Husband-To-Be

Grant looked at Rachel. ‘Dr Hawkins?’ he said. ‘Dr R. K. V. Hawkins?’

Rachel sighed.

‘Let’s go into my office,’ Grant said grittily. ‘We have a few things to discuss.’

He stalked into the office, holding the door for Rachel, then slammed it behind them.

‘How could you?’ he growled.

‘How could I what?’ said Rachel, trying not to think of Driscoll stranded in Reception. Something told her that Driscoll would not appreciate this chance to catch up on missed issues of Nature and National Geographic.

‘I don’t know where to begin,’ said Grant, pacing up and down and glaring at her. ‘Wear that wig? Take the damned thing off, will you? Entertain for even two minutes the thought of marrying that unconscionable prat? Throw away a brilliant scientific career to advise me on how many bars to have, and whether to have a vending machine for biscuits? Pretend,’ he roared, ‘that you’d never heard of R. K. V. Hawkins?’

‘If you weren’t so sexist you wouldn’t have assumed it was a man,’ Rachel retorted. ‘And then you’d have made the connection yourself.’

‘What connection?’ snapped Grant. ‘Your uncle’s last name is Bright. It didn’t occur to me—’

‘That my aunt might be my mother’s sister,’ Rachel completed helpfully.

‘You’re right,’ said Grant. ‘In fact, you’re right about everything. I should grill prospective secretaries. Then I could squeeze out of them closely guarded secrets, like their last names. Next time some scientific genius comes along professing a little knowledge of scientific terminology I won’t waste money on a clothes allowance. You must have laughed your head off.’

‘Of course I didn’t,’ Rachel protested, suppressing a smile. ‘Well, only a little,’ she admitted. ‘But I was so tired of fieldwork. I wanted to work in an artificially controlled environment. I thought if I told you who I was you’d make me stand in some wretched swamp,’ she concluded bitterly.

Grant thrust his hands in his pockets. He smiled reluctantly. ‘I’m afraid I’ve got to go,’ he said. ‘Sorry, R. K. V., but you’re definitely the man for the job.’

‘You told me never to wear jeans again,’ said Rachel.

‘You’ll have to waste some of your assets whatever you do—and no sacrifice is too great in the cause of science.’

Rachel sighed. She leant gloomily against the side of his desk, this time an immense block of glass and black marble which was about what you’d expect of a millionaire and company director. Gloomily she crossed her ankles and stared down at the long, Lycra-clad legs so soon to be encased in muddy jeans and Wellington boots.

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