Callum by Melissa Schroeder Page A

mother—now there was a woman who could wear a suit. Every one she wore looked made for her, but her mother had one of those slim bodies that looked good in anything. With another sigh, one filled with self-pity, she stripped off her suit and her hose. After she rummaged through her dresser, she found her favorite thermals and slipped them on.
    All she wanted to do was curl up in bed and relax, but she knew she had work to do. Callum hadn’t allowed her a lot of notes, but she did have a few words to look up. She glanced at her mobile. McWalton would expect her to contact him. And she had told him she would if she thought she had something for the grant.
    Excitement surged. Even as weary as she was, Phoebe gained another jolt from the thrill. A new project. One that could prove career-making. She knew she would never measure up to her parents or their love of ancient civilizations. But this could prove that her years spent studying Celtic folklore hadn’t been in vain.
    She dialed McWalton’s phone, crossing her fingers that his voicemail would pick up. The grant board had eight members, but McWalton was the head, and he wanted to sponsor the winning entry. She hated dealing with him. Every move was calculated. She had the feeling he would sell his mother to the highest bidder if it would get him what he wanted. Whatever the hell that was.
    “Dr. Chilton, I hope that you have something good to report.”
    His chilly tone didn’t set well with her. She had only been there a day, and she wouldn’t have him pressuring her.
    “Not much at the moment.”
    He paused. “But you do have something in mind?”
    “Yes. The family has allowed me to look over an artifact, but I need to be sure it is genuine before I decide if it works for the grant.”
    “What is it?” he asked, his voice sharp enough to cut.
    “I’d rather not say until I know for sure. All I can say is there’s a code to decipher.”
    There was a beat of silence, and she got the feeling he was calculating, trying to figure out a way to get her to say more.
    “Fine. I did talk to Sir Farthington. He’s onto something extremely big, or so he says.”
    She mulled that over. Whiney Wendell was a big talker, but he usually didn’t live up to even the lowliest of expectations. If he truly had something, it probably wouldn’t hold up to her work.
    “Is there anyone else vying for the grant?”
    In McWalton’s hesitation, she sensed irritation or maybe even anger. He’d expected her to say something about Farthington or perhaps reveal more information about her prospect.
    “Not that I’m aware of, but there are other board members, and all of us want to bring in the winning proposal. So, I am assuming they have their own protégés.”
    Protégé, indeed. As if he was teaching her something. She rolled her eyes.
    “I’ll be able to report more when I’ve had more time with the piece.”
    “Can you bring it to me?”
    She paused. The request sounded nonchalant, but she wasn’t buying it. There was an edge to his voice, something that unsettled her. “No. It is kept under lock and key. I am only allowed to view it with someone watching me.”
    “Well, then, I’ll let you get back to work.”
    Let her, indeed. “I will report to you as soon as I can.”
    She rang off, her chest constricting and her head throbbing. She didn’t like the duplicity, and she definitely didn’t like McWalton’s eagerness.
    When she found the time, she would research the grant committee. Maybe she could sneak off to an Internet café later that week. She needed to know who else was on it just in case she needed another sponsor. Clearing her mind of McWalton, she decided to look through some of her research on her laptop. She had enough information in her own documents that she could at least do a little digging on the languages. With a sigh, she plopped down on her lush bed to get down to work.
    The sooner she figured out that diary, the sooner she could win that grant