The Price Of Scandal(73)

“It’s there,” Esther agreed, spinning around to pull up some gobbledygook on one of the computer monitors.

Still clutching the papers, Emily peered over Esther’s shoulder.

“We’re geniuses,” Emily breathed.

“Motherfucking geniuses.”

I cleared my throat. “Can a layperson ask what’s there?” I asked.

Emily spun back around, a sparkle in her eyes. They were more gray than blue under the fluorescent lab lights.

“Enzymes,” she said.

“I’m afraid I’m going to need more than that.”

She practically skipped over to a whiteboard and gleefully grabbed a marker, sketching in quick, confident lines.

“Okay, so when someone has a significant cardiac event, we can measure high levels of certain enzymes in their blood that indicate damage to the heart muscles. What Esther and I and a few teams in similar labs around the country have been working on is finding indicators that can predict a cardiac event.”

“And you found one?” I was intrigued by both the hypothesis and Emily’s excitement about it. Her drawing was terrible, but her passion was enthralling.

She beamed. “We found a few. There are currently tests that identify an indication of inflammation, the high-sensitivity C-reactive protein, for example. But we found a specific enzyme that has consistently performed as a measurable predictor of a future significant cardiac event.”

“How far in advance have you been able to predict it?”

She grinned, and I felt a warm glow of desire settle in my chest.

“Six months,” Esther interjected proudly.

“Six months is adequate time for intervention. For diet and exercise and lifestyle changes. For clots and blockages to be identified and treated. This blood test could be the biggest preventative factor in cardiac medicine in almost a decade,” Emily said. “Best of all, we can do it inexpensively. This could become part of the complete blood panel at wellness checks. Doctors offices could require it for high school and college athlete physicals. We’re losing more and more kids to unknown cardiac defects. This could—”

“Save lives,” I filled in.

I hadn’t known Emily Stanton long. I didn’t know her nearly well enough for my liking. But I couldn’t think of another person I’d been prouder of in my entire life.

“Exactly,” she said. Her eyes danced.

“And you’re not going to let me use this either are you?” I sighed.

She crossed to me and playfully hooked her fingers in the waistband of my pants. “Nope.”

“This could really push public opinion in your favor,” I reminded her.

“Derek, this is so much bigger than public opinion. This is bigger than Flawless and the IPO. This is entirely separate. I don’t want to start cross-pollinating CEO me with Lab Rat me. This is the one thing that I have that is entirely mine. I’m not sharing it with a few million social media followers.”

I understood. I didn’t love it. But I understood.

“This is impressive,” I said, watching Esther scroll through spreadsheets of meaningless data.

“We’re just getting started,” Emily said.

Yes. We were.





34





Emily





“Where are you taking me?” I asked, yawning in the passenger seat as I pulled the tie from my hair. The excitement of more than a dozen pre-teen girls coupled with scientific achievement had left me with an adrenaline crash.

I needed coffee before I could even think about facing my Sunday evening to-do list. A CEO’s job was never done. Some people could build their empires and then hand over the reins and take to the golf course. I was not one of those people.

Derek had won the brief but entertaining wrestling match for the keys to the Porsche. I hadn’t put up much of a fight. I hated to admit it, but I was still not firing on all cylinders. Still tired, it was the price paid for what I’d earned. The work didn’t do itself.

“Dinner,” he said, picking up my hand and bringing it to his lips.

Salsa, wildly romantic, played from the stereo’s speakers.

This moment, with the sun sinking in the spring sky, with the Miami breeze ruffling my very daring haircut, with the debonair Derek Price driving the convertible I’d earned, was perfection.

“Dinner sounds wonderful.” I sighed.

“It will be. My stepfather is grilling.”

It took a few seconds for the words to sink in.

“No. Absolutely not,” I insisted, sitting up straighter. I chose that moment to realize today was the first time I’d ever ridden in the passenger seat.

“I’ve met your family,” he pointed out.

“That was business. That wasn’t a cozy family dinner!”

“There’s nothing cozy about this. I have a brother and two sisters, my stepsiblings, and somewhere in the neighborhood of thirty nieces and nephews,” he said conversationally.

“Derek, you can’t introduce me to your family.” I was horrified.

“Why not?”

Why not? There were a few dozen reasons why not. I was his client, not his girlfriend. Secondly, to the public, I was the rich bitch who skated on drug charges. And to round out the perfect trifecta of why I shouldn’t be meeting his parents: We. Just. Had. Sex.