Page 36 of Forever

“I have another meeting at nine. Give me a price and we can talk. Otherwise, I’m leaving.”

Rhobes sat forward so fast, it was like his chair was spring-loaded. “MD Anderson can’t be a buyer. You’re too underground for them.”

“You do know what Vita is, right? It’s a radical new approach to immunotherapy for certain cancers. Have you read Anderson’s annual report? Beento one of their events? They’re not a diabetes center, you realize.”

“Your Vita is untested. You haven’t had it in a single patient’s vein.”

“Yes, I have. And the trial results are exactly what we expected.”

Gunnar blinked, another one of his subtle tells. “Well, then you have a problem. How will a place like Anderson explain that you’ve gone into testing on human subjects. And if the results were good, why aren’t they in your materials.”

“They’re proprietary.”

“Like the formulation and molecular structure, right?” He whipped his hand through the air like he was erasing text he didn’t like. “Anderson won’t pay what I will. And they aren’t going to want the complication you represent.”

“And what complication is that? If it’s operating under the radar of the FDA, you’re in my sandbox, too, so don’t get all judgmental on me.”

“My labs are all very well-known—”

“Tuttle. Pennsylvania.” C.P. smiled coldly as the man’s face froze. “Yes, I know what’s under that cornfield. So if your next tactic is blackmail? You muscle me, I’ll just expose you as well, and we all know how you don’t like the attention on your company.” When he opened his mouth, she put her palm up. “And I know one more thing aboutthe way you operate. What happened to those two vice presidents of yours? Suicide? Really? I’ll bet if those cold cases got a couple of tips, particularly if the information turned up on the internet, the trails would get real warm, real quick. Have you seenDon’t Fuck with Catson Netflix? Amateurs can be even more dogged than the pros.”

“Don’t threaten me,” he said in a nasty tone.

C.P. planted her hands on the glossy table, and leaned into her arms. “Don’tfuckwith me.”

The silence crackled between them, and she almost smiled. She was quite certain that if he could have, he’d have sent her right out one of the windows, and she took a deep breath of the hatred-stained air.

Straightening, she walked down the length of the table, not breaking eye contact. As she approached where he was sitting, Rhobes swiveled in her direction.

“I’m your only buyer, Catherine.”

C.P. didn’t pause. “No, you’re not. And don’t get up. I’ll let myself out—”

“You’re going to regret this.”

She paused at the conference room door. After a moment, she looked back at him. He was still in that chair, but he’d sat back again and recrossed his legs, knee to knee. In fact, Gunnar Rhobes was looking so superior, he might as well have been standing up and looming over her.

“No, I’m not going to regret anything,” she said. “You’ve got your first rule wrong, you see. The number one thing to keep in mind at the negotiation table is don’t try to force the hand of someone who has nothing to lose.”

Those eyes darkened. “So you’ve declared war, have you.”

“We’re both capitalists. Did you think this was a tea party?” She nodded at him and opened the way out. “Enjoy your day, Rhobes. None of us know how many we have left—which is the point of my research.”

As she walked off, she got lost in thoughts of strategy, but they were interrupted by a drumbeat that made no sense—until a pair of suits came pounding down the hallway. The men didn’t look at her, and as they shot by her, she glanced over her shoulder. With their jackets open, the flapping made it seem like they had pin-striped capes.

Lawyers as superheroes. What kind of DC Universe was that? And there was satisfaction in knowing that something was going wrong in Rhobes’s world.

When she got out to reception, C.P. went to the elevator and called down for her car on her cell. Just as she hung up, the doors opened, and she caught sight of her reflection in the mirrored panels as she stepped in. Her blond hair was in a perfect swoop off to the side, and her face was unlined thanks toregular Botox between the eyebrows. Her uniform of professional garb was elegant as always, and her tall stilettos added to her height.

She was just as she wanted to appear. Imposing and in control.

The image had been honed after she’d gotten out of graduate school and started working at Merck. Her hair was actually ash blond, a color that was not even brunette but a gloomy rain cloud gray, and without the bleaching, it was thin and had little body. Before she’d gotten Lasix, she’d needed heavy-lensed glasses, and a modest breast enhancement had given her flat chest some cleavage. She’d also voice-coached herself by watching Diane Sawyer broadcasts, mimicking that trademark low push of smooth syllables—and actually, Ms. Sawyer had been where she’d gotten the shade of blond from, too. Her first attempts had been out of a box and brassy as a doorknob.

And now here she was, a creation of her own drive, a culmination of personal evolution… proof that you could, in fact, be anything you wanted to be if you just worked hard enough.

Her father had been a plumber. Her mother had been a homemaker.

She had been an only child and relatively normal until she developed a Wilms’ tumor at age four. That was what started her journey into big pharma—

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