Baby Fever

U.S.: 3010 Walden Ave., P.O. Box 1325, Buffalo, NY 14269

Canadian: P.O. Box 609, Fort Erie, Ont. L2A 5X3

Baby Fever

Susan Crosby

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)

SUSAN CROSBY

is fascinated by the special and complex communication of courtship, and so she burrows in her office to dream up warm, strong heroes and good-hearted, self-reliant heroines to satisfy her own love of happy endings.

She and her husband have two grown sons and live in the Central Valley of California. She spent a mere seven and a half years getting through college, and finally earned a B.A. in English a few years ago. She has worked as a synchronized swimming instructor, a personnel interviewer at a toy factory, and a trucking company manager. Involved for many years behind the scenes in a local community theater, she has made only one stage appearance—as the rear end of a camel! Variety, she says, makes for more interesting novels.

Readers are welcome to write to her at P.O. Box 1836, Lodi, CA 95241.

For Christine Rimmer, who is everything I admire—

talented, generous, kind, intelligent and humble. Thanks

for making the journey so much fun.

And for my wonderful editor, Melissa Jeglinski,

who wanted Patrick to have his own story.

He thanks you and so do I.

Prologue (#ulink_7509ef8f-fd4b-562c-81b5-8d9f258aca1e)

Six thousand dollars.

The words echoed in Jasmine LeClerc’s head as she pushed open the door and exited the quiet, sterile building. She descended a short flight of stairs, her legs trembling so much she had to prop herself against the discreet sign at the bottom step—Bay City Clinic, Specializing In Reproductive And Fertility Disorders.

She closed her eyes. The numbers seemed to flash in neon in front of her. Six thousand dollars.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened, mentally tugging her dignity into place. She was stronger than this. Tougher. She had to be. Cost couldn’t defeat her purpose. Not now. Not after she had come so far and had so little time remaining on her accelerating biological clock. The only viable eggs she had left were probably in wheelchairs by now, waiting to slide down a fallopian tube and on into oblivion.

She could picture them lined up at the starting gate. “Been here long?” October’s egg would ask, and November’s would answer, “Oh, yeah. Long time. Nigh on forty years now.”

The image made her smile, her first of the day. She started walking, the mindless activity helping her focus on facts instead of emotion. The infertility counselor had said that each attempt to be artificially inseminated would cost six thousand dollars and had less than a thirty-three percent success rate.

Those weren’t the numbers she’d wanted to hear.

She did some mental calculations. Her savings account could handle a couple of tries, but giving up that much money to buy herself a pregnancy meant she’d have to go back to work right after the baby was born, and she wanted to share those first precious months with her child. Plus, she really hoped to work only one job instead of the two she’d been juggling for the past seven years.

Then again, none of that mattered if neither attempt was successful.

There was another solution to her problem, of course. Her stomach knotted at the thought. She tried to block the image, but reality insisted she look at it honestly—she had to find an oblivious human donor to father her child.

She used Lamaze techniques to combat her queasy stomach, focusing on breathing patterns to relax. She was known for her honesty—brutally honest, most people called her. What she was considering required more than simple deceit. It meant outright lies. Could she actually go through with it? Could she pretend something she didn’t feel? She wished she could talk to someone about it, but she didn’t dare take even her sister into her confidence.

Bonk.

Something hit the backs of her knees, making her stumble a couple of steps. She caught herself before she fell, then turned around.

“Jason Alexander O’Connor. How many times have I told you not to throw that ball at people?” a woman yelled, exasperation layering each word.

Jasmine picked up the offending big blue rubber ball and smiled at the little boy with the soulful brown eyes. His mother, pushing a stroller, swooped down on him.

“That’s the last time we take the ball with us.” She touched Jasmine’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right, ma’am?”

Jasmine winced. Ma’am. Another reminder of her middle age. “Yes, I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all.” Crouching, she passed the ball to the boy, then shifted her glance to the stroller and the pink-bonneted baby who lay contentedly within, staring in fascination at her own tiny fists. “You have beautiful children.”

“Well, one’s for sale, cheap,” the harried young woman said, eyeing her son. The boy turned a brilliant smile on his mother, apparently accustomed to the threat, as her mouth twitched against an answering grin. “Put the ball in the stroller, Jason, and let’s go home.”

Jasmine watched them walk away, the strings of her heart stretching to their limits. She shoved all concerns about dishonesty aside.

The end would justify the means, she told herself, coming to a decision. She wanted—needed—a baby. But first, she needed a man.

He had to be in good health, of course, and intelligent. And fertile. It would be nice if he were attractive and kind—she hadn’t made love in seven years, so some tenderness and physical appeal would help settle her nerves. And he definitely had to be temporary. No dating, no relationship beyond the window of opportunity that ovulation affords…three days, tops.

And he could never, ever, know anything about her pregnancy. No one would ever steal a child from her again. No one.

One (#ulink_208ef3fd-270c-5cae-b663-837653a68b43)

Patrick O’Halloran paid the cabdriver, added a generous tip for the guided tour he’d been given from the San Francisco airport to his daughter’s house, then stood on the sidewalk smiling at absolutely nothing.

He was in a good mood, a great mood. He was about to surprise his daughter, whom he hadn’t seen since her Valentine’s Day wedding a month and a half ago, and he hoped to spend a lot of time with her over the next few weeks that the doctor had ordered him to stay away from the office.

Doctors—what did they know? So, he’d had a heart attack. A minor heart attack, his cardiologist had reminded him at every opportunity. That didn’t mean his life was over. Just because his father had died of a massive coronary at age forty-seven, and Patrick had just celebrated his forty-seventh birthday, didn’t mean he would become a statistic himself.

“Dad?”

Patrick spun toward the house and grinned. “Hey, kid.”

Paige O’Halloran-Warner flew down the steps and into his arms. “What are you doing here?” she asked, laughing, then squeezing him tighter. “I’ve missed you, Dad. Really, really missed you.”

A lump formed in his throat as he hugged her back. He might have died without ever seeing her again, without seeing how happy she was. Happy wasn’t even the word. She glowed. “I missed you, too, honey.”

He didn’t make eye contact with her as they moved apart. Instead he scooped up his luggage and followed her into the house, where he almost tripped over several suitcases sitting in the front entry.

“You should have called,” Paige said, seeing where his gaze fell. “Rye and I are leaving in an hour for Brazil. We’ve got an embezzler to track down.”

He refused to let his disappointment show, and he refused to tell her about the heart attack. He’d never seen her so…vibrant. Her hair bounced in springy curls, her makeup amounted to mascara and maybe a little blush. The blue jeans and cotton sweater she wore completed the casual picture. What a change from the formally dressed, perfectly made-up woman she’d been just over a month ago.

No, if he told her about his doctor’s orders she would stay home with him, and he didn’t want that for her.