She puffed out a series of short, silent, relaxing breaths. Her parents weren’t worried about other projects, only about hers. She understood; she even sympathized. Brightly, she said, “Of course I’ll ask for more, but I may not get it.”
Mentally, she doubled the figure she would propose to Tyler Warrington. If she started high, even ridiculously high, chances were she’d end up with more than if she went in low.
“I know you’ll do your best,” her mother said warmly.
Bethany basked in that praise. No use telling herself she was too old to be grateful for the crumbs of parental approval that came her way; some things never changed.
The moment she’d finished the call, her phone rang again. It was Olivia. “I forgot to say, you’ll need to bring your medical bag.”
Bring her bag so Tyler could hand over a check? Uh-oh. A chill shivered through Bethany, the kind that either meant she was ill or something bad was about to happen. And in her own expert opinion, she wasn’t ill.
Should she call Mom now and admit she might have been hasty with her talk of more money? Her finger hovered over the phone’s redial button.
Then her natural optimism took over, binding itself to the remains of that energy surge. Okay, so Tyler likely had a nephew or niece with a chest cold, and His Egoness figured he had dibs on Bethany’s time now that he’d contributed to her research. But if he didn’t plan to renew her funds, surely he wouldn’t dare summon her help? And that report she’d sent a couple of weeks ago had made an excellent case. Whatever he wanted today, she could still talk to him about money.
Provided, of course, she could string together more than two coherent words. As always, the recollection of how she’d mangled her last pitch to the super-smooth Tyler mortified her. No matter how often she prayed for selective amnesia—either for her or Tyler—her memory stayed depressingly clear. His was doubtless just as sharp.
But with any luck, he was so hopelessly in love with his new girlfriend—according to the newspapers, he was embroiled in a hot-and-heavy romance with Miss Georgia—that he’d see everything, including Bethany, through rose-tinted lenses.
“All you have to do is stay calm,” she told herself out loud as she fished through her wardrobe for something to wear. Last time, she’d borrowed a suit from a colleague, but Banana Republic navy chino hadn’t stopped her messing up.
She tugged a burgundy-colored woolen skirt off its hanger. Maybe she’d have better luck with this—unmistakably homemade, it was a gift from a young patient’s grateful grandmother. If anything could fire Bethany up to get more money from Tyler it would be a reminder of the kids she hoped to help. She pulled the skirt on, added a long-sleeved black T-shirt, then inspected herself in the mirror.
Hmm, maybe the skirt was a bit too peasant style, with those large felt flowers appliquéd around the hem, and—she twirled around—maybe said hem wasn’t entirely straight—the old lady’s eyesight had been failing—but Bethany’s highheeled pumps would dress it up.
Besides, she didn’t have a lot of choice. Thanks to her huge student loans, her wardrobe consisted of scrubs, lab coats and a bunch of stuff she could hide beneath them.
Bethany waved the blow-dryer briefly at her shoulderlength reddish-brown hair, then, in deference to the importance of the funds she was about to request, not to the man who was to bestow them, she applied some mascara and a pinky-red lipstick.
“Calm,” she reminded her flustered, wild-eyed reflection as she rolled her lips together to smooth the lipstick.
She couldn’t afford to screw up again. Last time, Tyler hadn’t bothered to hide first his boredom, then his amusement at her inarticulateness. Then, of course, he’d done that stupid thing that had left her feeling like the joke of the day.
Maybe she’d been oversensitive, she chided herself. There was probably a good explanation for his behavior. A nervous tic. Tourette’s syndrome. Thirty-something years of silver spoon-slurping, privileged existence that had blinded him to the needs of—
Okay, now she was being uncharitable, the very thing she’d accused Tyler of in the letter she’d sent after her pitch. Besides, Miss Georgia was apparently committed to working tirelessly for world peace. Clearly Tyler’s charitable instincts were in full working order.
Bethany would give him the benefit of the doubt and ask him politely—and coherently—for more money.
OLIVIA PAYNE GAVE Bethany a warm welcome, then phoned through to tell Tyler she had arrived.
When he appeared in the doorway of his secretary’s office, Bethany was struck anew by his good looks. The camera loved him—she knew that from the newspaper photos—but real life suited him even better. She might not like the guy, but she’d have to be blind not to notice he had dark hair just too long for decency and when he smiled, as he was doing now, his eyes gleamed with a dare that plenty of women might be tempted to accept.
She doubted anyone could consistently achieve a smile like that without hours of practice in front of a mirror.
“Good morning, Dr. Hart.” His voice was part of the package, low and warm, as if she was the person he most wanted to see right now.
Poised, calm, smooth, she cautioned herself. She shook his hand firmly, noted the gold links that punctured the crisp white of his cuffs. In his immaculately tailored charcoal suit he looked more put together than a GQ cover, and for some unspecified, illogical reason, Bethany disapproved. “Good to see you again, Mr. Warrington—Tyler.”
“How is your research going?” he asked courteously.
“Quite well, given the funding shortfall.” Not subtle, but definitely articulate.
His lips twitched. “That shortfall would be my fault, I assume?”
“Nothing you can’t rectify,” she said encouragingly, and he chuckled outright. Was he laughing at her again? She plowed on. “As you’ll have seen from my report, I’m on the verge of a breakthrough into therapies that interfere with antibody production. If the foundation would consider—” she thought of her parents, drew a shaky breath “—tripling its investment in my work, there’s every chance—”
“I didn’t ask you here to talk about your funding.” His interruption confirmed her fears, sent her spirits into free fall. Bethany clenched her toes inside her shoes to counter the sagging of her knees. Less abruptly, Tyler continued, “But if you want to call Olivia next week and ask her to set up a time in my diary…”
Bethany’s hopes shot back up again. Her first instinct was to grab the opportunity he offered. Then he favored her with that calculated smile that seduced socialites and beguiled beauty queens. And distracted Bethany? Not this time. She folded her arms and said deliberately, “And what will Olivia say when I call?”
Tyler blinked. Olivia made a strangled sound. Bethany waited.
Then he grinned, something much more genuine—as if to say, “You got me.” “She may say there’s no room in my diary,” he admitted.
“Just like there was no room for you to visit the kidney patients I work with?”
“I have a lot of demands on my time.” He spread his hands disarmingly. “You wouldn’t believe the number of people who want a piece of me.”
Most of them female. Even before Miss Georgia, the newspapers had reported his dating exploits so comprehensively, Bethany wondered how he found time to make it into the office. But evidently he did, because lately the press had been covering the foundation’s charitable activities, and in that sphere, at least, it seemed Tyler was a saint. Albeit one untroubled by anything so pesky as a vow of celibacy.
“I want a piece of you, too,” she said. Tyler raised his eyebrows, and she stuttered, “I—I want you to guarantee me that appointment to talk about my funding. Please.”
For a