Prescription for Romance / Love and the Single Dad. Susan Crosby

hopefully. “So how about it, Paul? Can we take her off notice and just watch her work?” He put his arm around his brother’s shoulders in a gesture of solidarity. “I promise you won’t be sorry.”

      There was no way that Derek could guarantee that. “And if I am?”

      Derek laughed. “Not even you can be that much of a stodgy old man.” Derek tapped his brother’s chest with the back of his hand. “Loosen up, Paul. You’ll not only live longer, but you’ll get to enjoy yourself, too.”

      “I do enjoy my life,” Paul insisted. And he did. He was dedicated to continuing his father’s work and to granting childless couples their fondest wish. That was more than enough for him.

      Derek merely shook his head. “Can’t see how, but okay. Do you know where Lisa is?”

      Paul laughed quietly. “Most likely sharpening her tongue so she can give you a good lashing.”

      “That’s why I want to head her off,” Derek confessed. “I was hoping to make a preemptive strike.”

      Paul thought of the expression on Lisa’s face when she burst into his office earlier. “Too late,” he speculated.

      Derek was not easily defeated. And he had the ability to talk someone to death—or at least until he got what he wanted.

      “Maybe not,” he countered as he went off in search of their sister. Ramona Tate was staying and that was that. He was not about to tolerate being overridden. The institute needed to continue to make money and that was not going to happen if people—wealthy people—stopped coming to avail themselves of what they had to offer here. Their focus needed to be redirected to a positive image, and Ramona Tate seemed just the person to do it.

      Both he and the institute would benefit from that.

       Chapter Three

      Ramona already knew that there was nothing in this small office that could help her with her investigation. If there was data that could openly incriminate one or more of the staff at the institute for engaging in the wrongful substitution of eggs or sperm, it wouldn’t be readily accessible. She was also fairly certain that nothing tangible would turn up to back the claim that too many embryos were being implanted purely to up the success ratio.

      There was no way she was going to learn how to access records that had been archived just by sitting here, staring at the walls. Ramona wasn’t even certain that there were archived records. Since they might prove to be incriminating, they might have been destroyed years ago. She knew for a fact that they weren’t on any database within the institute.

      All she could do was hope that Gerald Armstrong, who ran this facility until ill health had forced him into retirement, had been vain enough to hang on to everything—good or bad—that even remotely testified to his accomplishments and his genius. From what she’d read and heard, the man had a more than healthy ego.

      If the senior Armstrong had played God and implanted her mother’s eggs into someone, she thought, adrenaline rushing excitedly through her veins, that had to have been noted in the recipient’s file. She might be looking for a needle in a haystack, but at least she’d know that there was a needle.

      Dr. Gerald Armstrong had been in charge of operations and treatments when her mother had sold her eggs to the institute, Ramona thought. Pacing about her small office, she wondered now if there was any plausible excuse she could come up with in order to gain access to the man. All she needed was about ten minutes. She knew that these days he led a fairly low-key, quiet life, hardly ever leaving his home. He was cared for and looked after by his very long-suffering wife.

      It had to be hell for both of them, Ramona thought. Emily Stanton Armstrong came from a good family and had a high social standing in the community when she married the up-and-coming pioneering doctor. The woman spent her days planning charitable events and her evenings attending them.

      From her research, Ramona knew that the good doctor had made sure that he got his share of mileage out of the successes the institute achieved. Handsome, dynamic and blessed with the gift of gab, rumor had it that Gerald Armstrong had more than one illicit relationship. Mrs. Armstrong cast a blind eye to his dealings and partied harder.

      Now they were almost like two shut-ins—he, more often than not, relegated to his wheelchair, she to nursing a man she had quite possibly learned to loathe.

      Not exactly the type of people she wanted to have anything to do with, Ramona thought. Still, she was not above using any means, fair or foul, to achieve her main goal: finding out if her mother’s desperate action had ultimately resulted in a child who could save her life.

      For now, though, Ramona had no choice but to stay in her office and wait for Armstrong—be it Paul or Derek, or perhaps even Lisa—to come and tell her whether or not she was to stay on as PR manager.

      Because she wasn’t the type to waste time by aimlessly surfing the Web, Ramona decided to do exactly what she’d told Paul she was going to do: draft a press release about the research team who had recently been enticed to add their names to the fertility institute’s roster.

      Even though she was only twenty-five, she already had established several strong connections within the media world. Pulling a few strings, she was certain that she could get sufficient coverage for Demetrios and Bonner’s shift from working at a teaching hospital to bringing their research program to the Armstrong Fertility Institute.

      And as for the public, she’d already learned that they were mercurial, as fast to revere as to condemn. All it took were the right words in the right place to achieve either reaction. For the time being, it served her purpose to give the Armstrongs a little something to put in the plus column.

      Her mouth curved as she thought about it. If everything went according to plan, this would amount to the calm before the storm. Because, if her information turned out to be correct, she intended to bring the Armstrong Fertility Institute down so fast, the pompous family would wind up choking on the dust that was kicked up.

      She crossed back to the desk and sat down to work. Pausing just for a moment to find the right first word, her fingers soon flew across the keyboard, trying to keep up with her racing brain and coming in a close second.

      Engrossed in wording the release so that it would pop as a whole, Ramona didn’t hear the knock on her door. She also wasn’t aware of that same door being opened a beat later.

      Paul slipped in unobtrusively, a considerable feat for a man who measured six foot one. But then, he had the kind of quiet, easygoing manner that allowed him to blend in with the scenery at will. Unlike his outgoing brother, who had never been known to fade into the background, even for a moment, in his entire life. The very act would have been against everything that Derek stood for.

      She looked diligent, Paul observed, completely involved in her work. She was obviously intent on doing a good job.

      Maybe Derek had been right in hiring this young woman after all, he mused. Maybe a public-relations spokesperson was exactly what they needed to give them that much-needed shot in the arm. Good works didn’t count for very much if no one knew you did them, and the public, fickle at best in their loyalties, couldn’t exactly be expected to embrace something if they didn’t know about it.

      Paul took a step forward and cleared his throat.

      The sound caught her attention and Ramona raised her eyes. The next moment she was clamping her lips together, stifling a gasp. When had Armstrong come in? “How long have you been standing there?”

      A slight smile curved his mouth. “Long enough to discover that you nibble on your lower lip when you’re thinking—or was that fretting?”

      Fretting. Now, there was a word she hadn’t heard in—well, maybe forever. This man definitely had stepped out of the last century. Quite possibly the first half of the last century, she speculated.

      “No, no ‘fretting,’” she answered with a straight