The Fertility Factor

“A turkey baster?”

“It was my microphone.”

He laughed, a deep rumbling laugh.

Enjoying herself, she went on, “Since then, the running joke in my family is—expect Lara to take an hour to do a ten-minute task.”

“Love them, don’t you?”

Was she imagining that he sounded envious? “Immensely. And I know they love me. If they’re enjoying themselves, I can be the brunt of their tease.”

“What kind of questions will you ask to find out if some guy is Mr. Right?”

“I…I never gave that a lot of thought. He’d have to be caring.” She was a people person who’d take a walk on the weekend just to talk to neighbors. “I suppose I’ll ask what kind of music he likes. I like fifties and sixties hits the most, but will listen to almost any other kind of music. What do you listen to?”

“Classical. Opera.”

Lara nodded, not surprised. He probably went to the symphony before he was three. An exaggeration, she knew. But this man had led a life a world apart from hers. “I might ask my Mr. Right candidate what the last movie was that he saw.”

“That might not tell you anything about him.”

“Why not?”

He chuckled in private amusement. “Because the last movie I saw had a big mouse and raccoon in it.”

“Oh, I saw that, too. Cute, wasn’t it?”

“I saw it because of my son. Why did you?”

With a turn of his head, the light overhead illuminated the strong lines of his face. She’d like to touch it, run her fingers over his cheek, his jaw. “Nieces and nephews,” she answered.

“I guess it would be important for Mr. Right to like Italian food.”

He was perceptive. “I had it before baby formula.” A man who didn’t like Italian food would hate holidays with her family, any meal. Regardless of what was served, pork loin or ham or turkey, her mother always served a side of spaghetti or ravioli. And she would be insulted if the man didn’t at least sample everything on her table. “I’d like it if he skied.”

“You ski?”

Lara shook her head. “I don’t, but I’d like to.”

“So anyone who skis gets points?”

She laughed at how silly that sounded. “Yes, I guess so.”

“What else?”

Was he, too, trying to keep conversation going? Never had they shared so much personal information with each other. “I like lazing around on days off, having breakfast in bed while I read the newspaper. Do you?”

“I get up at five to run in the park. Who serves you breakfast in bed?”

“No one.” She knew what she was going to say would sound dumb. “I get up, make breakfast, bring it on a tray to the bed and pretend it was served. Sounds silly, huh?”

“No. You must have a great imagination.”

Excitement stormed her as she watched his eyes briefly fall upon her lips. “I acted for a while.”

“I know you did.” He slid a hand into his slacks pocket. “Why the career change? Actress to nurse?”

“I had a calling.” She assumed only another person in medicine would understand. “How far do you run?” She could probably manage a block or two.

“Three miles.”

Lara mentally groaned at the thought of so much exercise. “Every morning?”

“Every morning.”

He was disgustingly disciplined.

Looking down again, he gestured at the knitting needles sticking out of her shoulder bag. “What are you making?”

Feverishly she’d knit during every minute of her spare time. “It’s an afghan. For a cousin’s baby. Due in another month.”

“A boy?” he asked, gesturing toward the blue yarn.

“Yes, he—” The elevator dropped. Two, maybe three inches. No more. Suddenly they stood in darkness. “Oh my God, Derek.” She reached out, groped for him.

“I’m here.” His hand caught hers and tugged her to him.

The back beneath her palms was solid, broad, muscular. Pulse pounding, she leaned away to see his face.

“Come on.” He drew her even closer. “Sit on the floor with me. That would be smarter than standing.”

He meant in case the elevator dropped, didn’t he?

Despite his words, he wasn’t moving, wasn’t letting her go. She knew why. They stood breast to chest, thigh to thigh. Warmth radiated between them.

“It’s nice,” he said suddenly.

She thought the moment was wonderful. But possibly they weren’t thinking about the same thing. “What is?”

“Your perfume. I never smelled it before.”

He’d never been this close before. Every morning she dabbed a touch of perfume behind her ears to make her feel feminine while wearing scrubs. With the turn of his head, his breath heated her face. Even in the dark, she knew his mouth was closer to hers. Or was she imagining everything?

Lightly his lips brushed hers like a subtle caress.

Oh, Lord. She wasn’t imagining anything. Her eyes fluttered, her lips parted for his. Slowly, almost savoringly he deepened the pressure. Gently his lips moved over hers. Wanting to feel more, she leaned closer, pressed her breasts into him to absorb the heat, the solidness of his body.

His kiss was everything she’d imagined. No. It was more. A long, pleasurable shiver swept through her. Eyes closed, she savored the sweet firmness of his mouth, the beat of his heart, the warmth of his body. With a kiss, he was making her feel more than she’d expected. In that instant, she knew this wouldn’t be enough. She’d want more with him. Much more.