Tempting Fate, page 5
Brooke drew a line through that figure as wel . Gloria would simply have to remain celibate for another year.
That left her with the language studies. Brooke chewed on the end of the pencil as she careful y studied Donovan's detailed description of his work.
It was undeniably fascinating.
Gloria was obviously intel igent, despite her lowbrow choice in television programming. Donovan had monitored her IQ from the time she was three years old. At that time she scored about average for a child of the same age. Over the past five years, her scores had remained consistent with the average human population.
When using Ameslan, the American Sign Language, Gloria was proficient in some twelve hundred signs and used nearly six hundred regularly.
Since moving to the computer and voice synthesizer, she had intensified her ability to communicate abstract ideas and feelings.
Even while Brooke was intrigued with Donovan's work with Gloria, the business side of her nature was able to view the potential rewards of his research. Not only would the findings increase the scientific community's knowledge of al primates, man included, but there were hopes that eventual y the research could be applied to teaching humans dis-abled in communications, as wel as preserving the endangered goril a in the wild.
As noble as those ventures were, they were also cut from the fabric of which important awards were given. The more recognition and plaudits Donovan's work earned, the more prestige garnered by the col ege. And that, she knew, translated directly into contribution dol ars.
Brooke smiled as she wrote approved in the margin next to Donovan's request for continued funding for Gloria's language studies. Then she went to bed, where she spent the night dreaming of Donovan. They were dancing to soft, romantic music on a deserted beach, the sky a vast canopy of stars overhead. It was a magical night, fil ed with possibilities. The entire scenario would have been absolutely perfect if only Gloria could have been made to stop cutting in.
Early the fol owing morning Brooke was back at her office, transforming the smal room with a lot of elbow grease and several cans of paint. By the time she decided to cal it a day, the muddy-brown wal s were a soft biscayne-blue and the extensive woodwork, including the molding along the high ceiling, was gleaming with white enamel. Every bone in her body ached from the unaccustomed physical labor, but as she walked to the parking lot, she felt as if she had accomplished something. Unlike her work as Appropriations Director, which these days had her feeling as if she were running on a treadmil .
"Damn." Brooke's frustrated sigh feathered her bangs as she twisted the key in the ignition of her late model Mer-cedes convertible sports car once again. Her only answer was an ominous click.
"It's your battery."
At the familiar voice, she glanced up, not particularly surprised to see Donovan standing beside the car. She had been expecting him to show up at the office al day.
"It can't be," she argued, turning the key once more. "I bought a new one last month."
"What time did you drive over here this morning?"
Brooke felt like cursing when the engine consistently refused to turn over. "Six. I had a lot to do; I wanted to get an early start. What does that have to do with anything?"
"I was just thinking that you may have left your lights on,"
he offered helpful y.
Brooke glanced down at the dashboard. Terrific. That's precisely what she'd done. "Since when are you so good at remembering the mundane little details of everyday life?" she snapped, angry with herself for being so stupid.
"Since I did it myself three times last week," Donovan returned easily, not appearing at al affronted by her irritated tone. "Why don't you come over to my house? It's not far from here."
She drummed her fingers impatiently on the steering wheel as she tried to decide what to do. "Your house? Why?"
"You can use my phone to cal the motor club," he explained patiently. "They'l come out and recharge it for you."
"I can also use the phone in my office."
He gave her a slow, coaxing smile. "Ah, but do you have a pitcher of lemonade in your office?"
"Damn you, Donovan Kincaid." Brooke's exasperated breath feathered the hair from her eyes. "You real y don't fight fair."
He reached down and opened the car door. "I didn't realize we were fighting."
"Aren't we?" she asked, plucking her purse from the front seat.
Donovan considered that for a moment. "Nope. I don't think so," he said final y. "At least I'm not." He looked down at her curiously. "Are you?"
As his green eyes held hers, Brooke was awash in sensual stimuli. Her fingers itched to brush away a tumbled brown wave that dipped over his forehead. Just as her hands ached to frame his face and her lips yearned to press against his smiling ones.
"Not today," she answered. It was little more than a whisper, but Donovan had heard it just the same.
The dazzling smile moved to his eyes. "I'm glad."
"I'm looking forward to seeing how you live, Donovan,"
she said as they walked the short distance to his house. "Ever since the seventh grade, when I stayed up al night reading Mary Shel ey's Frankenstein by flashlight under the covers, I've been utterly fascinated by you mad scientist types. Do you al conduct dark and mysterious experiments in your basement laboratories?"
She was babbling. Brooke knew she was, but desperate for a safe, noncontroversial subject, she seemed unable to stop herself. Only a moment ago, she had felt as if she were being drawn deeper and deeper into the warm tourmaline depths of Donovan's eyes.
She was a grown woman with a successful career. She had survived a marriage that should have been declared terminal at the altar. Over the years, she had certainly not suffered from a dearth of male companionship, although she had always been careful to keep her relationships casual.
Brooke lived alone, traveled alone and liked it that way just fine, thank you. She was a total y independent woman. So why did she continual y feel like a foolish, prattling school-girl whenever she was around Donovan Kincaid?
"I'l try not to disil usion you," Donovan said amiably.
"Although I suppose I should warn you ahead of time that my house doesn't boast a basement laboratory."
"How disappointing."
"But it does possess a pair of cupolas. And a tower room that was obviously designed for hiding away insane relatives."
She nodded her satisfaction. "That's much better. There just may be hope for you yet, Professor Kincaid."
His smile was warm, but unthreatening. "That's what I've been tel ing you."
When he took Brooke's hand as they crossed Harvard Avenue, she could not deny that she enjoyed the feel of his long fingers laced together with hers. Reminding herself that one thing she didn't need was another complication in her life, Brooke immediately put the evocative sensation from her mind, instead turning the conversation to his work.
"I reread your proposal last night."
He glanced down at her curiously. "I thought you had a date."
Brooke reminded herself that one of the reasons she never lied was that she was no good at it. As Donovan had already accurately pointed out.
"I did. I read the proposal after I returned home."
Donovan had the distinct impression that BrookAwas not tel ing the truth. That she had spent a lonely evening at home, just as he had. And if she had been with another man, the guy obviously hadn't spent the night. Even a woman as dedicated to her work as he suspected Brooke was these days, wouldn't crawl out of a passion-warmed bed to read some admittedly dry, boring grant proposal. He fought down his surge of satisfaction, not wanting Brooke to discern how pleased he was with the idea of her spending the night thinking of him.
"What did you think?" he asked noncommittal y.
"It was interesting," she hedged.
Donovan warned himself to keep his tone casual, even when every nerve in his body was on red alert. He couldn't imagine not getting the funds he had requested. After al , his work was important. Brooke was an intel igent woman; surely she'd see the potential in his projects.
"Does that mean I'm going to get the money?"
She frowned. "Donovan, you know I can't tel you that.
You'l have to wait until the official announcement, along with everyone else."
"Damn it, Brooke, that isn't fair!"
She tilted her chin as she met his frustrated gaze. "Actual y, it is fair, Professor Kincaid. To everyone. Even someone with Gloria's IQ could see that."
By bringing up his pet project, Brooke had effectively turned Donovan's ire to enthusiasm. "Her actual score's a lot higher than she tests. The problem is that the tests are prejudiced against goril as."
She smiled faintly. "It's hard to believe anyone would go out of their way to purposely make a test that's prejudiced against apes."
Her sunshine scent teased his senses as he walked beside her down the ivy-edged sidewalk. Donovan valiantly tried to keep up his end of the conversation as a slow, treacherous desire curled its way outward from the pit of his stomach.
"There's a definite cultural bias toward humans," he insisted. "For example, let's say that you were asked to pick two things that were good to eat.
The suggested objects were a chair, a flower, a banana and a steak. What would you choose?"
"I'd choose the banana and the steak, of course," Brooke answered promptly, beginning to get Donovan's drift. "But Gloria, being a goril a — "
"Picked the banana and the flower," Donovan finished for her. "Here's another. Where would you want to live? In a car, a table, a house or a tree?"
"Gloria chose the tree."
"Exactly. Unfortunately, the rules for scoring the test re-quired that I record those answers as errors."
Brooke eyed him with uncensored admiration. 'Your work with her is fascinating, Donovan."
"Fascinating enough to write me a check?" At her glower, he immediately lifted his hands. "Okay, I won't ask again."
"Good."
"Of course, you're always free to volunteer whatever information your little heart desires," he said with a broad, encouraging smile.
"You're pushing," she warned.
Donovan sighed. "I know. But it's important to me, Brooke. I just want you to understand that."
Remembering his attitude twelve years ago, Brooke felt that she understood al too wel how importantly Donovan viewed his work. It had literal y consumed his every waking moment and many that he should have spent sleeping. From his behavior since her arrival in Claremont, Brooke discerned that if anything, the passage of time had only increased his dedication. Any woman would be foolhardy to get involved with a man whose life revolved around his work.
To be burned twice, by the very same individual, would be the absolute height of fol y.
"Here we are," Donovan announced, stopping in front of his smal Edwardian house.
As Brooke viewed the bright blue siding and wide front porch, she fel total y, irreversibly, in love. "It's marvelous."
She ran up the steps. "It reminds me of a dol house. Oh, Donovan, I absolutely adore it."
He hadn't been aware of the fact that he was holding his breath, waiting for her opinion, until he released it on a deep sigh of relief. As Brooke sank happily down onto the blue and white pil ows of the porch swing, his eyes created optical il usions, framing her in the center of his vision, blurring everything around her like a camera with a short depth of field.
Her long legs, as she stretched them out in front of her, appeared to go on forever. Her T-shirt hugged curves that he ached to touch and Donovan knew that were he to draw closer, her scintil ant scent would envelop him in a soft, sensual cloud.
Despite the desire battering away inside him, Donovan managed to keep his tone light. "Even if it doesn't look like an appropriate lair for a mad scientist?"
Brooke was looking up at the striped awning, admiring the jaunty white fringe. At Donovan's question, she turned her attention toward him and began rocking slightly as she considered his words.
"Perhaps there real y is a flesh-and-blood man living inside that single-minded scientist, after al ," she mused.
"I believe that's one of the points I've been trying to make,"
he said quietly.
Did he know what he was doing to her? Did he realize that when he looked at her that way he made her feel need, whether she wanted to or not?
"Among others. Let's not forget your work," she replied, fighting the urge to open her arms to him.
"Let's," he countered, his expression suddenly unnervingly sober. "I promised myself that I wouldn't make the same mistakes this time, Brooke. I'm not going to ignore you. I'm not going to worry about the differences in our backgrounds. What I should or shouldn't do. Instead, I'm going to do what I know is right for both of us. What we need. And, whether you'l admit it or not, want."
Brooke didn't try to deny his words. She knew there was no need. "How long am I to be given your undivided attention, Donovan?" she chal enged softly. "Five minutes? Ten?"
"Al evening," he answered huskily. "Hel , al night. I want you, Brooke. I want you back in my arms again. I want to touch you, taste you, watch your eyes darken with passion, hear the soft little sounds you make when I pleasure you."
As Donovan sought to convince Brooke that their lovemaking was as right as it was inevitable, he found his words to be a form of masochistic self-torture. Desire clawed at his insides.
"And then, in the morning, I want to wake you up in the same way, loving you as you were meant to be loved."
If Brooke was shaken by his words, by the hunger that flared in his eyes, she was even more distressed by her own answering response. Sparks skittered over her skin, flames licked at her blood, making her feel as if she were on the verge of spontaneous combustion.
Despite a career based on the ability for clear, rational thought, Brooke could not be dispassionate about her feelings. While Donovan treated everything, including his personal life, as a scientific problem to be resolved step by logical step, she tended to rely on her instincts. And right now her instincts were tel ing her that everything was happening too soon. She needed more time.
"While that's a nice little scenario you've painted, it isn't going to happen." Brooke wondered whom she was trying harder to convince, Donovan or herself. "I'm going to use your telephone to cal the motor club and after my car is running, I'm going straight home."
She might be able to postpone what was going to happen, Donovan admitted grimly, but she wasn't going to stop it.
"Are you certain that's what you real y want?"
At this precise moment, Brooke wasn't sure of anything.
"Very certain," she said steadily. Her heart was beating like a jackhammer.
"Fine," Donovan agreed, ignoring the knot of need twisting his stomach as he fought to keep his tone casual.
But as he began searching for the house key he'd hidden under one of the clay pots lining the generous railing of the front porch, his hands were not as steady as they might have been.
FOUR
THE MOTOR CLUB PROMISED to send a man out within the hour. Now al Brooke had to do was survive the wait.
"You know," Donovan said softly, "we're going to have to talk about it."
"Talk about what?" she asked distractedly, her gaze moving around the room.
When they had been students at the col ege, Donovan's dormitory room had always looked as if a tornado had swept through it. Obviously his housekeeping skil s hadn't changed. Books and papers were strewn over every flat surface, including the floor.
His expression was strangely serious as their eyes met.
"Our breakup. And how it affected our lives."
"My life is none of your concern, Donovan. As for my asking you to marry me, chalk it up to a young girl's fol y."
Dragging her gaze from those bril iant green eyes, Brooke picked up a piece of fool's gold masquerading as a paperweight on Donovan's cluttered desk. Her fingers traced a sparkling vein. "Actual y, I'd forgotten al about it until you brought it up the other day," she murmured.
Donovan frowned. "Real y?"
Unprepared to meet his eyes again quite yet, especial y after tel ing such an outrageous falsehood, Brooke put the paperweight back on the desk and picked up a thick textbook.
"Real y," she insisted as she leafed through the pages of unintel igible text. "Do you actual y read this stuff?"
"That stuff just happens to be the definitive study of rival warfare between chimpanzees. I'm sorry."
She returned the book to the desk. "For what?"
"For behaving like such an ass. I've already admitted that I was in my self-centered stage back in those days."
His expression was unnervingly solemn, triggering a spontaneous physical pul in Brooke that was every bit as strong as it was unwelcome. She forced a cool, uncaring tone.
"And what stage are you in these days?"
The sensual mood was effectively shattered. Donovan managed a self-disparaging smile. "Apparently my poor host stage. Make yourself at home while I get that lemonade I promised you."
As soon as he had escaped to the privacy of the kitchen, Donovan sank down into a chair at the table, shaking his head in disbelief. What on earth was the matter with him? It was hard to believe that the man who had been behaving like a tongue-tied, bumbling adolescent in the other room was completely comfortable reading a scientific paper in front of an audience of five hundred individuals, at least four hundred of whom could admittedly be regarded as skeptics.
But who would have ever expected Brooke Stirling to suddenly turn up at the very same col ege where they had fal en in love? And how could he have foreseen that he would find her even more appealing, more desirable, than she had been during their often tempestuous love affair?
Over the past two months Donovan's memory had been playing cruel tricks on him. Brooke's low voice had murmured in his ears at the most inopportune times, and when he was supposed to be concentrating on his work he found himself recal ing the way her eyes could darken to a deep, molten gold with passion. His body ached with the very real need to make love to her again after al these years.
