Under the Microscope

Never looked at her the way he had just now.

“It’s nothing more than I deserve,” she said aloud. “I took off on him.”

It occurred to her that his reaction-along with his partner’s raised brows and quick cooperation when she’d given her name-was confirmation that Max remembered her, evidence that the feelings hadn’t been all on her side. But it was also proof that she’d hurt him when she’d left, and she hadn’t wanted that.

She’d wanted to punish herself for getting sick and miscarrying the baby, not him. But it seemed as though she’d managed to do both, and she wasn’t sure how to fix it. Wasn’t sure it was fixable at all.

On the long, traffic-delayed drive from the Vasek and Caine offices in Manhattan, she’d worked out what she would say when Max opened the door. But the shock of seeing him had driven the planned speech out of her head.

He’d turned her down before she’d been able to get back on track. So now what?

“General Gao’s?”

Raine gasped and spun at the unfamiliar voice.

A young man in courier’s clothes and a bike helmet stumbled back a step and held up a fragrant brown bag as a shield. “General Gao’s!” he repeated. “Pork fried rice.” He pointed to Max’s door. “You’re in 5A, right?”

“Of course.” Thinking fast, Raine dug her wallet out of her purse. “How much do I owe you?”

She paid him, added a generous tip and waited until he was gone, until she was alone in the hallway.

Then she faced Max’s door and took a deep breath. “Well, here goes nothing.”

She wasn’t giving up on her company.

According to Jeff, the FDA investigators had practically locked down Rainey Days while they pored over the computer and hard-copy files of the clinical trials. They were checking to see whether Thriller was safe for human use. They were also looking for evidence of criminal misconduct. Falsified evidence. Mysteriously “lost” toxicity reports.

Though she knew they would find no such thing, Raine didn’t dare trust the system. Her childhood had taught her that much. Besides, the FDA was part of the government, and elections were on the horizon. If a competing company started throwing its financial weight around with influential candidates, she could be in deep trouble.

She needed her own investigation, damn it. She would’ve preferred to hire William Caine, but he’d claimed he was overbooked, that Max would have to help her.

Granted, he’d said that after he’d figured out who she was.

“Fine,” she said under her breath. “We’ll do it the hard way.”

She unbuttoned her long coat, tugged on the hem of her camel-colored sweater and faced the door squarely, trying to look like the boss of a growing company.

Then she knocked. “Delivery.”

She heard his footsteps on the hardwood floor she’d glimpsed just inside the door. When the steps paused but the locks didn’t disengage, she held the bag up and stared at the fish-eye peephole. “You want your dinner? Let me in.”

It felt like forever before she heard the locks turn. The door opened and Max glared out. His shirt was buttoned now, and he had thick socks on his feet and a knit cap pulled over his short dark hair. “I don’t remember you being this bossy before.”

“You didn’t know me before,” she said, telling herself that the flutter in her stomach was nothing more complicated than nerves.

She expected a snappy rejoinder, or maybe agreement.

Instead, she got an inscrutable stare.

When the silence grew long and uncomfortable, she cleared her throat. “I want to hire you to help me prove that Thriller didn’t kill those women. I’m afraid the only way to do that is to figure out what did kill them. I can’t do that by myself. I need an investigator. A good one. If-no when we succeed, it could be a huge boost to Vasek and Caine. I’ll give you all the credit, whatever publicity you want. TV appearances, ads, you name it.” She held out the paper bag. “Will you at least hear me out?”

He looked from the bag to her, and she knew he wasn’t weighing the food bribe. He was trying to decide whether the good of his company outweighed their history.

As the boss of her own start-up, Raine knew what the answer had to be. Practicality would win over emotion every time.

Otherwise, she wouldn’t be here, would she?

Finally, he stepped back and muttered, “Come in.”

The thrill of victory was dampened by the sly shift of heat when she walked past him, the shimmer of awkwardness at being inside his space.

The discomfort increased when she looked around. The apartment was large and airy, with carved moldings and neutrally painted walls. The hardwood floors were worn but well varnished, stretching from the tiles of an open kitchen nook, through the main living space, and narrowing into a hallway and glimpses of other rooms. She could see the small details of the hand carved woodwork on the trim and doors, mainly because that was almost the only thing to see. The apartment was bare, as though he’d just arrived and the moving vans hadn’t caught up yet.

Yet downstairs, the label on his mailbox was yellow with age.

“Nice place,” she said faintly, wanting to ask but knowing she didn’t have the right.

The living-room furnishings consisted of a smallish plasma-screen TV bolted to one wall and a single faux- leather chair with a trash basket beside it. The TV sat in a square of darker paint, as though it had taken the place of a larger set.

Max cleared his throat and avoided her eyes. “My roommate moved out and took a bunch of stuff a few months back. I haven’t had a chance to replace the things yet.”

“I just figured your decorator was a minimalist,” Raine said, trying for a joke when there was no laughter to be had. She held out his dinner. “Are you sharing?”

He snagged the bag. “Not on your life. Start talking.”

When he went into the kitchen, she took another look around, wondering what had happened. Was the roommate thing true, or had his furniture been repossessed?

It struck her then that while Max didn’t know anything about her, the same was equally true in reverse.

So why did it feel as if they’d known each other so very well?

He reappeared with a white carton in one hand and a fork in the other. He propped a hip on the corner of a granite countertop and dug in. “Clock’s ticking.”

She held out the file folder she’d assembled back at the office in New Bridge. “It’s all in here-everything we’ve managed to pull together on the clinical trials and the four dead women. It’s not much, which is why we need a professional. My people are scientists and marketers, not pharmaceutical investigators.”

Then again, Max had been a scientist when she’d known him. What had changed?

“Is there anything besides optimism that makes you think your drug wasn’t responsible for the deaths?” he asked, his tone making the question seem like a dig. “I mean, clinical trials usually contain what, a few thousand people? If there’s a rare risk factor, it’s entirely possible that your sample populations might not have contained an example. You might just have missed it.”

Raine dug her fingernails into her palms, knowing the scenario he painted was one-hundred-percent possible. But that wasn’t the explanation for the deaths. She knew it. She felt it.

Optimism? Perhaps. But right now it was her only hope.

“Our clinical trials were exhaustive,” she said, knowing that didn’t really answer his question. “We used computers to test out another million or so models. All negative. Besides, the dead women don’t share any risk factors.”

“None that you’ve found yet.” He nodded at the file in her hands.

“Which is why I need your help,” she said quietly, mustering as much dignity as she could. When his expression didn’t change, didn’t soften, she let out a small defeated sigh. “What will it take to get you onboard? Do you want me to apologize again? Double your hourly rate? Get down on my knees and beg?” She would do it if she had to, for the sake of the company she’d built from nothing. For the sake of her future. Her employees’ futures.

A heavy weight settled on her shoulders, feeling like each of the dreams she let herself imagine late at