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Her own project was a typical example. It was more exciting than anything she’d ever done in her life—including walking a catwalk in Paris. It was ground-breaking stuff. He could look like the Elephant Man as far as she was concerned, and it wouldn’t matter.
She realised she was still holding the phone, and replaced it as if it had scorched her palm. She had a busy day and she wouldnot spend it thinking about her mysterious boss and his too-sexy-to-be-real voice. She had the sample to catalogue, a literature review to begin, and the finishing touches to put to the presentation Reg was giving at the symposium he and Alex were attending at the end of the week. She had more than enough on her plate.
Things didn’t go according to plan, however. It seemed everything this morning was conspiring against her to prevent her from doing her work. The computer system kept crashing, necessitating several reloads of lost data, and when she went through the symposium presentation, the slides were for some reason all jumbled. To cap it all, it took her ages to find online articles for the literature review she was undertaking.
And of course her mind kept wandering to the owner of that voice, and the fact she would be face to face with him by day’s end. Thank God she lived far, far away from that voice. The voice that had talked in her ear two or three times a week for the last two years. The voice that, despite its faultlessly businesslike, asexual tone, was in her dreams most nights.
Her mood grew blacker as the morning progressed, and when everyone started to leave for lunch she was grateful for some peace and quiet. She liked it best when she was alone in the lab. In fact her favourite part of the day was when everyone had gone home and there was just her, her microscope, and the background hum of the electronic gadgets that surrounded her.
Her stomach grumbled loudly. She’d been too nervous to stomach breakfast this morning—a most unusual occurrence for her. Thanks to a blessed metabolism she was always hungry, and right now she was starving! She pulled a muesli bar from her bag and munched at it as she tapped away at her keyboard.
She wouldn’t be missed in the staffroom as she rarely ate lunch with her colleagues. It wasn’t that Isobella didn’t like the people she worked with; it was more that she resented wasting time away from her microscope. She loved to eat, but food and other human necessities came a poor second to the project. She could eat just as easily on the job.
Plus, being an intensely private person, she preferred her own company. Yes, here in the tropical medicine lab they were a team, a unit, all working towards a common goal, but the self-directed nature of her work appealed to the loner in Isobella.
In a lot of ways the lab was her refuge—a place where she could hide behind her glasses and white coat without censure—and whilst she was forced to share it with others, it didn’t mean she had to make her life an open book.
In fact Isobella had a reputation at the lab for discouraging any form of interaction that didn’t directly involve the project. She was polite, but distant. She’d never fostered close relationships or socialised outside of work hours. She didn’t indulge in gossip or innuendo. In short, she was invisible. Which suited her just fine.
Oh, she knew in the beginning there’d been speculation about her. No one had been able to pigeonhole her, and that had obviously been intriguing. She’d have to have been stupid not to have known that her colleagues had talked about her behind her back. And, having rebuffed some early advances from male colleagues, she didn’t need her science degree to figure out that her sexuality had been called into question.
But she had steadfastly ignored it all, concentrating on her work, weathering the gossip with aplomb, and gaining a good deal of respect in the process. And eventually, through quiet indifference, she’d dropped right off their radar.
Hmph! If only they knew. She’d walked the catwalks of Paris and Milan from the age of fourteen—the bitchiest workplace in the world. She’d suffered far greater insults.
‘Hello? Anyone home?’
Isobella felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand to attention as the gravelly enquiry from the work area wrapped itself around her body.Alex? She leaned to the side slightly, looking around the partition that hid her desk from view.
‘Hello?’
That voice again. It was him. Alexander Zaphirides. And it seemed as if the rumours had been spot-on—even in profile the man redefined tall, dark and handsome. He was dressed in an impeccably tailored navy pin-striped suit, with a pale lemon shirt beneath, left open at the neck, and devoid of a tie.
