jerked up. “What?”

  “You heard me,” the duchess retorted. “That’s total and complete bull.”

  Her eyes snapping, she took her great-niece’s chin in a firm grip.

  “Listen to me, Anastazia Amalia. You’re a sensitive, caring physician and a brilliant researcher. Far more important, you have a wonderful man who’s in love with you. You should be grabbing at the future with greedy hands. Instead you’re wallowing in self-pity. Stop it,” she ordered briskly. “Now! This very instant!”

  Zia reared back, or tried to. Charlotte refused to release her chin. Their eyes locked, faded blue and liquid black. One woman with a lifetime of great joy and great sorrow behind her, another just embarking on that perilous, exhilarating journey.

  She was right, Zia realized with a crush of self-disgust. She’d been so worried about what she and Mike couldn’t have that she’d refused to let herself focus on everything they could.

  “Okay,” she said on a shaky laugh. “I’m done wallowing.”

  “Good.” The duchess didn’t release her firm hold. “Now be honest with me. Do you love him?”

  She couldn’t deny it any longer. Not to Charlotte. Not to herself.

  “Yes.”

  “Ahh.” The quiet sigh feathered through the duchess’s lips. Her cheeks creasing in a smile, she gave her great-niece’s chin a little shake. “Then put the poor man out of his misery! Tell him how you feel.”

  “All right! I will.”

  The duchess released her grip but not her tenacious hold on the subject under discussion. “When?” she demanded.

  Surrendering, Zia sank back on her heels. “He’s flying in to New York for Valentine’s weekend. He wants to take me sailing. In something called the Frostbite Regatta.”

  “Good heavens. That sounds perfectly dreadful.”

  “Exactly what I said!”

  “Then again,” Charlotte mused as she reached for her brandy and took a delicate sip, “I seem to recall that a sailboat rocking on a choppy sea can be rather erotic. If you’re curled up in a bunk with the right person, of course.”

  * * *

  Zia didn’t share the duchess’s musings with Mike when he called later that night to make sure the travelers had all returned home safely. She did, however, tell him that Charlotte had mentioned his visits.

  “I enjoyed getting to know her a little better. She’s a fascinating woman.”

  “She said pretty much the same thing about you.”

  “Not only fascinating, but very discerning.” He let that hang for a moment before changing the subject. “So, where are you on your proposal?”

  “It’s signed, sealed and delivered. The research center’s executive review committee meets tomorrow.”

  If...when...they gave the expanded study their stamp of approval, Danville and Associates would go out for funding. And if the financial gods were kind, the project would be up and running within weeks.

  “Let me know what the committee decides,” Mike said.

  “I will.”

  “And I’ll see you soon. I’m flying into New York the afternoon of the twelfth. I want to make sure we have time to suit you up for the regatta the next day.”

  “Right,” she said slowly.

  “You’re not chickening out, are you?”

  “What if the boat tips over? Do you know how quickly we could succumb to hypothermia?”

  “Not gonna happen, Doc. It’s been a while since I exercised my sea legs, but sailing’s like riding a bicycle. It’s easy once you learn the ropes.”

  “Oh, that’s reassuring! You might be interested to know ERs treat more than three hundred thousand kids for bike injuries every year.”

  “Crap.” He paused, no doubt thinking of his hyperactive nieces and nephews. “That many?”

  “That many.”

  He mulled that over for a few moments before tossing out the one argument she couldn’t counter. “I guess you’ll just have to trust me to take care of you.”

  “I guess so. I’ll see you on the twelfth.”

  * * *

  Zia was conducting chart reviews with her interns when Dr. Wilbanks buzzed with word that the executive review committee had green-lighted her proposal.

  “Congratulations,” he said in his brusque way. “You’re the first resident to have a study of this scope and magnitude approved. Who are you working with to secure funding?”

  “Danville and Associates.”

  “Have we used them before?”

  “They were on the list Ms. Horton gave me.”

  “Then I suggest you get with them as soon as possible and tell them to start the ball rolling.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Zia made the call as soon as Dr. Wilbanks disconnected. Tom Danville added his congratulations, along with the suggestion that Zia come to his office so she could meet the others on his staff. She checked her schedule and set the appointment for three the following afternoon.

  * * *

  Danville and Associates occupied a suite of offices on the thirty-second floor of Olympic Tower on Fifth Avenue. Zia stepped out of the elevator into a sea of Persian carpets and gleaming mahogany. She cringed a little at the thought that the cost to maintain these expensive surroundings came from the commissions Danville and Associates made off proposals like hers. She’d included their commission in her budget but still...

  A smiling receptionist confirmed her appointment and reached for her phone. “We’ve been expecting you, Dr. St. Sebastian. I’ll let Tom know you’re here.”

  Danville appeared a moment later. Zia wasn�
��t intimately familiar with men’s apparel, but the European in her had no trouble identifying the leather loafers and silk tie as Italian.

  His eyes bright and brimming with high-voltage energy, he escorted her to his office. “I had my people scrub your proposal. They’ve lined up a hit list of potential funding sources. I think you’ll be impressed.”

  He made quick work of the intros. Two men, one woman, all dressed as expensively as their boss. And all sporting very impressive credentials, Zia knew, from her study of Danville and Associates’ website.

  Elizabeth Hamilton-Hobbs took the lead. A trim brunette in a black Armani suit and a butterscotch silk blouse, she held a BS and a master’s from the Wharton School of Business. Zia’s field might be medicine, but even she knew Wharton was private, Ivy League and one of the top-ranked business schools in the US.

  “My colleagues and I are very impressed with your proposed research project, Dr. St. Sebastian. You’re investigating a dangerous trend impacting medical facilities, but you left room to explore other occupational areas, as well. As a result—”

  “As a result,” Tom Danville jumped in, scrubbing his upper lip in his eagerness, “we have the perfect in with the big shipping companies like MSC, COSCO and GSI. Also with state and federal agencies looking at the spread of infectious disease among their prison populations.”

  Hamilton-Hobbs waited for him to finish before continuing her presentation “We’ve prepared a target list of private corporations and health-oriented foundations. Now that your study’s been approved, we’ll get the solicitations in the works and—”

  “Dr. St. Sebastian doesn’t want to hear ‘in the works,’” Danville huffed, scrubbing his upper lip again. “Neither do I.”

  Zia went cold. Stone-cold. She didn’t need the quick glance the brunette exchanged with her colleagues to guess what lay behind it.

  Their boss was flying high. Soaring. That wasn’t his upper lip he was itching. That was the underside of his nose.

  An irritated septum was one of the classic symptoms of cocaine snorting, right along with the fever-bright eyes and hyperactivity. Zia couldn’t believe she’d missed the warning flags at their first meeting. She didn’t miss them now, however. Danville must have cut a line right before she arrived.