She said, at last, "All right. I'll go with you."
"First let me smooth things over with Isabel."
Back in the ballroom, she watched him approach Isabel, saw the hurried excuses, the apologetic head-shaking. Isabel glanced in M. J.'s direction with a poorly disguised look of annoyance.
M. J. spotted Ed by the buffet table. She sidled up to him. "Ed," she said.
He grinned. "Did the direct approach work?"
"Quantrell's taking me to his lab tonight."
"Lucky you."
"I want you to let Beamis and Shradick know. Just in case."
"In case what?"
Instantly she fell silent as Adam came towards her. "Just keep it in mind," she muttered to Ed. Then, with an automatic smile pasted in place, she followed Adam out the door.
They went into the hotel garage. "We'll take your car," he said. "Isabel's going home in mine."
"She didn't look too happy about it."
"She hasn't much of a choice."
M. J. shook her head in disbelief. "Are you always this thoughtful of your lady friends?"
"Isabel," he sighed, "is a lovely woman with a cozy inheritance. And a whole stable of suitors. She hardly needs me to keep her warm at night."
"Do you?"
"Do you keep Ed Novak warm at night?"
"None of your business."
He cocked his head. "Ditto."
They got into the rented Mercedes. The smell of leather upholstery mingled with the scent of him-his warmth, his after-shave. It left her feeling a little lightheaded and more than a little insane. Since when did the mere scent of a man make her dizzy?
Since this man , she thought in irritation as she started the car. They swung into evening traffic.
"How do you like the car?" he asked.
"It's okay."
"Okay?" he said, obviously waiting for her to elaborate.
"Yeah. It's okay."
He looked out the window. "Next time, I'll have to choose something that'll really impress you."
"Is that what you were trying to do? Impress me?"
"Yes."
"In that case, I'll just say it. This baby handles like a dream, looks like a million bucks, and makes me feel young, gorgeous, and omnipotent. And I'm only going to give her back after a lot of kicking and screaming."
"That's better." He smiled at her, his gaze lingering on her face. "You know," he said softly, "you really should wear your hair loose like that more often. It suits you."
It was the most offhand of compliments, but it was enough to send even her cynical heart skipping. You're losing it, Novak, she thought, gripping the steering wheel. So he's got a silver tongue. Sterling silver. You've never let flattery do this to you before.
She sneaked a glance sideways and saw that he'd already turned his gaze back to the road ahead.
"There," he said. "Take the next turnoff. It's eight miles north."
The road took them out of midtown Albion, into a district of industrial parks and corporate headquarters. In the last ten years, many of the buildings had gone vacant; dark windows and For Lease signs had sprung up everywhere. Albion, like the rest of the country, was struggling.
The Cygnus complex was one of the few that appeared to house a thriving corporation. Even at eight o'clock at night, some of the windows were still lit, and there were a dozen cars in the parking lot. They drove past the security booth and pulled into a stall marked Quantrell.
"Your people work late," said M. J., glancing at the parked cars.
"The evening shift," said Adam. "We run a twenty-four-hour diagnostic lab. Plus, some of our research people like to keep odd hours. You know how it is with eggheads. They have their own schedules."
"A flexible company."
"We have to be, if we want to keep good minds around."
They walked to the front door, where Adam pressed a few numbers on a wall keypad and the lock snapped open. Inside, they headed down a brightly lit hallway. No smudged walls, no flickering fluorescent bulbs here; only the best for corporate America.
"Where are we going?" she asked.
"Diagnostics. I'm going to prove to you we're not engaged in a cover-up."
"Just how are you going to do that?"
"I'm going to personally hand over to you Xenia Vargas's toxicology screen."
The diagnostics lab was a vast chamber of space-age equipment, manned by a half-dozen technicians. The evening supervisor, a grandmotherly type in a lab coat, immediately came to greet them.
"Don't worry, Grace," said Adam. "This isn't a surprise inspection."
"Thank God," said Grace with a laugh. "We just hid the beer keg and the dancing girls. So what can I do for you, Mr. Q.?"
"This is Dr. Novak, ME's office. She wants to check on a tox screen sent here from the state."
"What's the name?"
"Xenia Vargas," said M. J.
Grace sat down at a computer terminal and typed in the name. "Here it is. Logged in just this afternoon. It's not checked priority, so we haven't run it yet."
"Could you run it now?" asked Adam.
"It'll take some time."
Adam glanced at M. J. She nodded. "We'll wait," he said. Grace called to another tech: "Val, can you check that box of requests from the state? We're going to run a STAT on Xenia Vargas." She looked at Adam. "Are you sure you want to hang around, Mr. Q.? This is going to be real boring."
"We'll be up in my office," said Adam. "Call us there."
"Okie doke. But if I was dressed like that-" She nodded at their evening clothes. "I'd be out dancing."
Adam smiled. "We'll keep it in mind."
By the time they reached Adam's office, which was upstairs and down a long corridor, M. J.'s sore feet were staging a protest against high heels and she was silently cursing every cobbler in Italy. The minute she hobbled through the office door, she pulled off her shoes, and her stockinged feet sank into velvety carpet. Nice. Plush. Slowly she gazed around the room, impressed by her surroundings. It wasn't just an office; it was more like a second home, with a couch and chairs, bookshelves, a small refrigerator.
"I was wondering how long you'd last in those shoes," Adam said with a laugh.
"When Grace mentioned dancing, I felt like crying." She sat down gratefully on the couch. "I confess, I'm the socks and sneakers type."
"What a shame. You look good in heels."
"My feet would beg to differ." Groaning, she reached down and began to massage her instep.
"What your feet need," he said, "is a little pampering." He sat down beside her on the couch and patted his lap in invitation. "Allow me."
"Allow you to what?"
"Make up for that long walk down that long hallway."
Laughing, she rose from the couch. "It won't work, Quantrell. It takes more than a foot rub to soften up my brain."
He gave a sigh of disappointment. "She doesn't trust me."
"Don't take it personally. When it comes to men, I'm just an old skeptic."
"Ah. Deep-rooted fears. An unreliable father?"
"I didn't have a father." She wandered over to the bookcase, made a slow survey of the spines. An eclectic collection, she noted, arranged in no particular order. Philosophy and physics. Fiction and pharmacology. Over the bookcase hung several framed diplomas, strictly Ivy League.
"So what happened to your father?" he asked.
"I wouldn't know." She turned and looked at him. "I don't even know his last name."
Adam's eyebrow twitched up in surprise. That was his only reaction, but it was a telling one.
"I know he had light brown hair. Green eyes," said M. J. "I know he drove a nice car. And he had money, which was what my mother desperately needed at the time. So…" She smiled. "Here I am. Green eyes and all."