the almond butter from the fridge, a photo hanging on the reminder board next to it caught her eye—a certain dark-haired pixie grinning happily and hugging a short blonde theme park actress in a startling green costume with iridescent wings. She didn’t have to flip it over to remember the childish scrawl on the back: “I met the real Tink. Now I want to come meet your mountain.”
The mountain that Grace was supposed to be able to fix somehow, according to Tink and Granny Lily.
Only she had no idea what was wrong with it in the first place.
“This is just wrong, Dr. Woodruff.” Nick lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t get up when I’m attempting to crawl into bed. Especially not looking that good.”
The fuzzy bedroom slippers somewhat ruined the whole effect. And the night shirt that proclaimed “Scientists Do It With Reproducible Results” was a bit too long and baggy, but still, spectacular legs. And, freed of those clips, her hair was longer than he had guessed. He shook his head, amazed that he could manage such enthusiasm on zero sleep.
Of course, he had only managed a glimpse of her heading down the stairs before she disappeared, but they were high-powered binoculars, so he was pretty certain about the legs—and the slogan on the shirt.
A low throb behind his eyes reminded him to down some aspirin with the protein shake he had managed to concoct. It tasted even worse than usual. He washed it down with coffee, which didn’t taste much better. No doubt it was his conscience poking him for such enthusiastic, if somewhat necessary, voyeurism. Likely his hostess didn’t expect her guests to be spying on her. But it was also likely she didn’t expect anyone to stay up until the wee hours investigating her life history either.
Grace Elizabeth Woodruff, daughter of Marshall James Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals. Her mother was Phyllis Alexandra Hartford, now Woodruff, Philadelphia blue blood and heiress to the Hartford fortune. But Marshall wasn’t CEO because he married money, and he wasn’t the hillbilly the Main Line socialites wanted to paint him as. He was a brilliant scientist and businessman in his own right, spending a great deal of his time in the rather rarefied halls and meeting rooms on either end of Pennsylvania Avenue.
But there had been some kind of a falling-out between Grace’s grandfather Logan and his only son. Not only did Logan own the entire mountain as well as the farm and herb business, but he had invested in various eco-technology companies long before it was the popular thing to do. And when the old man had died last year, the entirety of his estate had gone to Grace. It seemed Marshall hadn’t been in contact with his father or set foot near the mountain since his mother’s death twenty-five years ago. He hadn’t even attended his father’s funeral. By all accounts he seemed unconcerned with what happened to the mountain or the estate—or his daughter.
Nonetheless, anything to do with Grace or the mountain would undoubtedly splash back on Marshall Woodruff and, from there, possibly embarrass the White House as well. Thus the concern of his boss when Nick had done his profiling on what little Smoky Mountain Magic evidence they had. He couldn’t really say what made him dig into Woodruff Mountain specifically, but once he did, his gut had told him he was on the right track. And the Deputy Administrator and many others had long ago learned to trust Nick’s gut. Of course, they had little else to go on, thus Nick’s assignment to dig a little deeper, but not make a big fuss about it.
And when he had, he discovered that Dr. Grace Woodruff, a newly minted physician-scientist, was a specialist in something called pharmacognosy—producing drugs from plants and other natural sources. About the time a new kind of meth called Smoky Mountain Magic had hit the streets of Atlanta, Dr. Woodruff had abandoned a research project in the Amazon and
The mountain that Grace was supposed to be able to fix somehow, according to Tink and Granny Lily.
Only she had no idea what was wrong with it in the first place.
“This is just wrong, Dr. Woodruff.” Nick lowered his binoculars and rubbed his eyes. “You don’t get up when I’m attempting to crawl into bed. Especially not looking that good.”
The fuzzy bedroom slippers somewhat ruined the whole effect. And the night shirt that proclaimed “Scientists Do It With Reproducible Results” was a bit too long and baggy, but still, spectacular legs. And, freed of those clips, her hair was longer than he had guessed. He shook his head, amazed that he could manage such enthusiasm on zero sleep.
Of course, he had only managed a glimpse of her heading down the stairs before she disappeared, but they were high-powered binoculars, so he was pretty certain about the legs—and the slogan on the shirt.
A low throb behind his eyes reminded him to down some aspirin with the protein shake he had managed to concoct. It tasted even worse than usual. He washed it down with coffee, which didn’t taste much better. No doubt it was his conscience poking him for such enthusiastic, if somewhat necessary, voyeurism. Likely his hostess didn’t expect her guests to be spying on her. But it was also likely she didn’t expect anyone to stay up until the wee hours investigating her life history either.
Grace Elizabeth Woodruff, daughter of Marshall James Woodruff, CEO of Hartford Pharmaceuticals. Her mother was Phyllis Alexandra Hartford, now Woodruff, Philadelphia blue blood and heiress to the Hartford fortune. But Marshall wasn’t CEO because he married money, and he wasn’t the hillbilly the Main Line socialites wanted to paint him as. He was a brilliant scientist and businessman in his own right, spending a great deal of his time in the rather rarefied halls and meeting rooms on either end of Pennsylvania Avenue.
But there had been some kind of a falling-out between Grace’s grandfather Logan and his only son. Not only did Logan own the entire mountain as well as the farm and herb business, but he had invested in various eco-technology companies long before it was the popular thing to do. And when the old man had died last year, the entirety of his estate had gone to Grace. It seemed Marshall hadn’t been in contact with his father or set foot near the mountain since his mother’s death twenty-five years ago. He hadn’t even attended his father’s funeral. By all accounts he seemed unconcerned with what happened to the mountain or the estate—or his daughter.
Nonetheless, anything to do with Grace or the mountain would undoubtedly splash back on Marshall Woodruff and, from there, possibly embarrass the White House as well. Thus the concern of his boss when Nick had done his profiling on what little Smoky Mountain Magic evidence they had. He couldn’t really say what made him dig into Woodruff Mountain specifically, but once he did, his gut had told him he was on the right track. And the Deputy Administrator and many others had long ago learned to trust Nick’s gut. Of course, they had little else to go on, thus Nick’s assignment to dig a little deeper, but not make a big fuss about it.
And when he had, he discovered that Dr. Grace Woodruff, a newly minted physician-scientist, was a specialist in something called pharmacognosy—producing drugs from plants and other natural sources. About the time a new kind of meth called Smoky Mountain Magic had hit the streets of Atlanta, Dr. Woodruff had abandoned a research project in the Amazon and
Similar Books
