Critical by Robin Cook

appearances.
    â€œAre you all right?” a voice asked.
    Angela turned and looked up into the face of the blond man with whom she’d briefly locked eyes in the room with the stationary bikes. He was somewhere in his mid-forties, reasonably handsome, and probably equivalently intelligent. He had bright blue eyes, cropped hair, and an insouciant, engaging smile. He was wearing a T-shirt that said Make my day .
    â€œI’m quite okay,” Angela said after her brief assessment of the stranger. “Why do you ask?”
    â€œI thought there for a minute you were about to cry.”
    Angela laughed heartily. When she’d made her mocking expression in the mirror, she’d momentarily forgotten she was in a room with a bunch of secretly attentive males.
    â€œWhy are you laughing? Really! A minute ago, while you were doing your curls, you looked like you were about to break down in tears.”
    â€œIt would take too long to explain.”
    â€œTime is not a problem for me. How about a drink after we finish our workouts and you can explain? After that, who knows?”
    With a wry smile, Angela regarded the man standing next to her. It had been a while since she had experienced such a rapid, unabashed come-on. Under normal circumstances, she would have merely smiled and walked away. In her current mood, some repartee and companionship had an uncharacteristic appeal, at least for an hour or so. After all, she was trying to clear her mind.
    â€œI don’t know your name,” Angela said, knowing full well she was opening the proverbial door.
    â€œChet McGovern. And yours?”
    â€œAngela Dawson. Tell me, do you pick up women frequently here at the club?”
    â€œAll the time,” Chet said. “Actually, it is the reason I come as often as I do. The exercise itself is too much like work.”
    Angela laughed again. She appreciated both honesty and a sense of humor. It seemed that Chet McGovern had both.
    â€œYou can drink while I eat,” Angela said. “I’m famished.”
    â€œYou’ve got a deal, lady.”
    Forty minutes later, after the two had showered, they sat across from each other in the combination bar/restaurant. The bar was packed. Behind the bar was a flat-screen TV televising a baseball game that everyone ignored. The level of the background chatter was like a bunch of feeding seabirds. Angela was sensitive to the noise, since she hadn’t been in such an environment for years. She had to lean forward over her grilled salmon salad to hear.
    â€œI asked what kind of work you do,” Chet repeated. “You look like a model.”
    â€œOh, sure,” Angela scoffed. With comments like that, she knew for certain she was with an individual who thought of himself as a pickup specialist.
    â€œReally!” Chet persisted. “What are you, twenty-four or twenty-five?”
    â€œThirty-seven, actually,” Angela said, resisting the temptation to be sarcastic.
    â€œNever would have guessed it. Not with a figure like you have.”
    Angela merely smiled. Such comments were fun to hear, even if less than sincere.
    â€œIf not a model, what kind of work do you do?”
    â€œI’m a businesswoman,” Angela said without elaborating, and to turn the conversation away from herself, she quickly added, “And how about you? Movie star?”
    It was Chet’s turn to laugh. Then he leaned forward and said, “I’m a doctor.” Then he sat back. From Angela’s perspective, he’d assumed a decidedly self-satisfied smile, as if she was supposed to be impressed.
    â€œWhat kind of a doctor?” Angela asked after a pause. “M.D. or Ph.D.?”
    â€œM.D. and board-certified.”
    Whoop-de-do! Angela thought sarcastically but didn’t communicate.
    â€œAs a businesswoman, what do you actually do?”
    â€œI suppose I’d have to admit I mostly spend my time trying to raise money, as unpleasant as