Call My Name (3 page)

“Glen—”

“No, hon, listen. I love you and so does Lois. We worry about you. Why do you isolate yourself from everyone?”

In an unobservable gesture of defense, her chin tilted upward slightly, as she rebutted his claim. “I don’t isolate myself. There are people running in and out of here every day. I go to meetings and conferences and the hospital—”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, and you know it! Daran, what about dates? Men?”

“What about them?” Humor seemed to be one possible out.

“There should be men in your life.”

“There are.”

His challenge came quickly. “Like who?”

The impish lift of her dark brows belied her near-thirty years. “Like … you, my father, Hamilton Brody, Dr. Immlat, Tom Selleck. Even Jonathan deFalco!” She chuckled at the thought.

Glen Roberts found nothing amusing in her listing. With a note of exasperation, he began again, only to stop himself as quickly. “Daran … ach, it’s really none of my business, is it?”

A soft laugh filtered through the young woman’s pink-glossed lips. “No, it isn’t, Glen. But I do appreciate your concern. And, believe me, I’m doing just fine.” It was no lie, yet the devoted attorney had no way of knowing how much it would have been five years ago. She had never told him, or his bubbly wife, Lois, or any of the other friends and colleagues she’d come to know here in Connecticut. It was part of the past, and had no relevance here.

“Okay, hon. Listen, would you like me to be in on that meeting with Charles?” His words broke through her thoughts, bringing her sharply back to the present.

The faint shake of dark wavy hair was a unconscious gesture. “No, thanks.” She declined his offer gracefully. “I think I’d better face the music myself, since it was my big mouth that brought him here to begin with. Whew, I still can’t quite believe it.”

The deep-intoned offer came one final time. “Well, if I can be of any help…”

Daran laughed, this time a light and airy sound as a new and particularly amusing thought came to her. “Where would I put you, Glen? This office can comfortably hold me and my desk. I’m pushing it for the senator. And if he happens to bring a typical entourage with him for effect, I may just have to move out myself!”

The resurgent trace of sarcasm was countered with gentle chiding. “Be generous, now, Daran. We’re not all as efficient a one-person operation as you are! Say, what time would you like the Project meeting to be held on Tuesday night?”

“Seven-thirty? At your office?”

“Seven-thirty, it is. See you then.”

“Bye-bye, Glen.”

Heavy-fringed amber eyes slid to the face of her watch as Daran hung up the phone. Fifteen minutes till the senior tutorial. Rising quickly, she straightened the scattered mass of papers on her desk, opened her notebook, extracted a sheath of typed papers from the file cabinet and inserted it into the notebook. Then she clapped the whole thing soundly shut. A slim hand smoothed the pleats of her wool skirt, tucking the crepe blouse in more neatly. Turning for final inspection to the small mirror hanging on the back of the door, she grimaced. All her efforts to dress the part of the mature college professor were doomed to failure by the stubborn rebellion of the waves that framed her head and shoulders and the handful of freckles that last weekend’s work in the garden had brought out. No suntan, only freckles. Such was her fate in life! With a low-muttered oath, she extracted a large tortoise-shell barrette from her pocketbook and secured the weight of hair from the sides back up into a semblance of a topknot at the crown of her head. A touch of mascara, a dab of blush, and a reapplication of lipstick—it would have to do.

Pausing only to adjust the thin strap of her high-heeled slingbacks more comfortably on her foot, she slung her pocketbook over her shoulder, hoisted her notebook and several reference books into her arms, draped her khaki trenchcoat over the lot, and left the office.

“I’m off for the tutorial, MaryAnne.” Her soft voice carried to the ears of the blond-haired student/secretary busily at work at a desk in the large area beyond the separate offices. “If anyone wants me, I’ll be back here by five, then I’ll be leaving at about five-thirty for a dinner meeting at the hospital. Take any messages, okay?”

The young woman at the desk smiled easily. As opposed to some more ornery academicians, this professor was a peach to work for. Easy-going and compassionate, she inspired the trust of her students and, in the short semester and a half she had been at Trinity, had managed to extract from them superior quality work.

“Sure, Dr. Patterson. Oh, could you sign these letters before you leave? I’d like to have them in the mail this afternoon. And…” MaryAnne’s voice lowered to a near-whisper as the professor reached for a pen and leaned awkwardly, laden as she was, to sign the letters on the desk. “I think that Jonathan deFalco is waiting to snare you somewhere along the hall out there.” Her eyes brimmed with humor as she cocked her head toward the outer door of the office.

“Oh, dear.” The last of the letters signed, Daran dropped the pen and sighed ruefully. “Is he making an absolute pest of himself?”

“Well, actually, it’s not so bad. We’ve put him to work. You know, running errands and all. He’s quite willing to do most anything as long as there is a chance he may catch sight of you.”

The two shared a gentle laugh, then Daran shook her head regretfully. “I am sorry. He must be a nuisance. I’ll see if I can talk him into—or out of—something,” she offered feebly, wondering herself what the best method would be of curing a flagrant case of puppy love. All the formal training in the world—wasn’t psychology supposed to be her field?—had not prepared her for the pure adoration that poor Jonathan deFalco held for her. The advances of men she had learned to parry quite successfully; boys were another matter. At age eighteen, Jonathan was idealistic, vulnerable, perhaps slightly homesick, and very much in love.

As young for his years as was Jonathan, the other student, MaryAnne, was mature. “Don’t worry, Dr. Patterson. We’ll handle it. You have enough to worry about.” This, coming from a young woman who carried a full course load, worked part-time to support herself, and had barely enough time to do anything for the pure fun of it, was a humbling experience.

“Thanks, MaryAnne.” The words seemed inadequate, even accompanied as they were by a supportive hand on the younger woman’s shoulder, as Daran headed for the hall. How fortunate she was to have met students of the caliber of this one!

*   *   *

The week flew by in typical hectic pace, allowing Daran a minimum of time to ponder her upcoming confrontation with Senator Andrew Charles. Though word of his impending visit weighed heavily in the news releases, there was no mention of the appointment at noon at Trinity. Daran kept it that way, fully convinced that the more private her discussion with the senator, the greater her chances of affecting his attitude on the bill. This was not the time for high visibility. As she reasoned, the political ego was a fragile thing. Her press statements may have already injured the senator’s pride. This meeting would be her opportunity to assuage that pride, then gently move onward. It was feminine wiliness at its least sexual and most practical.

Friday night was spent reviewing her notes, committing to memory the latest facts on the status of children in the state, refreshing her mind of others which would be pertinent to their discussion. Saturday morning, after several early family counseling sessions at the hospital, Daran wound her way through the crosstown traffic to the Trinity campus, parking in her reserved space, then making a beeline for her office. It had been her best intention to freshen up there before the arrival of the visiting dignitary. Much as she would have preferred to return home to change in the interim, the thirty-minute drive from downtown to Simsbury precluded that possibility. As it was, she had carefully chosen her clothes this morning with a mind to presenting an image of competence and maturity. For the occasion she wore a brown-and-white tweed suit, replete with blazer, vest, and slim-cut skirt, a soft white silk blouse, a major concession to femininity, as were the high-heeled pumps that added an extra three inches to her five-foot-six height. Now she needed the extra height to boost her confidence.

For a brief moment as she struggled to fasten the cascade of brown waves into a semblance of a coil at the nape of her neck, she thought back on that confidence. It had been so strong, a very part of her from childhood, until that shattering few months she had spent with Bill. Mercifully that period of her life was over. No longer was she the starry-eyed romantic she had been then. Older and wiser now, she had finally grown up.

Three times she redid the knot, each time cursing her fingers for their clumsiness, her hair for its curliness, then, finally, herself, for her nervousness. What was wrong with her? Politics and politicians had been a part of her life until she had sworn off both five years ago. This, today, was merely a temporary dabbling which could not be avoided. Once her message was received, in person, by the senator, there would be no further need to mix. Glen would handle the Washington lobby while she held the home front. For no lure, regardless how potent, could get her to Washington. No lure, whatsoever!

A half-composed final exam sat idly on the desk before her, its blank pages mocking her attempt at concentration, while slowly the minute hand moved from the nine to the ten, then on to the eleven. It was at two minutes before noon that the sound of voices heralded the expected arrival. The building was largely deserted, only a smattering of professors and students occupying it on this early spring weekend afternoon. The secretarial staff had long since vanished, not to be seen or heard until Monday morning. It was an ideal time for a private business meeting with the senator, when interruptions would be nonexistent. Now, as the voices grew louder, Daran wondered fleetingly whether she should have had Glen here after all. But that was water over the dam; it was too late now.

“Dr. Patterson?” Jonathan deFalco’s beaming face took her by surprise, until she heard his eager words. “These men were looking for your office. Since I was, ah, just hanging around, I thought I’d act as a guide.”

In a flash she was on her feet and by the door, where she put as maternal an arm as possible around the shoulder of the boy, subtly rewarding him even as she turned him around to usher him out. It was at that point that her eye fell on the two men behind him.

“Dr. Patterson,” the nearer of the two began, extending a friendly hand in her direction, “I’m John Hollings. We spoke on the phone. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” A nattily dressed man of medium height and fair complexion, he greeted her with sincerity and an unmistakable sparkle of appreciation in his brown eyes. This, however, was lost on her, as her attention was drawn inexorably to the man to his left and slightly behind. This last of the three was by far the tallest, the most compelling, and, up to this point, the most silent. “This is Senator Charles, Dr. Patterson.” His aide proceeded to make the introduction, then stood aside to let the legislator by.

The aura of strength that surrounded the man served now to obliterate all else to either side of him. Slowly stepping forward, he offered her his hand. It took every ounce of poise she could muster for Daran to steady her own hand as it surrendered to the encompassment of his. Voice willed to evenness, eyes to directness, she spoke. “How do you do, Senator? This is an honor.”

“The honor is mine.” The voice was low and soft, its drawl as self-assured as everything else about the man. Steadfastly he held her hand long after all shaking motion had ceased. “May we talk in here?” he asked, his eyes releasing hers to look over her shoulder at the small office behind.

Only as she nodded did he release her hand. Instantly she thrust it into the pocket of her suit jacket, its tingling sensation barely diminished by contact with the soft lining. Then, looking up, she caught the knowing glint in his eye. It was enough to restore her senses. “Yes,” she stated smoothly, “but it’s not very large. Perhaps—” she glanced meaningfully at John Hollings “—we can use the conference room down the hall.”

“No, this will be fine,” the deep-intoned voice came back in command. Then, the sandy head turned to face his aide. “John, why don’t you let Mr. deFalco guide you back to the parking lot. Dr. Patterson and I will meet you there in ten minutes.”

With his facial expression totally hidden from her, Daran could only react to his words. Ten minutes—was that all she was to be granted? After the hours she had spent and would continue to spend on the Child Advocacy Project, this man, who had it in his power to so greatly affect the lives of the children for whom she fought, would give her ten minutes.
Ten minutes!
How typical! He was no different from the others. Bristling, she turned on her heel and strode into her office, pausing at its far side with her back to the door, hands crossed over her chest, until she heard the soft click of the closing door. Prepared to do battle, she whirled about—and her breath caught.

CHAPTER 2

He was magnificent. There was no other way to describe him. Not one of the magazine or newspaper pictures, or even the filmed TV spots, had done him justice. Outlined now against the stark white office door—the breadth of his shoulders totally covered the mirror which hung at eye level to her—he was a sight to behold. His dark navy suit was immaculately tailored and fit him to perfection, emphasizing the masculine form that tapered appealingly from shoulder to hip. His white shirt was a crisp foil for the suit, as well as the subtle paisley tie of maroon, navy, and gray. Highly polished oxfords glinted from beneath the cuffless trousers.

All this was taken in on the periphery of Daran’s vision. For it was his face to which her attention was riveted. Evenly tanned, it was more angular than she had expected, the force of high cheekbones and a chiseled jaw bespeaking the inner strength for which he was renowned. His nose was straight, his lips firm and curving at the corners almost imperceptively. Above it all, his eyes held her in their power, silver and warming with each passing second.