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“Great idea.” Olivia’s voice warmed. “She’s a real peach.”
Tyler frowned. “Are we talking about the same woman?”
“Dr. Bethany Hart.”
“That’s her.” He would have described Bethany Hart as more frosty than peachy. And she was quite possibly the most ungrateful woman he’d ever met. The Warrington Foundation had granted her a generous sum for her research into childhood kidney disease which was part of a wider research project at Children’s Healthcare of Atlanta, attached to Emory University. Instead of the thank-you letter most people wrote, she’d sent Tyler a curtly worded missive to the effect that if he was at all serious about helping young kidney patients he would give a lot more money.
Unlike everyone else, she’d accused him of not caring. Tyler had found her ingratitude refreshing.
Just a couple of weeks ago she’d written to him again. The money, intended to cover her salary, along with admin support and the use of lab facilities and equipment, was almost gone: she’d asked him to renew her funding. She’d enclosed a comprehensive—in his opinion, boring—report on her work to date, and had invited him, rather insistently, to visit a bunch of sick kids in the hospital.
“She may not be your biggest fan,” Olivia said with rare diplomacy. She’d read the pediatrician’s letters, too. “But she sure loves kids.”
Tyler had noticed the way Dr. Hart’s blue eyes lit up when she talked about the children she worked with. “Then she’ll want to check out this baby.”
He didn’t plan to give her a choice. Bethany Hart might have complained about the amount of money she’d received, but no one else had offered her a dime. The foundation had given more than her presentation to the Philanthropic Strategy Committee had merited.
Tyler had swayed the PhilStrat Committee in her favor. Not because she’d wowed him with her presentation—despite her obviously high intelligence, she’d been inarticulate to the point where he’d been embarrassed for her. Definitely not because of that spark of attraction that had flared between them, despite her frostiness—he never let that kind of thing get in the way of business.
When she’d bumbled to the end of her appalling pitch, she’d shot Tyler a look of angry resignation that said she might have messed up, but it was his fault.
He shook her hand as she left, and couldn’t help smiling at the furious quiver in her otherwise stiff fingers. Which enraged her further. She looked down her nose at him as she said, “You haven’t heard the last of me.”
He sighed. “I was afraid of that.”
She reeked of do-gooder earnestness, coupled with the kind of instinctive, misguided courage that led people to pursue hopeless causes without, unfortunately, actually losing hope.
So Tyler had believed Bethany when she said he hadn’t heard the last of her. During the PhilStrat Committee’s deliberations, he’d cast his vote in her support largely to shut her up.
Now, as it turned out, that might have been a smart move. He needed her discreet cooperation over this baby and he expected her to give it, however reluctantly.
Because Bethany Hart owed him.
CHAPTER TWO
BETHANY WAS IN THE SHOWER sloughing off the fatigue of three straight shifts in the E.R. at Emory University Hospital when the phone rang in the studio apartment she rented near the campus.
It was Olivia Payne, Tyler Warrington’s secretary, asking if Bethany could come to the Warrington Foundation offices right away. “Tyler would like to meet with you.” Olivia paused. “At this stage I can’t tell you why.”
He wants to give me more money. Jubilation surged through Bethany; adrenaline transformed her exhaustion into energy. She punched the air with the hand that wasn’t holding the phone, then had to clutch the towel she’d wrapped around herself before it slipped to the floor.
After she’d hung up, she celebrated with an impromptu dance around her living room singing, “I aaaaam a reeesearch geeenius” to the tune of Billy Joel’s “Innocent Man.” But the room was too small for her to burn off this much excitement: as she danced, she grabbed the phone again and dialed her parents.
“Mom, it’s me. Bethany.” She slowed down, suddenly breathless. Crazy that she still felt compelled to identify herself—it was fourteen years since her sister’s death, there was no chance of confusion. Without waiting for a reply, she said, “Looks like the Warrington Foundation plans to extend my research grant.”
Her mom squawked with delight, none of her usual listlessness evident. “Darling, that’s wonderful. Just wonderful.”
“I’m seeing Tyler Warrington this morning. The foundation can extend the grant for a second twelve months at its discretion, without me having to pitch again.”
“That’s the best news—let me tell your dad.”
Bethany heard her mom calling out to her father, heard his whoop of excitement. Then a muffled question she didn’t catch, and an “I’ll ask her” from her mom.
“Uh, honey,” her mother said into the phone, “is there any chance they’ll give you more money than last year? You always say you could get so much more done if you could afford to pay your assistant for more hours.”
The familiar defensiveness—the urgent need to impress upon her parents that there just wasn’t enough money around to fund all the research into kidney disease—constricted Bethany’s chest. 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 long moment Tyler stared at her. Then he said, “I like a woman who knows what she wants.” Before she could decide if he was being provocative, he turned to Olivia. “Give Bethany some time next week. And when I tell you to fob her off, don’t listen to me.”
That frank admission of his lack of interest in her work floored Bethany…and, amazingly, made her want to laugh. Which she was not about to do: she took her work seriously, even if he didn’t. She compressed her lips, picked up her bag. “Olivia asked me to bring this. I assume there’s a patient you want me to look at?”
“In my office.” He held the door open for her.
Tyler figured it was the oddness of Bethany’s skirt that drew his attention to the neat round of her bottom as he followed her into his office. That, and the same kick of awareness that had surprised him at their last encounter.
He couldn’t think why he found her so intriguing. Yes, that polished-cherry-wood hair waved nicely around her heartshaped face. But her nose was too pointy, all the easier for her to look down it at him, and her mouth a trifle wide for that stubborn chin. She was pretty, but Tyler dated beauties.
He was still puzzling over his attraction to her when she stopped; he almost bumped into her. She’d seen the baby.
“Oh, you gorgeous little thing.” She sounded awed, breathless, as she dropped to her knees on the carpet. “Hello, precious,” she crooned. The baby’s face split in an enormous smile, and Bethany laughed out loud.
Humor widened her mouth to even more generous proportions and revealed a dimple in her chin. All trace of obstinacy vanished, and she was much more the peach Olivia had suggested. A cute-but-not-his-type peach. Women who went gaga over babies usually had him hightailing it out the door.
She looked up at Tyler, confusion wrinkling her brow. “Who’s this?”
He shifted on his feet. Now that he had to explain, he realized just how weird this was. “Someone left it downstairs for me.”
“It?” Her eyebrows drew together, and the effect in combination with that skirt was of a disapproving pixie.
“Uh…her?” Damn, he should have had Olivia check.
Bethany unsnapped the terry garment. She hooked the front of the baby’s diaper with one finger and peered inside. “Him,” she corrected as she refastened the snaps. “What do you mean, someone left him?”
Tyler handed her the note. Watched curiosity turn to shock to alarm, all telegraphed across her face. She stared at him, mouth slightly open, apparently dumbfounded.
“This woman…” She groped for words. “This child’s mother thinks you would make a good parent?”
As if her intimate knowledge of children’s kidneys put her in a position to judge him. “I’m one of Atlanta’s favorite sons—and its most generous.”
Bethany sat back on her heels. “You hadn’t even figured out he’s a boy.”
“I believe in equal-opportunity parenting. Gender is irrelevant.”
She pffed. “You need to call social services.”
“My lawyer says I don’t.” He was glad he’d clarified the legality of the situation in the forty-five minutes that he’d waited for Bethany. “The mother’s letter effectively appoints me the baby’s guardian. According to my attorney, that may not carry weight long term, and I’ll need to meet with social services. But if they’re satisfied he’s well looked after and that efforts are being made to find the mother—which I’ll hire a private investigator to do…”
Bethany leaned over to scoop up the baby, then scrambled to her feet. As she hoisted the infant to her shoulder in a casual, practiced movement, Tyler caught a glimpse of slim, winterpale midriff where her T-shirt pulled away from her skirt.
“You mean, you plan to keep him?” she said. “What about your incredibly busy schedule? Babies take time and attention.”
“I’ll organize a sitter.”
“You can’t tell me you care about this baby.” She sounded suspicious and she was doing that looking-down-her-nose thing, one of his least favorite memories from the first time they’d met.
“I care about families, about children.” What the heck, he might as well try out some of the lines he planned to use in media interviews. “Children are our future.”
“Wonderful,” she said brightly—to the baby. “Your new guardian is a graduate of the Whitney Houston School of Philosophy.” She looked at Tyler and her eyes sparked, not with the tenderness she’d directed at the baby, but with something more…electric.
Tyler’s senses stirred in response to that spark, and he struggled to keep his mouth from curving, his wits from deserting him to go frolic with his imagination in a place that involved him and Bethany and not much clothing. Definitely not that skirt. “Are you saying children aren’t our future?” he asked with spurious confusion.
She shifted her hold on the baby, and the movement emphasized the high, full curve of her breasts. “You made it plain you’re not interested in my kidney patients, so why should I believe you have any real concern for this child?”
But he hadn’t invited her here to examine his motives. All he needed was for her to check the baby over and leave. Then he could get Operation Family Man under way. Still, he couldn’t resist saying, “You’re carrying a grudge because I didn’t give you all the money you wanted, and it’s clouding your judgment. You need to admit that was your own fault.”
Bethany’s face heated. So much for Tyler being either amnesiac or love-struck to the point of forgetting her humiliation. Yes, she’d brought it on herself…but he hadn’t helped. She’d been sucked in by his charm—the charm she’d been too naive to realize was hardwired into him and freely dispensed to every female he came across—and in the misguided belief she’d already won him over, she’d wandered away from the scientific facts to support her case and detoured into anecdote.
Halfway through her pitch, she’d realized she’d lost Tyler’s attention. He’d still been giving her that encouraging smile, but he’d glanced at his watch a half-dozen times, yawned more than once. She’d scrambled to get back onto the solid ground of medical fact, lost track, dropped her notes and been too nervous to take a break and sort them out. She’d garbled her way through, and just as she hit the crux of her case, Tyler—
“You winked at me!” she accused.
“I did not.” He widened his eyes, as if to prove there was no winking going on. At the same time, his brows lowered in a puzzled frown that hinted she was being irrational.
“When I pitched to your committee.” The baby hiccuped and she rubbed his back in a circular motion. “You sat there not listening to a word I said and then you winked.”
“That’s why you’re so touchy? Because I winked?” Tyler ignored the way Bethany stiffened at being called touchy. “I could see you felt awkward and I guessed it was because of that thing between us…”
