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Orwell sneered. “Even if he could manage to breach the contract, he doesn’t have the financial resources to open a clinic on his own.”
“But I do, and if my family and I were to pull our support from HOPE in order to fund him, there’s nothing you or the rest of your board could do about it.”
Checkmate.
Jane Orwell’s condescending smile vanished. Her glacial gaze focused on Linda. The patronizing superiority she’d exuded throughout most of the meeting disappeared, replaced by understanding.
Linda smiled coldly. The woman should never have underestimated her visitor. Satisfied she’d made the statement she wanted, she relaxed.
“I’ll be frank with you, Mrs. Orwell, since we’re both busy women. I’ve grown fond of HOPE and would like to continue offering financial support to this clinic. My utmost priority is to see people all over the world cured of cancer. Doctor Leon’s treatment is a crucial step toward this goal. I will do whatever I can to ensure the serum is made available to those who need it. If that means redirecting my support and my family’s to another facility, so be it.”
Jane Orwell chose her words carefully. After all, she was a corporate specialist and wouldn’t have survived in this world without being diplomatic. She’d almost burned a critical bridge. Now, she needed to see how she could rebuild it.
“I understand your position, and I respect your dedication to the clinic. We’ve always appreciated your generosity, as well as that of your family. As I said before, it’s not up to me. I’ll bring up this matter at our next meeting, and see how the board can help speed up the MHRA’s approval of the drug.”
“Thank you. That’s all I ask.” Linda took her purse and stood. “I’ll make another appointment in a couple of weeks for an update. By then, I’m sure you’ll have met with the rest of the board. Will that be convenient?”
“Of course.”
“Thank you for seeing me.” She extended her hand. “Goodbye, Mrs. Orwell. I’ll look forward to our next meeting.”
The woman shook her hand limply. She didn’t like losing.
As she exited the director’s office, Linda had to hold back a satisfied grin. By hook or by crook, she would win this battle for the children, for Gerard, and for every single person who had cancer. She couldn’t bring back her grandmother or little Lara, but she could help Gerard save thousands of others. For that, she would do anything. But first, she had to survive dinner tonight.
After a trip to the mall, where she stocked up on groceries and lacy black lingerie—just in case—Linda was back home by five. She changed into shorts and a tank top, then padded downstairs to the kitchen.
Could she still create a gourmet Italian meal? She’d learned to cook as a child, spending hours in the kitchen watching Sofia, their cook, prepare the sumptuous meals the Coriola family eagerly anticipated each night.
Sofia had been a well-rounded woman with rosy cheeks and gray hair, which she’d always covered with colorful scarves. When Linda had asked her to teach her a few simple recipes, Sofia had been delighted. She’d taken her under her wing, showing her how to become a domestic goddess, as she used to say, impressed with her little girl’s passion for cooking. By the time she was thirteen, Linda had honed the abilities of a first-class chef.
At the moment, knowing how critical tonight’s dinner was, she felt as if she’d lost all of her culinary knowledge and ability. She hadn’t made a meal since hiring Mrs. Adams, preferring to spend her time working on her art. Now, she was lost in her own kitchen.
Straightening her shoulders, she dug out and lined up all the ingredients she would need on the kitchen island. Once she had, she slumped onto a chair, staring at the items, not sure what to do next.
Pirata looked up at her curiously.
For a few moments, they sat there watching the spaghetti, spices, garlic, onions, ham, parmesan cheese, and eggs, all arranged in military fashion. The cat’s pink tongue flicked out and he licked his chops, his nose and whiskers twitching.
Linda pushed herself to her feet and got to work. What was the worst that could happen? If she failed, she could always order something from the local pub and regale Gerard with stories about what a great cook she used to be.
Spaghetti Carbonarawas her favorite dish and easy to prepare. It was a classic choice, one few people could mess up. Working efficiently, without conscious effort, carried along by the rhythm that had never left her, she prepared the sauce.
“I don’t know what I was thinking, inviting Gerard for dinner,” she told Pirata, briefly noticing that he’d slid a paw onto the counter and stolen yet another piece of ham. “Stop that. It’s much too salty for you,” she admonished. “I mean, look at me. Instead of minding my own business, concentrating on my work, I’m cooking for the guy. And I don’t even know if he’ll like this. As a Frenchman, he’s probably used to elaborate meals with fancy white sauces and truffles. The only reason he’s coming to dinner is because he wantsdessert,” she emphasized, gesturing to herself with the knife.
Remembering the way he’d kissed her last night and how incredibly sexy he’d looked this afternoon, she had to acknowledge her own desperate craving for a gooddessert.
She’d never had an affair in her life. Other than Tony, she’d only slept with two other guys—her high school heartthrob, and her college sweetheart. How lame was that?
She’d never understood the appeal of one night stands. Usually, she had to date someone for months before she would even consider having sex with them. Yet here she was, having known Gerard less than twenty-four hours, and she was considering sharing more than the dessert she’d purchased with him. Obviously her hormones had addled her brain. She should just buy a vibrator and deal with that matter on her own. But a vibrator didn’t have Gerard’s body, his hands, his mouth…
She moaned aloud.
“Why do I have to complicate everything?” she demanded.
Pirata, who was washing his paws, couldn’t care less about her dilemma.
“You know what? I’m just ‘gonna go with the flow’ as the Americans say, enjoy the moment, and stop analyzing every little thing. Giovanni was right. Not every man is a pain in the ass. Some may well be worth the trouble.”
