One Week in Your Arms (2 page)

There was a school, an avenue, and a park named after her.

Marla tried to remain positive. “Maybe we can get more money from the city and the county.”

“Those tightwads? No way. Not until election year,” Nolana replied. “Then we might get lucky, but that's next year. We can try for another federal or state grant, but the process will take months, and there's no guarantee we'll get any money.”

“How about private donations?”

“We can do that. I can probably get some money from Mike's firm.” Nolana's husband worked at the largest investment company in town. “I'm still waiting to hear back from a couple of private foundations. You could talk to the medical staff, but I don't think we're going to find another donor this year who can match the Royal Oaks Foundation.”

“I'll meet with Doctor Sheldon,” Marla said. Sheldon was the chief of staff, and he would know if the hospital had any funds available. “How much money are we talking about?”

“Two hundred thousand.”

“You're kidding,” Marla gasped.

“I wish.” Nolana opened one of the desk drawers. “I need chocolate. How about you?”

“I really need a drink,” Marla responded, “but chocolate is good.”

Nolana dug a plastic container out of her desk drawer. It was filled with Nolana's favorite treat. Fancy dark chocolate truffles wrapped in silver foil. She offered the truffles to Marla.

“Thank you.” Marla took one. She munched on the truffle and looked at Carson's letter that lay on Nolana's desk.

She thought back to the first time she'd seen him. He had been standing beside one of the white columns at Royal Oaks. Dressed in a white shirt and dark slacks, he had an arrogant stance and a killer smile. Royal Oaks's very own Rhett Butler. It had been a throw-me-down-and-take-me-now moment.

She sighed. “I wonder why he's going to do away with Miss Eva's foundation. He's rich. He inherited his father's fortune, which is worth millions.”

“Actually, Blackwell Enterprises is worth one point two billion now,” Nolana said and Marla's jaw dropped. “I Googled it.”

“Can I have another truffle?”

Nolana pushed the container toward Marla. “Help yourself.”

As Marla stuck the truffle in her mouth, Nolana tapped her fingers on Carson's letter. “I don't understand why he'd pull the funding on the clinic. With the kind of money he has, he can easily afford the donation and write it off as a tax deduction.”

The truffle melted in Marla's mouth. A tiny moment of pleasure on a bleak day.

Nolana went on, “You would think he'd want to keep his grandmother's legacy intact.”

“That probably doesn't matter to him now. She's been dead several years, and he's never had any connection to this community.”

Nolana toyed with the letter. “Then he doesn't know anything about the clinic as far as who we are and what we do.” She gave the letter a reflective gaze. “If he did, he might reconsider and fund the clinic. Maybe I should call him.”

Marla squirmed in the chair. “I don't know. I doubt if that'd change things.”

“We have to try,” Nolana insisted. “I tell you what. I'll call him and invite him to come here.”

“No!” Marla gasped, and Nolana glanced up, surprised. Quickly, Marla gathered her wits. “I'm sure he's far too busy to come here. Small town. Nothing going on. That's not his style.”

Nolana leaned back in the chair. “You know him?”

Marla nodded.
Try not to dig your grave any deeper.
“I met him once. Back when Miss Eva was still alive. There was a fundraiser at Royal Oaks. He was visiting her.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah.” Marla gave her fingernails a quick glance. “I think he was rather bored.”

She had often thought that boredom was what had driven Carson Blackwell to flirt with a nobody like her. A plain country girl with a lofty IQ that had made it possible for her to become the first doctor in her family. A girl who had no money or pedigree.

“Why don't you call him?” Nolana suggested. “Tell him about the clinic. Maybe you can persuade him to come here.”

Marla froze for a moment. “I doubt he even remembers who I am.”

Nolana stared at Carson's letter for a moment. “Surely, he still remembers you. He addressed the letter to you.”

He addressed the letter to you
.

Those words echoed through her mind, increasing the weight on her shoulders. She had created this mess years ago when he strode up to her and said hello.

You had me at hello
. She'd told him that a few hours later. Just before she started opening the buttons of his white shirt.
Worst Mistake Ever.

Marla pushed to her feet. She walked over to the window in Nolana's office. Across the street, an old home had been converted into a uniform shop. Some of the original lawn endured, whispering of days gone by. Roses and hydrangeas bloomed alongside the house, and beautiful white flowers covered the limbs of a towering magnolia tree. Maybe a hundred years ago, the house had been home to a happy family.

He addressed the letter to you
. How had he known she worked at the clinic? Well, she was officially the medical director, and her name was on all the clinic documents. It would make sense that he would send her the letter.

“Let me see the letter,” Marla said and Nolana handed her Carson's letter.

Marla studied it for a moment. It was completely impersonal. No indication that he remembered her or had any desire to see her again. There was no mention of shower sex or a backseat quickie. One of which had resulted in Sophie. She sighed.

“We have to do something,” Nolana said quietly.

Marla looked up. “Call Blackwell Enterprises and see if you can set up an appointment for me.”

“You want to go there?”

It was the last godforsaken place on earth she wanted to go, but she certainly didn't want Carson coming to Lafayette Falls, which might lead to him finding out about Sophie. If he ever saw Sophie, he would know the truth. She couldn't risk that.

“I think that's best I go there. I seriously doubt Carson Blackwell has any interest in making a trip here to see this clinic. I can explain the service we provide to the community and how important it is. You gather up all the financial data I'll need. It shouldn't take more than a half-hour of his time. Or maybe he has a business manager who handles such things.”

Never hurts to look at the bright side
.

Nolana beamed. “That sounds like a plan. I'll get everything set up. When do you want to go?”

The longer she put it off, the worse it would become. “Soon. I'll need to make the necessary arrangements. See if you can make an appointment for next Thursday.”

Nolana picked up her telephone, and Marla turned back to the window. Life could be so random. She had gotten up this morning and slipped into her routine effortlessly. Just like most accident victims did before life threw them a curve ball.

She listened as Nolana spoke to one person and then another. You had to go through the peons to get to the top. Finally, it sounded as if Nolana had been routed to the right person.

“Of course,” Nolana said. “Thursday is good for Doctor Grant if Mr. Blackwell has an appointment open. Yes, I can hold.”

Marla rocked her body. She actually wanted to wail, but she managed to keep her mouth shut. She had to stay in control.

“That will work.” Nolana smiled. “If something comes up and we need to reschedule, just give me a call.” Nolana provided her contact information. She hung up the phone and told Marla when she'd be facing the firing squad. “Two o'clock. Thursday.”

Marla nodded. She needed to dig through some of her medical textbooks and see if there was a way to prevent sweating bullets. She wiped her forehead with her fingers.

“Doc?” Nolana asked, “Are you okay?”

No, she was not okay. She was not okay with seeing an old lover. One who had claimed to be a struggling architect and omitted telling her about his business empire. She was not okay with the memory of his ritzy estate where only a select few were welcome. A place surrounded by an eight-foot wall, wrought-iron gates, and a security guard. The day she had been turned away at those gates, she had promised herself they would never separate her from her baby.

That was a promise she intended to maintain at any cost.

“I'm good.” She reassured Nolana with a nod. What choice did she have? She'd always been able to suck it up and do what was necessary to survive. She looked at his formidable signature on the letter. “I got this.”

It was all about being foolhardy.

C
arson Blackwell stood in the architectural studio connected to his office suite on the top floor of the Blackwell Tower. The studio was his favorite place to be, and it was a working architect's dream. He had three large drawing desks, each measuring seventy-two by thirty-six inches where he could work on a full-size drawing without being cramped.

One wall was lined with shelves and cubicles stuffed with everything from rolls of tracing paper to architectural scales to drafting pens and books. Four computer monitors hung on a wall above his computer. A couple of them displayed some of his 3-D designs. Next to his keyboard was a pair of padded headphones that he used to listen to music when he was in the “zone.”

A trio of easels held photographs of award-winning buildings that had been designed and constructed by Blackwell Designs, Incorporated. His firm had built luxury hotels, condos, theaters, museums, libraries, and schools worldwide. He had fifty architects and engineers associated with Blackwell Designs.

He was pushing to make Blackwell Enterprises known for more than just oil and transportation. At times, he wondered if his late father would have approved. Gerald Blackwell was a Texas oil baron. Oil had been in the family for a couple of generations, and Gerald had heavily invested in transportation as well. He saw airline and railroad companies as essentials.

Every Christmas as a kid, Carson could count on Santa leaving him another train set and radio-controlled planes. Yet his mother saw to it that he always had sketch pads, colored pencils, and watercolors under the tree, too.

Although he was no artist like her, she nurtured the seeds of art and creativity in him. That was something he cherished, and it had led him to design his most ambitious project yet. The Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts.

In the center of his studio was a long white display table. On the table was the miniature model of the Kathleen Blackwell Center for Fine Arts. It featured three art galleries. There were two wings on either side of the main building for art classrooms and artists-in-residence. Outside, there would be an open courtyard with an amphitheater, a fountain surrounded by gardens, and a walking trail with plenty of space for artists to work outdoors.

He wanted to build something grand in memory of his mother. She had died young. Killed in an automobile accident in her mid-thirties. He had been twelve at the time, an only child devastated by the loss.

He hoped to build the art center in the Dallas area. His mother had been very active in the artistic community there, so Dallas was his first choice. There would be a number of hurdles. He'd need community and political support for the project.

Land would have to be acquired. Plus he needed investors. He planned to pay half the construction costs out of his own pocket, but he needed local partners. People who invested money in a project would work to see it become a success, and he definitely wanted the art center to be a success.

“Mister Blackwell?”

He heard Gracie Powell, his long-time administrative assistant, call him.

He walked into his main office, which reflected his Texas roots. It was home away from home. A cushioned sandstone carpet spilled from wall-to-wall. The rich brown-leather Western sofa and club chairs had that sit-down-and-take-your-boots-off comfort look. The bronze bust of a Texas Ranger stood guard on an oak pedestal and Carson's great-grandfather's lariat hung on the wall. Before the Blackwells became oilmen, they were cattlemen.

Gracie Powell stood by his desk. She was a stern little woman who was the poster child for efficiency. “Your lunch has arrived.” She put a deli sandwich and a large soft drink on his desk. “Sir, Doctor Grant called. There was a slight delay in her flight, but she should be here by two o'clock. I told her we would have a car at the airport to pick her up.”

Carson maintained an impassive expression. “Good. You did get my schedule cleared for the rest of the day?”

“Yes, sir. That has been done.”

“Thank you.”

As soon as she had closed the door to his office behind her, he loosened his tie and let out a deep, victorious chuckle. He had known the moment he signed that letter that Marla would come running.

Marla, the merciful. The champion of the sick and underprivileged. She wouldn't sit idly by while her beloved clinic was shut down.

He walked over to the wet bar and poured himself some scotch. A drink to celebrate. He sloshed the amber liquid in a glass. Maybe he shouldn't celebrate so fast.

Tension pulsed through his body. His first devastating experience with love when he was only twenty had left him a vigilant man. Cautious. You never knew when someone was planning to feed you to the wolves. He had made it a rule not to let his heart overrule his head. There were risks he never took, and he reserved his trust for a few select people he'd known all his life. So how did he get this screwed up over a country girl from Tennessee?

She wasn't screwed up over him. That little interlude at Royal Oaks had been almost six years ago. It had been nothing but a lusty romp. He'd be the first person to admit that. He had even initiated it, and it had been a good time between two consenting adults who knew exactly what they were doing. And it ended the only way possible.

Amicably.

He drove away that day certain he would never see her again. She wasn't the first brief affair he'd had. All his affairs were brief and insignificant. That day he had done what he always did when he ended an affair.

He deleted her number from his phone. He deleted her from his life. Then he boarded a flight for a project meeting in Hawaii. It was time to move on.

And don't think she hadn't moved on immediately. She'd rolled out of his bed and walked down the aisle with another guy. Just thinking about it still pissed him off.

She's not married now
.

His mind had not let go of that revelation since he'd found out about her divorce a few weeks ago during a telephone conversation with his grandmother's attorney, Sam Clayton, who was retiring. Carson was talking to Sam regarding his grandmother's estate and the Royal Oaks Foundation. Sam mentioned the Lafayette Falls Community Clinic.

“The major benefactor of the foundation is the clinic,” Sam had explained. “Miss Eva was good friends with Doctor Hughes, and when he set up the nonprofit clinic years ago, she wanted to help support it because she believed in its mission. So, the foundation provides a monthly stipend to the clinic.”

“And they use the money for operational expenses?” Carson didn't see any problem with continuing the funding.

“Yeah, I'm sure it keeps the doors open. We could probably get some figures on that. Doctor Hughes isn't working there now. He turned the job over to his protégé, Doctor Marla Grant. She's a local girl who moved back here after her divorce. Everyone says she's doing a good job at the clinic.”

After her divorce
. Those words sent Carson reeling. “Sam, I've got another call that I have to take. Let me get back to you.”

He had hung up the telephone as the earth seemed to shift beneath him and time blurred . . .

It seemed like only yesterday that he had been standing on the veranda of Royal Oaks while a fundraiser was in progress. Most of the time, fundraisers were events where his wealthy peers gave to a good cause while posing for the press in fashionable designer clothes and discussing their latest accomplishments both professionally and socially.

This fundraiser was not in LA or New York. It was on the grounds of his grandmother's antebellum estate in Lafayette Falls, Tennessee.

The people present weren't on the
Forbes
list. They were all locals from Lafayette Falls, and they had come together on a summer afternoon to raise money for a local child, who was in Saint Jude Children's Research Hospital. Beneath the oaks, arts-and-crafts vendors sold their wares and two cooking teams dished out hamburgers and hot dogs. All profits would be donated to the sick child.

He had wandered across the veranda, an outsider. Other than his grandmother and the Royal Oaks employees, he didn't know anyone present. He observed the customs of a tight-knit Southern community where everyone was acquainted, and he felt somewhat envious. They greeted each other with hugs and warm handshakes. He didn't have the luxury of such goodwill, but he longed for it.

He could understand why his grandmother had refused to move to his home in California. Everyone took the time to stop and acknowledge her. At eighty-six, Miss Eva, as everyone called her, was like a gracious queen holding court for her adoring subjects.

His gaze shifted from his grandmother and landed on a newcomer. A young woman who stopped to look at a painting for sale. She moved with the grace of a dancer. The skirt of her white strapless sundress floated past her knees, and waves of honey-gold hair fell past her bare shoulders. He liked what he saw, and all the gears in his mind shifted toward sex.

It had been a while since that fling he'd had with a pretty dancer in Paris. He was definitely in the mood to get laid, and the girl beneath the oaks would do just fine for that. Leaning against one of Royal Oaks's massive white columns, he had no reservations about letting his gaze devour her. After all, he was not a man of subtleties.

She glanced in his direction. Studying him for a second before looking away.

The exchange of quick glances continued as they played with each other. Cat and mouse. He caught her eye, pinning her with a suggestive stare. She met his gaze and flashed him a “come hither” smile.

He was on. With testosterone raging, he bounded down the steps of the veranda.

He approached her with a certain amount of swagger. A man being bold.

“Hello,” he said, and she turned his way. He got a view of her close up. She had peachy skin, warm and vibrant. Large winsome green eyes. She smelled sweet like the flowers that blossomed in the gardens of Royal Oaks. And, she had a charming naiveté about her that he found irresistible.

She studied him deliberately. He sensed she wasn't going to throw herself at him, as he'd expected. “Do I know you?” she asked.

“No, but that can be remedied easily enough.” He hoped, by the end of the day, she would know him extremely well. “I'm Carson Blackwell. Miss Eva's grandson.”

She quietly weighed what he said. This was not going the way things normally went for him. When he introduced himself to most women at a social event, they usually became very excited. They'd stroke his arm, lean his way, and giggle a lot. This one remained hesitant, and she didn't giggle.

“I don't recall ever seeing you in Lafayette Falls,” she said.

“I'm not from here. Grew up in Dallas and now I live in California,” he explained, realizing she wasn't familiar with his name or his net worth, for that matter. He decided this situation had its merit. For once, he could be just an average guy with no advantages. Would she like that guy? It would be fun to find out.

“I'm here visiting Nana. I know I should stop by more often, but my business takes up a lot of my time. I'm trying to convince her to come live with me, but she's refusing.”

“Most elderly patients prefer to stay in their homes and remain independent as long as possible.”

“You sound like a doctor.”

“I am a doctor. Almost.” She extended her hand. “Marla Grant.”

He took the hand she offered. “Almost?”

“I have to finish a residency program first before starting a practice.”

He didn't release her hand. Instead, he slid his fingers between hers. He smiled when she didn't pull her hand free. “Want to go for a walk?”

“I'll walk with you over to the hot dog stand. I'm starving.”

He laughed. He liked her. “You've got a deal.”

In the shade, they sat at a folding table and ate hot dogs off disposable trays. The hot dogs were good, the company was great, and the joy he felt was real.

Several of the locals stopped to greet his companion and congratulate her on completing medical school. When he found out she had graduated magna cum laude, he told her she was the smartest girl he'd ever taken to dinner. She grinned as she squirted mustard on her second hot dog.

Later, they wandered the grounds of Royal Oaks, and he told her he was an architect. He mentioned a resort hotel he was designing. “Would you like to see it? I have the plans on my laptop.”

He ushered her into the carriage house, which had been converted into a guest dwelling at Royal Oaks, and she studied his sketches of the sprawling building featuring Ionic columns, arched windows, and porticos. “You're very talented.”

That compliment pleased him inordinately.

“What made you decide to use a neoclassical style?”

Her question surprised him. “You're familiar with the neoclassical period?”

“I studied art history in college. It was a nice break from all the science and math classes.” She studied his sketches thoughtfully. “It looks more like a palace than a hotel.”

“I suppose so,” he remarked, but his mind wasn't on the resort he planned to build.

They were alone in the small carriage house, far from prying eyes. The only sound was the whir of the air conditioner and the ticking of an antique clock. The bedroom was less than twenty feet away.

He took the liberty of smoothing her hair off her bare shoulder, treasuring the softness of her skin against his fingers. She inhaled softly and he couldn't recall ever wanting any woman as much as he wanted her.

She glanced up and met his gaze. A mischievous twinkle danced in her green eyes. Marla and her mischievous twinkle. He fell for both that day.