Naked Hope (3 page)

Fairfield reached into the pocket of his buff-colored sports jacket, withdrew his phone, and set it on Jill’s desk. “Take a look. Her grandmother took this. It’s a daily occurrence—often as many as half a dozen times a day.”

The video streamed. A thin child with lifeless hair and hunched frame sat at the keyboard of a piano, stabbing the keys. The sound was staccato, atonal, and nonsensical as she cried out in a voice as attenuated as her twig-like body, “Listen, Dad. I’m doing it. Can you hear me?”

The camera caught Olivia’s face full on. Despite the dogged determination in her eyes, she wore the same haunted look as her father. The frame widened to include Gavin whose face was crippled with self-recrimination. Did Gavin feel responsible for Olivia’s condition? According to the news clippings, he hadn’t been in the car, or even anywhere close by at the time of the accident. What did he have to feel guilty about?

Fairfield’s hand shot through his hair. “Look, I know I come off a bit high-handed at times. I’m not asking you to consider Liv because of who I am, or who she is…” His fingers raked the flawless cut. “I’m saying this badly. What I mean is that I understand deadlines—I respect them. Regarding quotas, I guarantee you’ll have whatever funding you need to more than make up for a stretched budget…” He paused.

Jill straightened her back and stood as tall as her five-feet-five frame plus heels allowed. “Mr. Fairfield, we would never make a decision based on the promise of an endowment.”

Fairfield retrieved his phone from her desk, his thumb running over the display which still projected Olivia’s face. “You asked why my daughter deserves an eleventh-hour effort. I’ll tell you why. Because
she
hasn’t given up. You saw for yourself

she still
wants
to be a musician. Every day she tries, and the effort is killing her.” His knuckles whitened at his tight grip on the phone. “If what I’ve read about you is true, now that you’ve seen her, you won’t walk away without giving her a fair shot.”

The full impact of his words settled around her. She leaned back in her chair. “Mr. Fairfield, if you’d give us a few moments, please.”

Fairfield rose. “Of course. I’ll just be outside. Waiting.”

Waiting
. The word was laden with expectation.

When the door closed behind him, Jill said, “Ross, I may not have the kind of objectivity about Fairfield or his daughter necessary to make a fair decision.” Slowly, she met the dean’s expectant gaze.

“Looks to me like you’ve already made up your mind. What’s the problem?”

“We’ve met before.”

His eyebrows drew together. “Go on.”

“Gavin Fairfield was my advisor in college.” She took him through the details as the familiar humility enshrouded her, making her speech difficult.

Ross nodded, tapping his fingertips together.

Finally, she said, “I should have had a back-up plan. H
e
should have
advised
me to have a back-up plan.”

“So you didn’t make it?”

“He told me I had no talent and should go back to the farm where I belong.”

Eyes wide, Ross jerked forward. “He
said
that?”

“He did, yes.”

“But the two of you acted as though you’d just met.”

Jill crossed her arms in a vain attempt to comfort herself. “I’m sure he doesn’t remember me. I considered bringing it up when you introduced us. Frankly, I couldn’t warm to the idea of reminding him I was one of his colossal failures.”

The clock in Jill’s office chimed the hour.

Ross drummed his fingers and studied Jill. “Let me bottom-line this thing. The Dr. Cole I know is a scientist and healer. Your life’s mission is to find breakthroughs that will help these kids get back their lives. So the guy was a crap-bastard.” He shrugged and shook his head. “If you were a cellist, neither of us would be here. I’d still be litigating corporate lawsuits, and you’d be living in some cheap flat abroad somewhere feeling miserable and making lousy money since you weren’t very good.” He chuckled.

Jill rolled her eyes. “Everyone’s a critic.”

“Too early for jokes? Okay.” He took a deep breath. “Do you trust me, Jillian?”

Jill’s mouth twisted. “About as far as I can toss you.”

Ross grinned. “Something tells me that one day soon, the maestro Fairfield will be vastly grateful you didn’t take his advice.”

“Oh, I went back to the farm all right. I didn’t have any choice. I was out. I lost my scholarship.” Jill winced, remembering that endless arctic-like winter.

“Okay, but how much does that matter, today?”

Jill sat back and crossed her legs. “Point taken but even if I were to consider her, there isn’t time. I’m leaving for a vacation in Baja with friends and then the fall term starts.”

Ross shrugged. “Baja’s overrated. In all seriousness, Jill, I can’t believe you’d punish the girl for her father’s crimes.”

Jill shook her head. “No, but she doesn’t meet the criteria.”

“At first glance, she
might not
meet the criteria,” he corrected, pointing to the file. “You yourself said a review of her file isn’t enough to make a decision.”

Jill’s gaze drifted toward the window. “You don’t think this represents a conflict of interest?”

“I’ll confer with counsel but from my perspective, it’s a moot point. One could claim discrimination if you don’t admit her, or later, if not satisfied with her progress…” He left the rest unsaid.

“I think you just said we’re damned if we do and damned if we don’t.” Jill stood, hugging Olivia’s file to her chest.

Ross rubbed his right eye. “We live in a litigious society, so yes. That’s the reality we face every day. But, that’s why the institute pays such a large professional liability insurance premium.”

Jill threw wide the door. “Mr. Fairfield, won’t you join us again.” He rose with the grace of a panther awakening from a nap. She avoided his predatory stare just in time.

“If I’m to consider your daughter for enrollment, we’ll need to begin right away.” She glanced at her watch. “This afternoon. Now, in fact. The process will require you to clear your schedule for the next four days. I’ll need total access to you, your daughter, and any other family members who are a part of Olivia’s support system. Are you prepared for such a commitment?”

He stared as if he didn’t trust his words—or maybe it was her words he didn’t trust. Still hugging Olivia’s file, she said, “If you agree to this—if you’re willing to make my work with Olivia your only priority, I’ll cancel my plans and make this my priority as well.”

“Olivia is my
only
priority.”

He spoke in a tone so low, she almost couldn’t hear him. “Good. If all goes well, we can be done by Sunday or Monday. I can be ready to leave in short order, I just need to gather a few things. My car is in for servicing so I’ll need to ride with you, although that means you’ll have to bring me back tonight. I noticed from Olivia’s file that you live in Shadow Hills. That’s about an hour’s drive from here, right? Have a seat,” she said, pointing to an empty chair.

Fairfield flashed her a dazzling smile.

Her breath caught in her throat.

“I’ll be happy to drive you. Or, if necessary, Baines can drop you back.”

“Baines?”

“Oh, Baines has been with us for a lifetime. The drive will give us a chance to get to know each other better.”

His broad smile revealed beautifully aligned teeth. Jill turned away to ponder the way his smile emphasized the hollow look in his eyes.
Who knew Gavin Fairfield actually had a heart
.

****

Gavin shifted in the chair enjoying the way her body folded and unfolded as she opened filing cabinets and stuffed things into her briefcase. He appreciated her unconscious habit of smoothing her hands over her hips each time she straightened. For several months, he’d been reading about Dr. Jillian Cole, the award-winning researcher whose work promised to revolutionize the field of TBI with her advanced technology and innovative technique. He’d even read she grew up on a farm in Hope, North Dakota, and occasionally enjoyed playing the cello. But until she faltered in the doorway of Chapman’s office that morning, he’d had no idea that Dr. Jillian Cole, and his former student, were the same woman.

As a student, she’d understood music well enough intellectually and had a reasonable amount of technical mastery. But to be a great musician required confidence and maturity—neither of which was in her repertoire. To encourage her would be to condemn her to a life of bankrupt obscurity. His thoughts took a dark turn. Once he recognized her as his former student, he almost panicked. These days there were only two things he did well—charm women, and orchestrate control. And so he’d turned up the heat by showing her the video clip in an effort to keep things moving. Even now he worried she’d change her mind. He shifted in the chair, painfully aware that Dr. Jillian Cole held Liv’s future in her hands. If this were an orchestra, he’d be shouting
presto, presto!

He looked away, trying to focus on something other than the surprising Dr. Cole but couldn’t resist the seductive pull of her movements. She’d grown into those fantastic legs of hers, wore her hair longer, and he hadn’t missed the way she commanded attention through the simple act of taking a quietly indrawn breath. Did she harbor resentment toward him? Such an ancient past. Maybe she didn’t even remember him. He stopped to consider the idea and then broke into a confident grin.

****

Jill’s fingers moved decisively through the test packets and other instruments she needed, more than a little aware Gavin Fairfield watched her every move. She pulled her laptop from its docking station, and turned to retrieve her briefcase from the floor, only to find that he’d gotten there first. The casual grace of his lean body as he straightened, and the strength of his outstretched arm from years of conducting orchestras, were all-too familiar. Yet, this more charming mature version of the man she knew to be an egotistical tyrant unnerved her.

Jill’s fingers closed over his as she accepted her briefcase. “Mr. Fairfield, I always like to set an agenda so the client is informed.”

“I’m a client now?” he grinned.

Her mouth tightened. “Unless you suffer from Traumatic Brain Injury, you’ll never be the client. As the parent of a
potential
client who is a minor, we will be establishing three things over the next four days. The first is whether Olivia can navigate the academic rigor of the program

”

“Of course, she can,” he interrupted.

Ignoring him, she continued, “The second is to establish her emotional state. Last, we need to determine whether she has enough emotional support and guidance from her family. Specifically, this will mean looking into you, Mr. Fairfield.”

The maestro gaped.

For the first time since she crossed the threshold of Ross’ office that morning, a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth.

Chapter Three

Gavin’s black, two-seater BMW convertible screamed of upscale comfort. Jill sank deep into the leather interior, appreciating the dynamic complexity of classic luxury and sporting intensity.

He swung into the driver’s seat and pointed to the open sky roof. “Okay with you? We can close it.”

Jill looked up into a cerulean sky streaked with twirls of bridal white clouds. “Oh, I love it. Leave it open.”

Gavin offered a doubtful glance at her long hair. “Sure?”

Already sorting through her purse for a hair clip, she smiled. She found one, twisted her hair into a knot, and secured it behind her left ear.

Gavin gunned the engine and dipped his head. “Nice.”

“Nice,” she agreed, smoothing a hand across the buttery leather seat.

He smiled. “Not what I was referring to.” They were out of the city in moments, skidding along the highway toward Shadow Hills. “The house is on a bluff that overlooks the St. Croix. I’ll show you the view.”

Jill nodded, enjoying the cool rush of wind and penetrating warmth of the sun and the sound of his voice, low with vibrato. He liked speed, and drove fast but responsibly, a demonstration of his unequivocal confidence. She shivered.

He reached around the back of her seat and produced the sports jacket he’d been wearing earlier. “Put this on.”

Jill smiled and nestled under the warmth of his jacket drawing in the faint, spicy, white woods and smoky amber smell of Gavin Fairfield. She sank deeper into the leather, enjoying the rough of his wool jacket, aware she skirted the edges of what any number of her psychologist colleagues would call the
dominant man
effect
—a psychological mechanism that helps women seek out good genes. Again, she breathed in Gavin’s scent and reluctantly let his jacket slide down and pool in her lap.

“Not cold anymore? We’re almost there,” he added.

They pulled off the highway and slowed for a red light. The small, urbanized river town wore late August well. Giant trees lined the streets, their leaves moving like jade medallions in the breeze. Jill held the opinion that each season had its own green. The new green of May was peridot, followed by fern green in June which was still fresh and light. By July, the green had deepened to a rich velvety emerald. In August, as the dry heat wore out its welcome, the velvety emerald faded to jade. Today was a perfect jade-green day.

They were close to the river, she could smell the water when Gavin broke into her reverie.

“This is us.” He made a neat turn onto a cobblestone drive, pressed a hidden button above his head in the roof’s interior, and slowed as they waited for electronic gates which bore an ornate
F
to open.
As they drove through, he said, “When you drive here yourself, just press the intercom and smile.” He flashed an easy grin. “Someone will buzz you in.”

Surrounded by towering evergreens and red oaks, the cobblestones wound and curved. Jill expected to be greeted with her first view of the Fairfield mansion at any moment. With each curve, they were greeted by more sedate pines bending in the breeze.

Her first glimpse of the mansion revealed a rambling, pleasant-looking structure of sandy pink brick which sprawled rather than climbed. Hunter green shutters graced each window, and gabled dormer windows capped the cobbled roof. It looked more like a very large cottage than a mansion. To the side of the house, water trickled over a natural stone wall made of boulders, into a pond below where goldfish darted in and out of view.