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The phone rang, and she picked it up as she navigated her way through several passwords. ‘Hello?’
‘I’ll pick you up at six sharp.’
Isobella blinked. Alex’s gravelly voice lent a sinfulness to the perfectly innocent statement. So much so that she almost acquiesced. She shut her mouth, catching herself before she agreed. ‘I don’t think I’ll go,’ she said, clearing her throat, injecting a steadiness she didn’t feel with his husky request still tingling in her ear.
‘Isobella—’
‘It’s not necessary.’ Her eyes were drawn to the brilliant sparkle of the mid-afternoon sun on the ocean.
‘Isobella—’
‘You don’t need me there. I’d rather work on the analysis of data from the latest batch of samples.’
Alex was man enough to admit that it wasn’t a question of need. He wanted her there. Period. ‘You are part of this symposium. You are presenting a paper, and you are also representing Zaphirides Medical Enterprises and our research. People will expect you. And while you’re on my dollar I expect you to attend all functions.’
‘I didn’t want to be here, Alex.’
‘But you are.’
‘You know damn well if Reg hadn’t had a heart attack I wouldn’t have been.’
‘Why do you do that? Why let Reg take the credit for your work?’
‘It’sour work. We’re a team, remember.’ It honestly didn’t matter to her—as long as they were able to find a treatment for theFleckeri scarring.
‘You put the presentation together, didn’t you?’
‘Yes.’
‘And while everyone else is busy with their projects you practically run the dermonecrosis research single-handed.’
‘Reg works on it too. And some of the other researchers help from time to time.’
‘But it’s basically your project.’
Isobella felt a little thrill at his acknowledgement. It made her proud to be granted ownership, no matter how fleetingly. ‘He’s my boss, Alex. One of the perks, I guess.’
Alex bristled. ‘No.I’m your boss. And I’ll be at your door at six.’
Isobella heard the dial tone in her ear and looked at the receiver, cursing herself for her gaffe. But—damn it all—he knew what she meant. She replaced the phone, drawing on the steady beat of the waves against the shore for strength.
Another awful creation assaulted him as Isobella’s door opened.
‘How long does this thing go on for?’ she asked.
He almost laughed. She was so comical, standing there with her annoyed expression knitting her delicate brows together, in her standard drab shapeless trousers and blouse complete with god-awful bow at the neck.
And it wasn’t a bow that was meant to entice. To make a man wonder whether, if he tugged it, it would unravel to reveal wispy lace and bare skin. No. It was a bow that would have looked quite at home on a big, fat Christmas wreath. She reminded him of an eighteenth-century spinster, and he grappled to understand why he found her so intriguing.
‘Good evening to you too, Isobella.’
His voice stroked along tense muscles, tightening them further. She rolled her eyes as she pulled her door shut. ‘Good evening, Alex. How long does this thing go on for?’
‘A couple of hours.’
They made their way to the lift, with Isobella plotting how she could leave early and Alex wondering if her entire symposium wardrobe was as bad. The lift arrived and they entered the car.
The doors slid shut and he looked at her downcast head. ‘There’s going to be a lot of industry people here tonight. A lot of money looking for worthwhile projects to back. Please try and look like your enjoying yourself,’ he said derisively.
Isobella glared at him. ‘Don’t worry. I know the drill.’ She might never have been to one of these parties, but Reg had talked about the schmoozingad nauseam .
‘Good,’ he said, tight-lipped. The lift doors opened and he held out his arm for her in an automatic gentlemanly gesture. For a moment he thought she was going to snub him and he suppressed a smile when she reluctantly took his arm.
She dropped it as soon as they entered the cool elegance of the Daintree Room, where a couple of hundred people all dressed in their finery milled around, drinks in hand. The delicate strains of a string quartet floated around the room, and a waiter presented them with a tray of drinks as soon as they settled in one spot.
Isobella grabbed some champagne, feeling a little claustrophobic from the huddle of bodies around her and the noise of two hundred people all conversing at once. The urge to down it in search of some Dutch courage was strong, but, as panicked as she felt, Isobella wanted to keep a firm grip on her sensibilities.
