Jezerael handed her references and credentials to the hospital administrator. "They're all in the folder," she told him, and crossed her legs, making sure her raw silk skirt rode up, and the little slit in the side fell open when she did.
His eyes followed the skirt's movement, then looked away, and he blinked nervously. He flipped through the folder, making an obvious effort not to look at her. "Very impressive," he said. "Harvard is a fine institution."
She smiled and said nothing.
"How long do you think your . . . ah . . . your project will last?"
"I anticipate a completion date of just under one month . . . but my plans might change." She licked her lips. "Tell me, Mr. Connelly, are you married?"
She saw his eyes flick to his wedding band, and shift left quickly. He was considering lying to her. "Well . . . yes," he said. "I am."
She pressed her index finger to her lips and sighed, and studied him sadly. "Oh," she said. "How . . . nice."
The eyes flicked to the ring again, and to her face, and she could see him composing the lie in the instant his mouth opened. "I wish it were," he said. "My wife . . . well," he looked down at the top of his desk. "I won't bother you with my problems. You're here to do research, and the problems of a man old enough to be your father—"
"Hardly," she interrupted, with a lift of her brow.
". . . are not problems you'd be interested in."
She uncrossed her legs and leaned forward, knowing that when she did so the elegant V-neck of her silk business suit gaped open and exposed a tremendous amount of cleavage. She'd practiced that move in front of a mirror in her hotel room the night before, and had been pleased with the effect. "I would be interested, though," she told him. "Perhaps we could discuss it over . . . lunch?"
He flushed. Good. His thoughts were going in the right direction, then. "Perhaps we could."
She stood, making something of a production out of it. "I have some additional things I need to take care of today. But if you are agreeable, I'd like to begin my data collection tomorrow morning."
"That would be fine."
"And perhaps we could have lunch tomorrow at noon—to discuss further what I hope to accomplish and how the research might benefit your hospital." She tugged at the skirt, and watched his Adam's apple bob up and down. "If you'll notify the ICU that I'll be coming tomorrow, and that I'm to have access to the charts . . ."
"Of course." He stood and came around the desk to walk her to the door. She held out her hand to shake, and when he took her hand, she caressed his palm with her thumb. He flushed, she smiled, and they stood staring into each other's eyes.
He cleared his throat.
She said, "I'll see you tomorrow, then, Mr. Connelly." She made her voice husky, a little deeper than it had been, slightly breathy.
"Wynne," he said. "You can call me Wynne . . . Dr. Jezick."
She regarded him through lowered lashes. "Wynne. I like that. And please call me Mhya."
She slipped away and sauntered out of the administrator's office, down the long, plush gray-carpeted hall, past several doctors, whose heads swiveled as she swung past.
He wasn't going to bother checking her references, she thought smugly. He had too much to lose.