Intertwined Fate

Donovan Kincaid did not believe in fate. Nor did he indulge himself with fanciful notions concerning coincidence,luck ,or the ridiculous conjecture that the position of the stars could dictate one's future. As a scientist, he dealt with facts. Unemotional,observable data. Even when confronted by the existence of seemingly unfathomable phenomena, Donovan believed that if given sufficient study everything could ultimately be explained. If he had been the type of man to waste time dissecting emotions, he would have realized that he had always found those unalterable truths vaguely comforting.As it was, he had never given the matters great deal of thought. Facts were facts, fantasies were fantasies. And never the twain should meet. As he jogged across the wet green grass of Marston Quandrangle, Donovan sought to come up with a logical reason for why he was finding the upcoming meeting so distracting.As the newly hired Director of Appropriations, Brooke Stirling held the key to his future in her hands. Yet as disturbing as he found that prospect, Donovan was also bothered by the idea that there was no rational explanation for her unexpected reappearance in his life. Just as there was no comprehensible justification for why he was feeling both anticipation and apprehension at the same time. Deep in thought, he failed to notice the coed who stopped to watch as he ran by, her gray eyes filled with feminine appreciation. If asked to give description of himself, Donovan would have rattled off a list of dry statistics that, while proving accurate enough, would not have revealed the essence of the man. His height and weight- six foot three, one hundred seventy pounds- suggested a tall, lanky build. A youngish Jimmy Stewart type, perhaps. But women's eyes were invariably drawn to the play of smooth, taut muscles under his shirt, lean hips and strong, subtly muscled legs. Just as he would fail to describe his rangy, athletic build, Donovan would never offer the embellishments that his chestnut hair was tipped with gold. Nor would he think to compare his intelligent green eyes to newly mined emeralds. Such observations, viewed through the eyes of the beholder, would have been subjective and Donovan Kincaid dealt solely in objective,verifiable facts. A quick, hopeful glance at the leather- branded watch on his wrist only corroborated what Donovan already knew. He was late.Terrific way to make an impression, Kincaid, he castigated himself irritably. In a futile effort to make up time, he picked up pace. Reaching the Carnegie building, he took the stone steps two at a time. As he ran down the the tiled hallway, Donovan belatedly remembered he wasn't wearing a tie. Cursing softly, he yanked a rumpled bit of knit fabric from his jacket pocket and looped it hurriedly around his neck, managing something that remotely resembled a half Windsor knot just as he reached the office door. Donovan promptly found that his way to Brooke Stirling's inner office was barred by a stocky woman whose gray hair brought to mind a Brillo pad and whose steely eyes behind dark horn-rimmed glasses were filled with overt censure. "We have been waiting for you, Proffessor Kincaid," the guardian of the door huffed. Her high-handed manner took Donovan back to when he was ten years and had been summoned to the principal's office for setting fire to his classroom. Despite the fact that the youthful act of arson had been unintentional-an experiment for the science fair had gone awry-the principal's expression exactly mirrored the vexed one currently worn by Brooke's thickest receptionist. " I was working in the lab" he apologized "and time just slipped away. You know how it is" He gave her his most winning smile. When he chose, Donovan could be charming. Too often, his request for research money had depended on that ability. As an added bonus, it had not escaped Donovan's notice that the slightly crooked, boyish grin worked wonders with females of all ages. Unfortunately,in this case, it fell decidedly flat. Ignoring him completely, the scowling woman punched the button of the intercom and announced his presence. As Donovan was finally granted entrance to the inner sanctum, a slender, dark-haired woman rose from behind a gleaming expanse of desk. "You are getting better" Brooke Stirling greeted him easily. "I can remember a time when if you only kept me waiting three hours. I considered it a good day" "I must have been a callous bastard in those days". "There were times". Brooke's accompanying smile was geniune."It's good to see you again, Donovan". How could he have forgotten that lush voice? During their college days, the deep, smoky tones had not meshed with Brooke Stirling's coltish, all-American good looks. Now twelve years later,she had definitely grown into it. His eyes swept over her in an appraising gaze."You're looking well, Brooke" That was an understatement. During the intervening years, Brooke has metamorphosed into one of the most sophisticated women Donovan had ever seen. Intellectually he knew it would have been folly to expect, the young woman who had practically lived in a faded Beethoven sweatshirt. After all, it was against those inviolate laws of nature for anyone to remain college age forever. She reminded him of someone. Donovan searched his memory and came to the unwelcome realization that Brooke bore a striking resemblance to her mother. He could only hope that she had not also become as hard and unbending as Carolyn Stirling. He searched her eyes- bright golden eyes that slanted upward slightly at the corners-for a clue and found nothing. " You're looking well, too," Brooke answered after a moment. Why had she thought it would be so easy? Despite the years, despite what had happened between them, it could have been yesterday that she and Donovan had last been lovers. As her tawny eyes submitted him to a slow appraisal, Brooke marveled at Donovan's seeming ability to have stopped the clock. His nut brown hair,while shorter these days, was tousled as it always had been, inviting feminine fingers to brush it lovingly off his forehead. She could remember him thrusting his fingers through the crisp waves as he puzzled over a particularly vexing problem. His lean face-all planes and hollows-was rugged rather than scholarly, but his green eyes revealed an intelligence that more than one magazine had described as brilliance. As those clear eyes flickered over her, Brooke felt as if she had been instantly and thoroughly summed up. The blue oxford-cloth shirt, worn under a burgundy and gray tweed sport coat, bore water stains, causing Brooke to glance out the window to see if it had begun to rain. No, the California sun was shining as brightly as it had been when she left for work this morning. Brooke put the puzzle of Donovan's soaked clothing from her mind as her gaze moved to his Kelly-green tie. Not only was the colour bright enough to startle a person, it appeared to have been trampled by a herd of rampaging elephants. His khaki slacks, although bearing the same signs of water damage as his shirt, were suprisingly well pressed. Her lips curved in a reminiscent smile as she viewed his feet. "Is there any special reason why you're wearing one brown shoe and one black one?" He glanced down." I hadn't noticed".