that’s good news.”
He found himself smiling. “Yes, sometimes it is.”
“There’s a lot to be said for no forward progress, if it also means not sliding back to the bottom of the mountain.”
It was so close to his own thoughts that he couldn’t help chuckling. “Exactly.”
“It wasn’t by chance about the memory chip, was it?”
His amusement vanished in a rush. The Collins project wasn’t hush-hush, but it wasn’t general knowledge, either. Certainly not outside the industry.
She seemed to understand his sudden silence. “It’s why you were added to my list since last year, Mr. Winslow. We’re loosely affiliated with the national Alzheimer’s Association, and they track people who are doing research in the arena, even privately.”
“Oh.” He relaxed; they had had contact with several of the leading research facilities, any of which could have mentioned the project. And it wasn’t as if she shouldn’t know, given her connection. “Sorry. Reflex.”
“One you’ve had to develop, I imagine. It must be frustrating to put a lot of time and money into something, only to have someone else beat you to it.”
“It is. But in this case, I’d celebrate, if theirs worked. As long as it gets done.”
“That’s…an admirable attitude.”
Ethan felt suddenly uncomfortable. He’d had his share—more than his share, he thought—of nominations for sainthood, and he didn’t like it. Or maybe he just didn’t like it that the world had become a place where what he did, which was only what he thought had to be done, made him so different in the eyes of many.
“As is what you’re doing,” she added. “If your chip should work, it could become instrumental in the treatment of Alzheimer’s.”
“‘If,”’ he said dryly, “is a very big word. Especially in this case.”
“Trying to jog the human memory bank is tricky, computer chip or not.” He could almost hear her smiling as she added, “And some mornings are harder than others.”
Since he seemed to be having one of those mornings, he couldn’t help but laugh. Damn, but she was going to be hard to say no to. But he was still going to do it.
“Look, about your auction—”
“When I asked you to think about it,” she put in, sounding amused, “I did mean for more than an hour.”
It did, now that she mentioned it, seem a bit churlish to turn her down after that short a time. His “No” died unspoken. “I…just needed to know when it is.”
“Ah. To see how much time you have to wiggle out of volunteering.”
Embarrassed that she’d called it so accurately, he said, “No.”
“Oh?”
“To see how much time I have to wiggle out of it gracefully.”
She laughed. He’d been right, it was a wonderful sound, full and rich in that low, sexy voice. “It’s much easier to simply give in gracefully, Mr. Winslow.”
This was odd, he thought. He’d been in high-pressure business negotiations where he hadn’t felt the least bit persuaded by any power tactics, yet he was feeling it here.
“And you don’t have to come up with your ‘Evening to Remember’ plans right now. I only need them a week ahead, so you have a few days.”
Ah, he thought, at last, the answer to his question. “So, it’s the weekend after next?”
“Yes, on Saturday evening. There are no real rules for the evening you plan, it can be fun or elegant or creative, so you can keep it safely impersonal. If you need any help, feel free to call. I always have suggestions.”
After her promise to call him back and her cheerful goodbye, he hung up and sat looking at his phone. The sound of her voice echoed in his mind, along with the sound of his own laughter. He didn’t know how much time had passed before he remembered.
He never had told her no.
He had the oddest feeling he’d just been flattened by a velvet steamroller.
Two
“Darlin’, for you, anything. Will you be there?”
Layla smothered a sigh. “I’m the event coordinator, so, yes, I’ll be there. I’ll be busy all evening.”
“But not all night, I hope.” If ever a man could leer over the phone, it was this one.
“I’ll put you down, then, Mr. Humbert. I’ll need your plan for your auction date by next Friday. And thank you.”
She hung up gratefully.
She pushed back an errant strand of blond hair, propped her elbows on her desk and let her head rest in her hands. Just for a moment, she thought. It couldn’t hurt.
It was always this way, she told herself, right before the annual fund-raiser. Crazy, endless and exhausting. No reason to feel any more tired than usual at this time of year. But she did.
It was Humbert and his lack of subtlety. It shouldn’t have gotten to her—she’d heard much worse before—but somehow this time it had been more wearing. Maybe the effect of all this verbal leering was cumulative. Or maybe she was just tired of hearing it, knowing how the tone would change when they saw her.
She knew why it happened. It had been the bane of her existence since she’d been old enough to notice. A name like Layla Laraway and a voice people likened to classic Lauren Bacall, and she was doomed. The combination of voice and name had been more curse than blessing. At least for her. For someone else, it might have been a boon. For someone else, someone the name and voice would fit.
“How’d it go?”
Layla leaned back and looked at her boss, who was standing in the doorway of her small office. “Mr. Humbert agreed to participate.”
“Layla, you are a wonder!” Harry Chandler shook his head. “You could get a freezing man to give you his last piece of firewood.”
“Now there’s a charming visual,” she said dryly.
“I never said you would, just that you could. You turn that voice on a guy and he’s helpless. Nice work.”
She knew that to some extent it was true, but it wasn’t something she was necessarily proud of. True, it produced well for her chosen work, and she wasn’t ashamed of using it for that purpose. But she knew that this was the only way she could justify it; anything less than a cause like this one would make what she could do distasteful.
“So, are we all set with the auction lineup?”
“Almost. Martina Jennings said yes, and Gloria Van Alden hasn’t
