One
“I'm calling a sperm bank and getting artificially inseminated.”
Liz Donovan's pronouncement was met with a mixtureof surprise and disbelief. Allison Whittaker, her best friend of more than ten years, was the person exhibiting the emotions in question.
They were sitting in the book-lined study of Allison'sparents' house, an impressive redbrick colonial on the outskirts of the town of Carlyle, just northeast of Boston. Each year the Whittaker family hosted a Memorial Day Weekend barbecue and this year was no exception, even though Allison's parents, Ava and James, were traveling in Europe.
“But, Lizzie, the baby will never know its father. Doesn't that bother you?”
“Yes, but a sperm bank seems like my best choice right now. Besides, I'll be able to pick eye color, height, everything I want.”
Allison was the person who had accompanied her to the hospital a few weeks ago when she'd had the outpatient laparoscopic surgery that had confirmed her gynecologist's diagnosis—and Liz's worst fear: endometriosis.
Fortunately, hers was a mild case, discovered early, and the short surgery had removed most of the offending implants around her uterus. But, there was no telling what the future would hold. Which meant, of course, that she'd be spinning the gaming wheel each year she waited to have a child—if it wasn't too late already.
Allison frowned. “Wouldn't you rather use someone you know?” she argued. “Knowing who the father is has got to be a big advantage.”
Liz sighed. A part of her still couldn't believe that her time for having a baby might be running out. She wouldn't even turn thirty for another six months!
Having a family of her own had always been important to her: her mother had died when she was eight and she'd been an only child. Frankly, if she hadn't had such a burning desire to prove to herself and her overprotective father that she could and would succeed in the business world, she might have paid less attention to her career and more to the state of her basically nonexistent social life.
In fact, work was partly why she was at the Whittaker mansion today, despite the upheaval of the last couple of weeks. She was hoping to have a chance to discuss a big account for her interior design business, Precious Bundles, which specialized in children's rooms and play areas.
Allison had suggested that she do the design for the new day care planned for Whittaker Enterprises' headquarters. If she got the contract, it would be Precious Bundles' biggest account to date and would bring her one step closer—one big step closer, she corrected herself—to getting her business on a sound financial footing.
With any luck, Allison's brother Quentin, the CEO of Whittaker Enterprises, would show up soon and she'd have a chance to seal the deal.
Liz determinedly pushed away the twinge of nervousness that usually accompanied any thoughts of Quentin and reached for the glass of lemonade that she'd set down on the coffee table. “Of course there are advantages to knowing the father, but who would I use? I'm not seeing anyone, and I don't have any close male friends.”
Allison seemed pensive for a moment, then offered, “Well, I've got three brothers.”
Liz's hand stilled, half to the glass, and she looked at Allison with a mixture of horror and amusement. “You're giving me nightmare visions of some teenaged schemes you got me involved in.”
“You loved every minute of them!” Allison pretended to look offended.
Liz sat back against the cushions of the couch, the glass forgotten, and heaved another sigh. Allison could be tenacious. It was a trait that served her well as a hotshot Assistant District Attorney in Boston, but it also made her tough to argue with. “Even you have to admit that volunteering one of your brothers for sperm donor duty is a little on the wild side.”
“Why?” Allison got up and started pacing. “It makes perfect sense. My mother has been pushing for a grandchild, but none of my brothers shows any signs of delivering the goods, so to speak. And I'm not about to marry any boring 'so-and-so the Third' to make her happy!” Allison stopped and gave her a winning smile. “Besides, I know you'll make a wonderful mother. The best, in fact.”
“The best what?” asked a deep voice from the doorway.
Liz tensed and gave Allison a warning look.
Even after eleven years, Quentin Whittaker, the oldest of Allison's three older brothers, hadn't lost the power to make her nervous and skittish. Tall, at least six-two by Liz's estimate, with raven-black hair cut conservatively short, he had strong and even features marred only by a small scar at the corner of his right brow—the result of a hockey accident in college.
His eyes connected with hers across the study. “Hello, Elizabeth.”
He never called her Liz, like most people did, or Lizzie, which was what family and close friends sometimes used.
It occurred to her that they'd first met in this room, in this house: she'd been eighteen and on the verge of graduating from high school and he'd been a twenty-five-year-old on the verge of graduating from Harvard Business School.
One look into his bottomless light-gray eyes and she'd been flying through the heavens, borne on the wings of teenaged lust and longing. Quentin, on the other hand, had seemed immune, then and in later meetings, treating her with polite reserve.
He moved into the room, heading for the huge mahogany desk sitting in front of picture windows at the side of the room. “The best what?” he repeated, addressing his question to Allison.
“Quent, Liz needs to have a baby. Fast.”
“Allison!” Liz gaped at her friend. She'd forgotten how Ally could be like a dog with a bone when it came to one of her “ideas.”
Quentin halted and frowned. “What?”
“The doctor told her today that she has endometriosis. The longer she waits to have a baby, the more likely it is that she'll never have one.”
Quentin eyes pinned Liz to her seat. “Is that true?”
“Yes,” she heard herself say in a strangled voice.
Allison ignored the quelling look that Liz threw her way. “She needs a sperm donor.”
Quentin's eyes narrowed. “My hunch is that the reason you're telling me this is you're looking for a sperm donor?”
Allison rushed on, seemingly oblivious to Quentin's ominous tone. “Quentin, you've been getting a lot of pressure from Mom and Dad to settle down and produce a grandchild. And, you've said yourself you have no intention of getting close to the altar again. The way I see it, this is a solution to both your problems.”
“Allison, please!” Liz could feel her face turning redder. She was mortified that her friend would suggest that Quentin, of all men, father her baby. And from the looks of it, Quentin looked equally horrified at the prospect.