Tom Denton and back to his birthday night. Who was she, damn it? And why couldn’t he get her off his mind?
* * *
“You made me come all the way over here today just so you could ask me about my transportation expenses to the Denver conference?” Jane never lost control in professional situations, but as she looked at the man who governed her day-to-day activities at Preeze Laboratories, she wanted to scream.
Dr. Jerry Miles lifted his head from the papers he’d been studying on his desk. “You may regard these kinds of details as minor annoyances, Jane, but as the director of Preeze Laboratories, I assure you they’re not minor to me.”
He thrust his hand back through his limp, too-long graying hair as if she’d frustrated him beyond bearing. The gesture seemed as studied as his appearance. Today Jerry’s uniform consisted of a snagged, yellow polyester turtleneck sweater, threadbare navy jacket with a dandruff-flecked collar, and rusty corduroy slacks now mercifully concealed by the desk.
It wasn’t Jane’s habit to judge people by their clothing—most of the time she was too preoccupied even to notice—but she suspected Jerry’s unkempt appearance was deliberately cultivated to conform to the image of the eccentric physicist, a stereotype that had died out a good decade earlier, but which Jerry must believe would camouflage the fact that he could no longer keep up with the exploding body of knowledge that made up modern physics.
String theories mystified him, supersymmetry left him baffled, and, unlike Jane, he couldn’t handle the complex new mathematics that scientists such as she were practically inventing on a daily basis. But despite his shortcomings, Jerry had been appointed director of Preeze two years ago, a maneuver engineered by the older and more conservative members of the scientific establishment, who wanted one of their own to head such a prestigious institution. Jane’s association with Preeze had been a hellish snarl of bureaucracy ever since. By contrast, her position on the Newberry College faculty seemed remarkably uncomplicated.
“In the future,” Jerry said, “we’re going to need more documentation from you to justify this sort of expense. Your cab fare from the airport, for example. Outrageous.”
She found it mind-boggling that a man in his position could find nothing better to do than harrass her about something so inconsequential. “The Denver airport is quite far from the city.”
“In that case, you should have used the hotel shuttle.”
She could barely swallow her frustration. Not only was Jerry scientifically incompetent, but he was a sexist, since her male colleagues didn’t have to undergo this kind of scrutiny. Of course, they hadn’t made Jerry look like a fool either.
When Jane had been in her early twenties and still operating in a fog of idealistic zeal, she had written a paper that had patently disproved one of Jerry’s pet theories, which had been a slapdash piece of work that had nonetheless garnered him accolades. His stock within the scientific community had never been the same, and he’d neither forgotten nor forgiven her.
Now, his brow furrowed, and he launched into an assault on her work, not a simple thing since he comprehended so little of it. As he pontificated, the depression that had dogged her ever since her failed attempt to get pregnant two months earlier, settled in deeper. If only she were carrying a child now, everything might not seem so bleak.
As a fierce seeker of the truth, she knew what she had done that night was morally wrong, but she was confused by the fact that something about it had seemed so right, maybe the fact that she could not have chosen a better candidate to be her baby’s father. Cal Bonner was warrior, a man of aggression and brute strength, all qualities she lacked. But there was something more, something she couldn’t entirely explain, that spoke of his absolute suitability. An internal female
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