Read The Devlin Diary for Free Online

she’d left home.
    “Dr. Donovan.” Claire heard the words, but the name didn’t register; she was too busy looking for Andrew.
    “Dr. Donovan.”
    Claire scanned the other side of the room.
    “Dr. Donovan!”
    She turned around. “Oh!” Andrew Kent was standing behind her. “It’s you,” she said.
    “Didn’t you hear me?” he asked.
    “Of course I heard you.”
    “I said your name three times.”
    She reddened slightly. “I’m not used to it.”
    “Your own name?” He looked alarmed, as if he was having immediate regrets about hiring her.
    How did Andrew Kent so easily manage to make her feel idiotic, inept, and irritated simultaneously? Claire took a breath and tried to remain calm; now was not the time to let an instant retort get the better of her. “I’m not accustomed to the Dr. Donovan,” she explained.“For one thing, the ink on my degree is barely dry. For another, only physicians are addressed as ‘doctor’ in the U.S.” She didn’t add that at American universities it was considered pretentious for someone with a PhD to use the title of Doctor, but she figured that Andrew Kent already knew that. At Trinity, everyone with a PhD was known as Doctor: it was de rigueur. After that, only the most accomplished rose to the level of Reader; Professor was reserved for those at the very top of the academic heap.
    Andrew nodded. “Yes, and in England we address surgeons as ‘Mister.’”
    “Why is that, anyway?”
    “I’m not entirely sure. Perhaps we don’t want them to forget that they were once barbers.”
    Claire laughed a little, Andrew smiled, and for one long, golden moment they were the only two people in the room. Perhaps it was the tuxedo, but he was even more handsome than she remembered. His dark, unkempt hair had been cropped and tamed, and his skin had a sun-kissed glow that was quite attractive. No more Scotch tape wrapped around the broken earpiece of his eyeglasses, either. In fact, no glasses at all. His large, inviting brown eyes regarded her warmly. Claire was reminded of a certain evening in Venice, a certain cobbled street, a certain few words that Andrew had said to her. What were they? “You’re the most argumentative, obstinate, infuriating, exciting, and fascinating woman I’ve ever met”? Yes, that’s exactly what he’d said; she hadn’t been able to forget it. She knew he hadn’t intended to say it, but there was no escaping the fact that he had. Her heart beat faster at the memory. Or was it racing because she was finally here, seeing him again?
    “You’re looking well,” Andrew said. He cleared his throat. “That’s a very nice gown.”
    “Thank you.” Claire had paid way too much for the dress, but she liked the way its shimmering, copper-colored satin brought out the gold highlights in her brown hair and hazel eyes. She wondered if he’d noticed; it was impossible to tell. “Very nice” was probably the most effusive compliment she would hear from him. Andrew was English, after all, but she was prepared to make some allowances for that. Sheonly hoped that they didn’t become mired in the awkward small talk that always seemed to precede their real conversations.
    “And how was your journey?” he asked.
    Oh, dear. What could she say about a six-hour flight and a taxicab ride from Heathrow to London? Nothing terribly exciting, that was certain. She assured him it had been fine, though uneventful. “And your book?” Claire asked. “How’s it coming along?”
    This was more than a polite question; in fact it was something she deeply cared about. The subject of Andrew’s book-in-progress was the 1618 Spanish conspiracy against Venice. He had already asked Claire’s permission to quote from her dissertation.
    “Very well, in fact,” he replied, noticeably relaxing. “Ever since I returned from Venice, everything seems to be falling into place. Like it’s writing itself, although I’m hesitant to say that out loud for fear of invoking