The Heart Doctor and the Baby (5 page)

As he approached their agreed-upon restaurant, the crunching and creaking of the wooden planks from behind made him turn. He spotted her car. She'd been lucky enough to find a parking place on the often-overcrowded wharf. A nervous zing buzzed through his system, and he quickly ignored it. He was a man of his word—he'd made a promise; he couldn't back out now. After all, he'd already given the specimen!

The cornflower-blue sky went on forever, an occasional cloud scudding past. The sun glare ricocheted off the ocean, making it hard to see anything beyond her silhouette as she got out of the car. She walked closer, and the beam on her face matched the shimmering waves. The sun kissed her chestnut hair, highlighting a touch of red he hadn't noticed before. She tucked her arm through the crook of his elbow like an ambassador of goodwill.

“Lunch is on me,” she said, as the wharf's resident pelican swooped overhead and landed on the nearby railing.

Over a bucket of all-you-can-peel shrimp, she produced a manila envelope and withdrew its contents. “I've pored over this document, every single line, and I think you'll be pleased with what my lawyer drew up.”

He wiped his hands on a napkin and maintained her steady gaze and ceremoniously accepted the contract, then fished his reading glasses out from his shirt pocket.

“Once I've got your signature, they'll release your specimen to me.”

By the time the main course of halibut and mahimahi got served, he'd signed it.

“That's that, then,” he said, glancing up, noticing the glassy tears threatening to spill over her thick lashes. Oh, no. He could never take it when a woman cried. It always made him feel so helpless and baffled and downright uncomfortable. His girls had mastered the art of tearful manipulation, but René's tears were genuine. He'd do anything to stop them, but what?

Though he thought better of it, he did what he'd do with Amanda, scooted closer and gave René a hug. She clutched him so hard, he wasn't sure whether to pry himself free or just enjoy it.

“Thank you,” she repeated over and over.

“I've got to admit I'm very curious how this puppy's gonna turn out.”

“Me, too!” More tears appeared—tasteful tears, not the blubbering kind, just gracious, womanly drops down her cheeks. On her, it was beautiful and he had the urge to kiss each one away, but that would be him in a movie, not the real guy sitting here next to her, the guy who worked with her every day, so he stopped the urge immediately. Still wanting nothing more than to stop her crying, he took the joker route.

He covered his mouth with the back of his hand, and mumbled an aside. “Okay, I've done my part. Now it's your turn.”

She sputtered a laugh and tossed him a thankful look, one that seemed to wrap him up and warm him all over again. The gaze let him know he was the most special person in her life at the moment. He liked how it felt, wondered if she sensed the ever-deepening place she'd found in his life, too. It confused the hell out of him. The moment couldn't go on forever, and they did have a delicious-smelling lunch before them, and, well, he scooted his chair back as the special feeling settled quietly in his chest.

 

A week later, after the most recent blood test showed a surge in René's luteinizing hormone, indicative of ovulation, she canceled her morning appointments and rushed to her OB doctor's office. She lay on a cold examination table with her feet in stirrups.

She glanced at the ceiling with a new perspective on the patient's side of the experience. The room was cold and the thin sheet offered little comfort on top of the oversize
patient gown. Her personal gynecologist smiled at her from between René's legs.

“Ready?” she said.

René nodded, her throat growing tight with anticipation.

She and Jon had agreed not to discuss the mechanics of their situation. He'd done his part when the time suited him, and now she'd do hers. She still laughed to herself about how he'd made his deposit on Valentine's Day. Could she consider it romantic?

“Here it is,” her doctor said, raising a thin catheter connected to a syringe with the sperm inside. “Future baby, right here, if we're lucky.”

The doctor chattered as René felt cold hands and necessary invasive instruments get placed, and finally the deposited sperm around her cervix.

“I'm going to put a sponge cap over your cervix. Leave it in place for eight hours.” Her doctor friend patted her hip. “Good luck. Now lay here for thirty minutes. My nurse will let you know when you can get up.”

If there was a chant to will one sperm and her egg to meet, she'd chant it. Failure was not an option. She pulled her feet out of the stirrups, moved farther up the exam table and relaxed.

Maybe daydreaming about a perfect ending would enhance the process. In her case the perfect ending was a pregnancy.

She let her mind wander and, instead of a chubby baby face appearing, a different scene played out before her, shocking her slightly. She'd told Jon that Mr. Right wasn't going to walk through her door anytime soon, yet the vision of him standing on her porch the night she'd hit him up with her artificial insemination plans gave her pause.
In a once removed and cockeyed sort of way, he
was
Mr. Right.

She couldn't help but wonder if in another situation, if she wasn't pushing so hard for a baby
right now
and if he wasn't counting down the days to his freedom, that maybe things could have been different between them. In all their years of working together, they'd never once looked at each other in an interested way. And it was useless to speculate about things that would never be. She didn't have the luxury of time anyway, and this day was what it was—a day to hold her breath, keep a positive attitude and hope for the best.

And if optimism could affect her state of mind and the cells in her body and, most importantly, her uterus, she figured she had the best chance ever to get pregnant.

J
ON
hadn't been intentionally avoiding René for the past month, but he'd figured he'd done his part in their deal, and there was no point in making her uncomfortable just because he was curious. Beyond curious. Besides, he didn't want to get involved.

Since he'd donated and signed her contract, he'd stayed out of her way and figured things would play themselves out however they were meant to be. It surprised him to acknowledge—as a scientist first and foremost—he could be so fatalistic. Since agreeing to take part in René's plan, he'd started realizing all kinds of new things about himself. Such as, he really, really hoped this pregnancy would take.

What was up with that?

Jon welcomed his next patient into the exam room as if a special guest. “Mr. Grosso, how are you doing?”

“Not so great.” The man gingerly rubbed his chest.

Mrs. Grosso beetled her brows. “He still tender.”

“Yeah, tender.” He massaged circles around his sternum.

“That was a big operation, and right about now your skin nerve endings are coming back to life in the area where they opened your chest.”

“It feels strange. I can't explain.”

“But you're not having chest pain, right?”

“No. No chest pain. Just sore now.”

“That's progress. Take off your shirt and let's have a look.”

After performing a thorough examination, Jon invited Antonin to get dressed and meet him in his office. He exited the room and strode toward his door. On the way, he noticed René with a bright smile, standing at the mouth of the hall. He slowed his step. She gave him a subtle thumbs-up.

What? He did a double take to make sure he hadn't imagined it. He tilted his head as if for reassurance that she had indeed given the high sign. She nodded rapidly, continuing to smile so wide she could star in a commercial for toothpaste.

He went to his office and picked up the phone, punching in her com line number. After the second ring she picked up.

“Are you saying you're pregnant?”
It took on the first try?

“Yes!” Her excitement burst through the receiver.

A moment lapsed, as a swell of something bathed him. Joy? Pride? Nah, that would be absurd, but, hey,
it took on the first try!
“I think this calls for celebration,” he said.

“Definitely.” She sounded breathless.

“I've got a bottle of nonalcoholic sparkling cider the girls didn't drink on New Year's. How about tonight at eight. My house.”

“See you there.” She hung up.

“Congratulations,” Mrs. Grosso said, while assisting her husband into his office.

“For what?”

“You wife. She pregnant?”

“Oh. No. Just a friend of mine.”

Mrs. Grosso still knew how to look coy. “Your girlfriend?”

“Just a friend.”

He shuffled the stack of lab reports on his desk and waited for the couple to settle in. It might prove harder than he originally thought to keep a secret about the fact that he had something to do with René's pregnancy.

 

René tapped on Jon's steel door five minutes early. It sounded like a vault opening, and he must have been waiting just on the other side, it opened so quickly.

“Hey,” he said, eyes bright. His black tailored shirt, with sleeves rolled to his forearms, hugged his trim, long torso. The jeans fit just right, too. She'd noticed he'd shaved off his beard earlier in the week and missed it, but evening stubble darkened his face. The image set off a burst of excitement on an already-overloaded day. She chalked it up to fatigue mixed with euphoria.

“Hey,” she replied as she entered his loft. The perfectly square main room was decorated with clean urban minimalism, and surprisingly unusual artwork balanced out the sparse furniture. Dare she say sensual artwork, with warm and inviting shapes and colors? She scanned the room, and noticed an alcove separated by a Japanese paper screen that was most likely his bedroom. A closed door next to it she pegged as the bathroom. The mantel sans fireplace came complete with a large mirror and—she had to look twice—larger than life-size angel-wing artifacts? Jon?

“My daughters tease me about that one, too,” he said as a smile slid across his face. “Found them in Venice. Couldn't resist. The shipping fee was astounding.”

A laugh tickled up from deep inside. She imagined Jon in Italy making plans to ship his art home, using sign language and pointing to the wings. Then another peculiar
thought popped into her mind about him and Cherie dividing up their property during the divorce, and Jon insisting he keep those serene angel wings. What kind of man would want to look at angel wings every day? She smiled at him, a man who'd already proved himself as an angel. It felt good to be here, to share the news she'd been bursting to tell the world all day.

She followed him toward the spotless new kitchen wedged into the far corner of the completely undivided room. Her eyes bugged out at the conference-size black-enameled dining table, and how he'd taken over half of it with his computer equipment.

“Do you entertain a lot?” This was certainly a side she'd never seen of Jon.

“Me? Are you kidding? Nah, I just like how it fits here, and the girls really spread out with their books and laptops and all. It works for us.”

“It's impressive how much thought you put into the girls when you moved here.”

“As you'll soon find out, kids become the biggest part of your life. Even bigger than medicine. It's great.”

He retrieved the alcohol-free sparkling cider from the ice bucket and popped the cork faster than she could blink. “Let's toast to our success.”

“Yes, of course! That's what I came here to do, to celebrate.”

That devilish sparkle she sometimes noticed appeared in his eyes. “I have to know one thing,” he said. “Was it as good for you as it was for me?”

She sputtered a laugh and delivered a firm sock to his deltoid. Feeling a bit like a schoolgirl again, she rolled her eyes at his tasteless and very macho joke. “Ugh.”

“Sorry. Couldn't resist.” He lifted his glass. “Here's to
our success. May the baby be healthy and pretty as her mother if it's a girl, and if it's a boy outrageously masculine like his fah…sperm donor.”

She almost spit out the cider. “Who are you, and what have you done with Jon Becker?” She loved seeing this playful side of him, hadn't seen it nearly enough during their five-year acquaintance.

“I've got to admit, I'm really jazzed about this successful kid experiment of ours.” He reached out and patted her waist.

The gesture sent an electrical jolt through her stomach. She couldn't look into his bright gaze so she glanced over his shoulder, down the wall, directly into his bedroom. Wrong move. More minimalism smacked her between the eyes. That and an inviting king-size bed neatly made with a warm brown duvet on display by recessed lighting. A prurient image popped into her mind. She blamed it on hormones and quickly glanced away, then sipped more cider to avoid his stare.

“You have no idea how ecstatic I am,” she said.

He took her by the arm and guided her back to the living room section of the loft.

She sat on the chrome-and-cushioned navy-blue couch, placed her cider flute on the glass-and-brushed-nickel coffee table and admired a small peacock sculpture next to three oversize art books—another fanciful surprise about Jon. The contrast with the “man” furniture was a breath of fresh air.

“So tell me,” he said. “I'm all ears.”

She felt coy and girlish as her cheeks grew warm. “Well, you did your part.”

He nodded. “That I did. And, might I add, magnificently.” There was that teasing, full-of-himself glance again.

She fought the smile tickling the corners of her mouth. “And I did mine.”

“Yes, I see how this story is shaping up. Intriguing.” He lifted one brow.

“And three weeks later, I missed my period. We did a blood test this morning and sure enough it took!”

“Fantastic. What a team, huh?” he said, looking beyond pleased.

Maybe it was the new rush of hormones, or extreme gratitude, but before she could stop, she'd thrown herself into his arms.

Jon wanted to keep the evening all about René and the pregnancy, but here she was smashed against him, and he knee-jerked a response. He enfolded her and held her close, doing his best to deny the most basic of all reactions between a man and woman. He couldn't let this happen. There was no point.

After all his years in chemistry lab, he knew it took at least two ingredients to react. Him and her. In his case, at this particular moment,
combust
was the word that came to mind.

Did she have a clue what she did to him each time—twice now but who was counting—she'd flung herself into his arms? It was the dumbest thing he could do to let his guard down, yet he savored the delicate feel of her spine and shoulders, inhaled the shampoo-fresh scent of her hair. He'd missed this part of a relationship.

Casting his misgivings aside, he stopped holding himself back and kissed her head, soon finding the smooth skin of her cheek. Memories of closeness and pleasure flashed in his brain. He hadn't felt her tense or pull back, so he kissed her earlobe. It was warmer than his lips.

She adjusted her head and her mouth was right there for the taking. Any man in his right mind would kiss her, but
a gentleman, a colleague and friend, a man who dreaded commitment and dreamed of China and a year away, should ignore that plump lower lip and its upper, perfectly fitted mate.

He ignored the warning, exhaled and dipped his head. Just a taste, that would satisfy this curiosity he'd harbored for the past month. How did it feel to kiss René Munroe?

Moist and warm, and open, her lips pressed against his, so soft, so inviting. He meant to restrain himself, but the lure of her lips made him quickly forget. He covered her mouth and flicked his tongue over the smooth surface, felt the tip of her tongue and explored it. She tasted like sweet cider, but so much better. He drew back and kissed her from another angle, finding the same sweet invitation. Again and again they joined mouths, deepened, flicked and swirled tongues. His body, with a mind of its own, shifted toward her in a desperate attempt to make as much contact as possible. One arm held her close, as the other grazed her butter-soft skin.

One long crimson polished finger touched his chin and slid down his throat, dipping below his collar. Hell, at this point she could pinch him and that would turn him on, too, but that finger and the sensual trip down his neck made him groan. He weaved his hands through her hair and deepened the kiss, then followed the curve of her arms and hips, moved inward and cupped her full and pliant breasts.

Wrong move. Her head snapped free from the kiss. She closed her eyes, though he'd seen the bright blaze within them before she did, and pulled away from him.

“Oh, my God. What have we done?” she whispered.

He ignored the stirring in his gut, and acted as surprised as she did. He needed to do something, to lighten the mood, to distract them from the trail they'd foolishly
embarked on. “Hold on. Hold on. We can pretend this never happened.”
Like hell he could.
“Blast that sparkling cider. It does it to me every time.”

His clumsy attempt at humor helped them both save face, but he needed to say more. This attraction wasn't in the contract, but damn he'd wished they'd taken time to explore other avenues for her to get pregnant. Like the tried-and-true natural way, the way they could easily fall into bed if his better senses didn't keep cropping up. He knew where that would lead—to something he could never give.

He'd already let her down. He dropped his head and glanced first at his feet, then at her. “I'm sorry if I took advantage of the opportunity.”

She screwed up her face. “Jon, I threw myself at you.”

“But that was out of happiness, and I went right into sexual mode…”

“Stop.”

His gaze flew to hers. She offered a measured look. “I think now we're both aware of something we hadn't bargained on. At least, I hadn't,” she said, pushing the thick hair he'd mussed out of her face.

He nodded. “I've got to tell you, it's pretty damn strong on this side of the couch.” He crossed his foot over his knee, knowing he couldn't possibly hide the full body reaction she'd caused.

“You didn't sign a contract for a girlfriend and a baby.”

“You've got a point there. We can't ignore that you're going to have a baby.”

“Taking a risk to explore this—” her hand swam back and forth, gesturing to him and her several times “—this
thing
between us is too risky. Unfortunately, our timing is off.”

“Story of my life.” He went for humor again, a sorry attempt to lighten the heightening confusion and his drooping spirits.

Her caramel gaze drifted demurely to her lap and her hands. “You don't want anyone to know you're the father.”

“Right.”

“And you're planning that sabbatical.”

“Right again. And you wanted a baby without any strings attached. And the last thing I ever want again is commitment. Any commitment.”

“Right. So we've got to go back to how it was before—” she glanced at him and quickly at the floor “—before we realized…”

“That we turn each other on.” He finished the sentence for her, used the words he wanted her to hear, not her beat-around-the-bush, let's-make-this-all-go-away-nicely explanation.

She sighed. “Yes.”

At least she'd admitted it. He'd have to settle for that crumb when the whole cake sat right before him, fresh baked and ready to… Okay that was another poor analogy, but damn it, it was exactly how he felt. He'd take her in a New York minute, ravish her, have her naked and on his bed before she realized what a great lover he was, and before he could stop himself from making a huge mistake. His ironic laugh tossed him quickly out of the fantasy. He scrubbed his face. “Yeah, okay, well, what do we do now?”