Bound by Suggestion (8 page)

I sank deeper into the myriad of enchanting sensations, longing for more. The motion stopped as I reached out, accepting the fumbling invitation.

A burst of pure fear, like a slap, snapped me from distraction, the sting of rejection burning my soul. The door to my mind slammed shut, and I shrank back, huddled in the womb of darkness. Waiting, waiting for safety.

Another portal slowly swung open. Tendrils of desire teased me, offered to play nice, promised not to wound.

Fingers of the voice stroked the edges of my mind. ‘Give in to the sensual,’ it coaxed with gentle authority.

Fool me once . . . shame on me. Fool me twice . . . . Yet the pull to give in was strong. My body ached for that familiar shiver of excitement.

‘You know you want it . . . .’

I did want it, so bad it hurt.

‘Go with it,’ came the whisper once more.

What was it that wanted me, some distant part of me wondered. Was it a . . . succubus?

Back off, common sense warned. But it curled around me—soothing, intoxicating. How could something so deliciously gratifying be so achingly . . . empty? Where was the sharing, the connection with another soul?

My brains wonged back and forth, fighting against this insubstantial invader, feeling bruised—used.

Accept the physical, puzzle over the incongruity of it later, my body urged. Trying to think it through only brought me, full circle, back to confusion.

‘Give in,’ the teasing voice pressed.

I reached out, surrendering myself to giddy temptation. Luxuriant sensations enveloped me, propelling me along on a ripple of pure excitement. The stoking intensified, softness and strength and rhythmic motion urging me on, taking me higher. Caresses that left me powerless to resist.

Passion swept me away, the burning urgency multiplying, growing. A delightful shudder ran through me, climaxing in a fusillade of explosive, unbearable pleasure.

I awoke
, panting, sweating, and smiling—basking in the afterglow of the biggest, baddest wet dream this side of adolescence.

Richard stood before the frosted glass flanking Mona Humphrey’s office door, poised to knock. Still time to bail, he reminded himself as he studied the brass nameplate in front of him. The Foundation’s director had for years rallied her troops to seek out deep-pocketed Buffalonians to generously donate to the university’s hospital foundation. During Mona’s tenure, they’d hired estate planners and adopted every conceivable method to entice money from rich donors. It was Richard’s intention to follow in her formidable footsteps.

He brushed a knock against the door, entered, and paused at the secretary’s desk. “Hi, Penny.”

“Hey, Doc. I wasn’t expecting to see you so soon,” the perky redhead said, barely taking her eyes off her computer screen.

“You must know what list I drew.”

“Sealed the envelope myself. Giving up already?”

“As a matter of fact—” He withdrew an envelope from the inside breast pocket of his sports coat and handed it to her.

Penny opened the unsealed flap and flipped through the five checks, then turned her surprised, brown-eyed gaze on him. “How’d you manage that so fast?”

“I went to see them all. We talked. They wrote checks.”

“Yes, but,” she stammered, positively shocked. “No one’s ever been able to get them to contribute.”

He shrugged, trying not to smile.

She was still sitting there, open mouthed, when Wes Timberly entered the office.

“Hey, Penny for your thoughts,” he said.

Penny clamped her teeth together, turning a menacing gaze on the newcomer. Like she hadn’t heard the same quip—and probably from him—a thousand times before.

“If it isn’t my old pal, Dr. Dick,” Timberly said, clapping Richard on the back. “How goes it?”

Richard’s jaw clenched at the decade’s old insult. He could have cheerfully joined Penny in throttling the jerk.

Dr. Wes Timberly had no doubt begun his academic career as a schoolyard bully. More than forty years later, that term still applied. Friction—in the form of challenge—defined Richard’s relationship with the pompous oaf. Most annoying was his habit of calling Richard by the still-hated nickname.

They’d been rivals in med school—then as interns. Timberly’s jealousy over Richard’s higher grades, and the women he’d dated, was almost legendary. He was Richard’s personal Moby Dick. Even after a nearly nineteen-year separation, he’d resurfaced as a perpetual thorn in Richard’s side.

“Always a pleasure to see you, Wes.” Richard could bullshit with the best of them, including Timberly. And he was adept at getting along with everyone—a trait that had served him well over the years. If he became committee chair he’d have to interact with Timberly on a regular basis.

The door to the inner sanctum opened and Mona Humphrey stepped into the room. Though not a beauty, and of indeterminate age, the chic, snowy-haired woman gave off an air of supreme confidence.

“Richard, good to see you.” Her enthusiasm quickly waned. “Wes.”

“You won’t believe what Dr. Alpert did,” Penny said, handing the checks to her boss.

Mona looked into the envelope, then gazed at Richard in surprise. “There’s twenty-seven thousand dollars here.”

“Twenty eight,” Richard said. “I was hoping Penny could schedule time for us to talk.”

“Will now do?” Penny asked, without even consulting Mona’s calendar.

“I’m booked for the rest of the day, Mona, and I really need a few minutes of your time,” Timberly said.

“Oh, very well. Can you wait, Richard?”

“I’d be glad to.”

Mona nodded, then stepped back into her office, with Timberly at her heels. The door closed.

Penny frowned after them. “You didn’t hear this from me,” she said, lowering her voice, “but last year Dr. Timberly had twelve people on his list and he only got six thousand. It took him a month to get it, too.”

Richard nodded. The way Penny chattered, no doubt the entire board would soon know of his accomplishment—probably before the hour was out.

“It’s disgusting the way he sucks up,” Penny added. “Especially since Mona announced there’d be changes in committee heads. I for one am glad he’s got some competition.”

Richard remained silent, unwilling to become part of the office gossip mill. “Do you have any back issues of the Foundation’s newsletter? I’d like to read up on the events they’ve sponsored in the past.”

“No problem, Doc.” Penny swiveled her chair to a lateral file cabinet behind her desk, plucked papers from various folders, then handed them to him. “This is what we’ve done in the last eighteen months. I can dig further if you want.”

“This’ll be fine.” Richard flipped through the top copy. Pictures of black-tie dinners with society matrons, and long lists of donor generosity filled the pages. Spending money to make money. There had to be a more efficient way to buy needed hospital equipment.

He was about to take a seat, when the door to Mona’s office burst open and Timberly strode through, gaze riveted straight ahead. The door to the corridor banged shut behind him.

Penny’s lips curled up in a satisfied smirk. “He just keeps blowing it.”

“Should I escape?” Richard asked.

“No, Mona will be fine. Go on in.”

Richard tucked the newsletters into his briefcase and headed into the office, which leaned more toward comfort than a standard business office. Two upholstered wing chairs sat before the director’s desk.

“Have a seat, Richard,” Mona said and sighed. “I’m sorry you had to wait. Especially after that lovely surprise you dropped off. You are, without a doubt, the King of Schmooze.”

“I don’t know whether to be flattered or insulted.”

“Take it as a compliment,” Mona said. “Since you joined the Gift Planning and Corporate Giving Committee three months ago, our contributions are up thirteen percent over the same period last year.” She leaned forward in her chair. “What can I do for you?”

“It’s more a case of what I can do for you. Last Friday I toured the hospital’s x-ray facilities. Most impressive.”

“But?” she prompted.

“Frankly, we need new MRI equipment. The technology is evolving faster than we can find the money to pay for it.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“And with all the other capital expenditures, it’ll be another year of cocktail parties and galas before the Foundation can raise that kind of cash.”

“Do you have a solution?” Ever efficient, Mona didn’t suffer small talk easily.

Flipping the catches on his briefcase, Richard withdrew the bank draft he’d obtained earlier that morning.

Mona stared at it for a moment, then exhaled. “A million dollars.”

“I’d like it to be anonymous.”

The draft fell from her grasp, as though the weight of all those zeros made it too heavy to hold. “But why? We could name the center after you.”

“No.”

“Perhaps your parents—or grandparents, then?”

Richard thought about it. “But then people would know where the money came from.” He shook his head. “No. But I wouldn’t mind attending a ribbon cutting, or whatever kind of ceremony the board decides to hold.”

“That’s a given.” She leaned back into her plush leather chair. “I have to tell you, this gift could go a long way toward assuring you’re named head of the capital campaign.”

He frowned. “I thought about the timing, which is another reason I want it kept quiet. I’m not trying to buy the job. I’d simply like to see our diagnostic imaging upgraded as soon as possible. This seemed the best solution.”

She nodded. “Would it ease your conscience to know I consider you the best candidate for the job?”

“Thank you.”

“It isn’t unprecedented that a new board member has risen to the top in such a short time. When I brought Barbara Ames in two years ago, she was named head of the Founders Society Program Committee seven months later. I’m not adverse to reminding the board of that, either.”

“What about Wes Timberly?”

“He’s running scared, as you could no doubt tell. The truth is, he isn’t good with people. He has the worst bedside manner I’ve ever seen, and he doesn’t do much better with contributors. Over the last two years we’ve lost ground in fundraising. That is, until you came aboard.”

She rocked back in her chair for a moment. “Will you be at the board meeting this afternoon?”

He nodded.

“I guarantee Wes will be in rare form. When you see what you’d have to contend with, the job may not seem so attractive.”

“Are you trying to scare me off?” he asked.

Mona’s smile was winsome. “When I started this job, I was a brunette,” she said, running a hand through her wintry mane. “And without the help of a dye bottle.” Her expression sobered. “I love this job. I’ve done it well, and I can spot talent when I see it. You’ll be perfect as campaign chair. I know you wouldn’t disappoint me.”

“But I haven’t even been offered the position.”

Mona actually winked at him. “Yet.”

Grace glared
at me under wispy lashes. Krista’s bathroom break was taking a lot longer than it should, leaving me with a seething clump of hostility that was more than I cared to endure. I leaned back in my chair and glanced at the clock. Forty-five minutes to go.

“I wish Dr. Marsh would come back,” Grace growled. “I don’t like being alone with you.”

“Her experiment isn’t too successful,” I said.

“Maybe we should just quit.”

“Or we could figure out why it isn’t working.”

“Why? It’s not like we’re friends,” Grace snapped. “Like we could ever
be
friends.”

She’s a sick kid, I reminded myself, holding onto my temper, and forced myself to breathe evenly.

“Why do you call Krista Dr. Marsh?”

“She won’t let me call her by her first name. Says it isn’t good to get too friendly with her clients.”

Krista hadn’t felt that way about Paula Devlin. Did she feel she needed to maintain authority over the obviously immature young woman?

“Dr. Marsh hates me,” Grace whispered.

Paranoid, too.

“I don’t have any friends,” Grace admitted.

“You don’t make it easy,” I muttered.
Déjà vu
. How many times had Richard said that to me?

“Oh yeah? How many friends do
you
have?”

“My brother . . . and his wife. Sometimes I have lunch with a guy I knew in high school, but he tries to pump me for information. People think it’s fine to use you when they know you can sense stuff.”

“Use you how?” she asked, mild interest flickering in her green eyes.

“Who’ll win basketball games—horse races. That kind of thing.”

“It’s awful being used,” she agreed.

“That’s why I like hanging with my brother. It’s a relief not to tune into at least one person’s feelings.” It came out sounding more bitter than I’d meant.