Tempting Fate Read online

  ONE

  DONOVAN KINCAID DID NOT BELIEVE in fate. N o r did he indulge himself with fanciful notions concerning coincidence, luck, or the ridiculous conjecture that the position of the stars could dictate one's future. As a scientist, he dealt in facts.

  Unemotional, observable data.

  Even when confronted by the existence of seemingly un-fathomable phenomena, Donovan believed that if given sufficient study everything could ultimately be explained. If he had been the type of man to waste time dissecting emotions, he would have realized that he had always found those in-alterable truths vaguely comforting. As it was, he had never given the matter a great deal of thought. Facts were facts, fantasies were fantasies.

  And never the twain should meet.

  As he jogged across the wet green grass of Marston Quad-rangle, Donovan sought to come up with a logical reason for why he was finding the upcoming meeting so distracting. As the newly hired Director of Appropriations, Brooke Stirling held the key to his future in her hands. Yet as disturbing as he found that prospect, Donovan was also bothered by the idea that there was no rational explanation for her unexpected reappearance in his life. Just as there was no comprehensible justification for why he was feeling both anticipation and apprehension at the same time.

  Deep in thought, he failed to notice the coed who stopped to watch as he ran by, her gray eyes fil ed with feminine appreciation. If asked to give a description of himself, Donovan would have rattled off a list of dry statistics that, while proving accurate enough, would not have revealed the essence of the man.

  His height and weight—six foot three, one hundred sev-enty pounds—suggested a tal , lanky build. A youngish Jimmy Stewart type, perhaps. But women's eyes were invariably drawn to the play of smooth, taut muscles under his shirt, lean hips and strong, subtly muscled legs. Just as he would fail to describe his rangy, athletic build, Donovan would never offer the embel ishment that his chestnut hair was tipped with gold. Nor would he think to compare his intel igent green eyes to newly mined emeralds. Such observations, viewed through the eyes of the beholder, would have been subjective and Donovan Kincaid dealt solely in objective, verifiable facts.

  A quick, hopeful glance at the leather-banded watch on his wrist only corroborated what Donovan already knew. He was late. Terrific way to make an impression, Kincaid, he castigated himself irritably. In a futile effort to make up time, he picked up his pace. Reaching the Carnegie Building, he took the stone steps two at a time. As he ran down the tiled hal way, Donovan belatedly remembered he wasn't wearing a tie. Cursing softly, he yanked a rumpled bit of knit fabric from his jacket pocket and looped it hurriedly around his neck, managing something that remotely resembled a half Windsor knot just as he reached the office door.

  Donovan promptly found that his way to Brooke Stirling's inner office was barred by a stocky woman whose gray hair brought to mind a Bril o pad and whose steely eyes behind dark horn-rimmed glasses were fil ed with overt censure.

  "We've been waiting for you, Professor Kincaid," the guardian of the door huffed.

  Her high-handed manner took Donovan back to when he was ten years old and had been summoned to the principal's office for setting fire to his classroom. Despite the fact that the youthful act of arson had been unintentional—an experiment for the science fair had gone awry—the principal's expression exactly mirrored the vexed one currently worn by Brooke's thickset receptionist.

  "I was working in the lab," he apologized, "and time just slipped away. You know how it is." He gave her his most winning smile.

  When he chose, Donovan could be charming. Too often, his requests for research money had depended on that ability. As an added bonus, it had not escaped Donovan's notice that the slightly crooked, boyish grin worked wonders with females of al ages.

  Unfortunately, in this case, it fel decidedly flat. Ignoring him completely, the scowling woman punched the button of the intercom and announced his presence.

  As Donovan was final y granted entrance to the inner sanctum, a slender, dark-haired woman rose from behind a gleaming expanse of desk.

  "You're getting better," Brooke Stirling greeted him easily.

  "I can remember a time when if you only kept me waiting three hours, I considered it a good day."

  "I must have been a cal ous bastard in those days."

  "There were times." As she held out her hand, Brooke's accompanying smile was genuine. "It's good to see you again, Donovan."

  How could he have forgotten that lush voice? During their col ege days, the deep, smoky tones had not meshed with Brooke Stirling's coltish, al -

  American good looks. Now, twelve years later, she had definitely grown into it.

  His eyes swept over her in an appraising gaze. "You're looking wel , Brooke."

  That was an understatement. During the intervening years, Brooke had metamorphosed into one of the most sophisticated women Donovan had ever seen. Intel ectual y he knew it would have been fol y to expect the young woman who had practical y lived in a faded Beethoven sweatshirt. After al , it was against those inviolate laws of nature for anyone to remain col ege age forever.

  She reminded him of someone. Donovan searched his memory and came to the unwelcome realization that Brooke bore a striking resemblance to her mother. He could only hope that she had not also become as hard and unbending as Carolyn Stirling. He searched her eyes—bright golden eyes that slanted upward slightly at the corners — for a clue and found nothing.

  "You're looking wel , too," Brooke answered after a moment.

  Why had she thought it would be so easy? Despite the years, despite what had happened between them, it could have been yesterday that she and Donovan had last been lovers.

  As her tawny eyes submitted him to a slow appraisal, Brooke marveled at Donovan's seeming ability to have stopped the clock. His nut-brown hair, while shorter these days, was tousled as it always had been, inviting feminine fingers to brush it lovingly off his forehead. She could remember him thrusting his fingers through the crisp waves as he puzzled over a particularly vexing problem.

  His lean face—al planes and hol ows—was rugged rather than scholarly, but his green eyes revealed an intel igence that more than one magazine had described as bril iance. As those clear eyes flickered over her, Brooke felt as if she had been instantly and thoroughly summed up.

  The blue oxford-cloth shirt, worn under a burgundy and gray tweed sport coat, bore water stains, causing Brooke to glance out the window to see if it had begun to rain. No, the California sun was shining as brightly as it had been when she left for work this morning.

  Brooke put the puzzle of Donovan's soaked clothing from her mind as her gaze moved to his kel y-green tie. Not only was the color bright enough to startle a person, it appeared to have been trampled by a herd of rampaging elephants. His khaki slacks, although bearing the same signs of water dam-age as his shirt, were surprisingly wel pressed. Her lips curved in a reminiscent smile as she viewed his feet.

  "Is there any special reason why you're wearing one brown shoe and one black one?"

  He glanced down. "I hadn't noticed."

  Brooke had often considered that part of Donovan's undeniable charm was that he stimulated a woman's maternal instincts. As wel as others, just as basic, she recal ed. Soft color drifted into her cheeks at the memory. Feeling the warmth, she shook her head to discourage such erotic fantasies.

  "I don't suppose you noticed that your shirt and slacks are wet, either."

  "So they are." He appeared honestly surprised at the revelation. "The sprinklers must have been on when I came across Marston Quad."

  Of course, Donovan wouldn't have noticed anything as mundane as sprinklers, Brooke considered with an odd feeling of deja vu. Not if he had been thinking about his wo
rk.

  "Why don't you sit down and tel me about your research," she suggested, gesturing toward the visitor's chair and taking her own seat.

  He had forgotten she was so delicate. The huge executive chair practical y swal owed her up. Despite her height, Donovan had no doubt that he could stil circle her wrist with his fingers and have room to spare. Her waist was stil wasp slim; he had to fight the urge to span the distance with his fingertips.

  "Nice office," he commented, not quite knowing how to begin such a vital conversation. He'd rehearsed his speech for weeks, but seeing Brooke again had promptly expunged al those careful y chosen words from his mind.

  Her almond-shaped eyes moved around the room. "At least it has a window. With al the overcrowding, I was warned not to expect even that."

  Upon her arrival last week at the Althea D. Smiley Coeducational Col ege, better known simply as Smiley Col ege, Brooke had been assigned space on the first floor of the Carnegie Building. While not much bigger than a broom closet, the office did come equipped with the indefatigable Mrs.

  Harrigan, a definite bonus in anyone's book.

  After taking one look at her smal office, Brooke had made the immediate decision to redecorate as soon as her busy schedule al owed. Despite the fact that the col ege budget did not make provision for more than a can of paint, Brooke was wil ing to supply both the material and the labor to convert her office into something more suitable. As it was, the tobacco-brown rug, chunky oak furniture and black leather upholstery reminded her of a stuffy old men's club. Al she needed was a humidor of fat cigars on her desk and a couple of trophy heads mounted on the wal . A soft gray blue would be nice for the wal s, she had decided. Cherry furniture, a few plants, and she would begin to feel at home.

  Home. This campus had been her home for four of the most chal enging, exciting years of her life. The last two of those years had been spent with the man sitting across the wide desk from her now. Brooke sighed to herself, wondering vaguely whether Thomas Wolfe might not have been right, after al .

  Unwil ing to consider that her return to the col ege could be a disastrous mistake, Brooke forced her mind back to the matter at hand.

  "Unfortunately, I can only give you ten minutes, Donovan. I had blocked out half an hour in my appointment book but..." Her voice trailed off and she merely shrugged.

  "I was late," Donovan finished good-naturedly. "As your bul y of a receptionist felt moved to point out."

  "She's not a bul y," Brooke argued. "She simply takes her work seriously."

  "If you were seeking to present an intimidating first impression, Brooke, you've definitely pul ed it off with that granite-faced gorgon. The woman reminds me of the fire-breathing dragon who guards the treasure in al those video quest games."

  A reluctant smile quirked at the corners of her lips. "Shame on you. How do you think poor Mrs. Harrigan would feel if she knew she had just been compared to a dragon?"

  "Harrigan?" Donovan flashed a bold, self-assured grin.

  "Piece of cake," he murmured, more to himself than to her.

  "Excuse me?"

  He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms, appearing more than a little pleased with himself. "Don't you think that a Kincaid and a Harrigan might find a little common ground? Luck of the Irish, and al that."

  Past experience had taught Brooke to distrust Donovan when he pul ed out that smooth Irish charm. It had always been a fascinating dichotomy of his nature that the man could total y ignore her existence for days, then suddenly appear at her door, flowers in hand, a smal obscure book of poetry or some other special y chosen present in the back pocket of his jeans and a picnic hamper brimming with irresistible gourmet treats in his sporty yel ow MG. On cue, she had succumbed each and every time.

  "I don't remember you believing in luck," she said cool y.

  His smile faded as he met her suddenly chal enging gaze.

  "You've a good memory."

  Unfortunately that was proving al too true. Brooke was more than a little shaken by the way this meeting had brought back the past in such vivid detail.

  "Tel me about your work," she instructed.

  Her crisp, businesslike tone was something new. Alien.

  Donovan wasn't certain that he liked it. He found himself undeniably unsettled by the idea of dealing with the sleek executive Brooke had become.

  Her tailored ivory silk suit was a long way from the tight jeans he remembered so fondly. A quick glance at her hands indicated that she had quit biting her nails. The absence of a wedding ring revealed that she had not remarried, but Donovan knew that. The moment he had discovered that Brooke had been hired, he'd used his winning smile with the secretary in personnel to gain access to her resume.

  When he had first heard of her marriage to a Bay area stockbroker, Donovan had experienced a jolt of jealousy so strong that it shook him to the core. After her divorce, he'd been forced to wonder how there could be two men in the world foolish enough to let Brooke Stirling get away.

  "Why don't we discuss it over dinner," he coaxed. "Since I can't real y do my project justice in ten minutes." He glanced down at his watch. "Eight,"

  he corrected. "And counting."

  Irritation rose as old resentments, feelings Brooke had thought she had overcome years earlier, came surging to the surface. Her tawny eyes hardened to agate.

  "It isn't my fault that you got so tied up in your work that you kept me waiting for twenty minutes," she flared. "If you wanted to talk me into releasing funds for your precious project, Donovan, you should have shown me the consideration of arriving on time."

  If he was surprised by Brooke's sudden display of temper, Donovan failed to show it. Instead he eyed her dispassionately. "This conversation sounds vaguely familiar."

  Despite the fact that she had quit smoking over three years ago, Brooke found herself desperately wanting a cigarette.

  Needing something to do with her hands, she picked up a slender gold pen.

  "I'm surprised you recal any of our conversations," she replied, forcing an uncaring tone as she toyed with the pen.

  "Especial y since I was never certain whether or not you were listening to a single word I said."

  "Oh, I was listening al right."

  Brooke opted not to attempt to discern the reason for the odd grievance suddenly thickening his tone. "How nice to have that little matter cleared up after al these years," she said briskly. She gripped the pen tighter as her trembling hands threatened to reveal how distressed she was by the turn this conversation had taken.

  Donovan didn't miss the whitening of Brooke's knuckles, the slight rise in the timbre of her voice. So, she wasn't as in control as she would like him to believe. He found it reassuring that she was no more comfortable with this situation than he was.

  "How about visiting the Coop?" he suggested suddenly.

  "I'l buy you a double malted. It'l be just like old times."

  She had twisted the pen apart. They both watched, momentarily distracted, as the spring hit the blotter before bouncing off the desk to land several feet away on the dark carpeting.

  "I haven't had a double malted in years," Brooke said at length.

  "You have been living a deprived existence, haven't you?"

  It was the smile that served to strengthen her resolve. It was too boyishly charming, too al uring. He'd always been able to get his way by flashing that damn smile. That was al it had taken to get her to forgive him, time and time again.

  Not this time, she vowed. While it was obvious that Donovan had not changed one iota in al their years apart, she most certainly had. And she was not foolhardy enough to get involved with a man whose primary interest in life was his work.

  "My life is none of your business," she snapped. "You're down to six minutes."

  "Be reasonable, Brooke," Donovan protested, his own irritation beginning to rise. "I can't possibly detail years of work in a few lousy minutes."

  "It's you who needs to be reasonable," she co
untered.

  "You're not the only professor on campus who has a request into this office for additional funding. Neither are you the only one with a busy schedule.

  The others have managed to present themselves in my office at their appointed hours, describing their work succinctly in the al otted time. Why should you receive special privileges?"

  "Because my work is important, damn it!"

  "So I remember you saying." She rose from her chair, her cool gaze belying the warm September temperature. "Your time is up, Professor Kincaid."

  Realizing that it would be pointless to argue when he was so angry himself, Donovan got up out of the chair. "I never thought you'd be one to hold a grudge, Brooke."

  "That's not what I'm doing."

  His green eyes held quiet censure. "Isn't it?"

  "I've a meeting with President Chambers, in his office, in precisely five minutes. If I don't leave now, I'l be late."

  Donovan took the receiver of her desk phone from its cradle and held it out to her. "Cal his secretary and reschedule."

  Brooke bristled visibly. "I most certainly wil not. President Chambers is an extremely busy man."

  "And I'm not?"

  "While I see your ego hasn't suffered one bit over the years, may I point out that you are definitely not as important as the president of the col ege."

  Donovan had been working around the clock for the past week. During the scant time he had al owed for sleep, he had been struck with an uncharacteristic insomnia. Fatigue, concern over the continuation of his primate research program, combined with the unsettling emotions seeing Brooke again had stimulated, conspired to make his words rash.

  "I can damn wel remember a time when you thought differently."

  Brooke shot Donovan a narrow-eyed look that assured him he had spoken out of turn. "If you don't watch it, Professor Kincaid," she warned quietly,

  "your little surrogate family could find itself flat out of goril a chow."

  An irritating buzz came onto the line, signaling unnecessarily that the receiver was off the hook. Donovan hung up the telephone with a deep sigh.

  "This isn't going to be as easy as I'd hoped," he muttered under his breath.