LITMIR.BIZ

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for dropping a bomb on you.”

      He strode into the kitchen and reappeared with a towel, then when he’d absorbed the last of the wine with it, he produced a damp sponge to clean the wood. “I hope this doesn’t stain.”

      “It’s the least of my worries.” She fought with several strands of hair that had fallen in her face during the fuss over the table.

      He went still as the topic noticeably sunk in. “Wow. You’re really serious about this.”

      She met his gaze and gave an assertive nod.

      He scraped his jaw, and paced the dining room. “Wow.”

      “Will you at least think about it?”

      “Wow.” The bona fide genius, Jon Becker, had melted down to uttering a single-syllable echo.

      She’d finally gathered her wits and was ready to talk business. “I’ve jotted down some thoughts about everything, and maybe you can give me your input—” oh, what an unfortunate choice of words “—about anything I may have overlooked?”

      His dark eyes took on the wariness of a wild animal. He seemed to need to hold his jaw shut with his hand. After a few seconds considering her proposition, he dropped another look on her that made her take a breath. “You want me to be a father again at forty-two?”

      She thought carefully how to best respond. “No, Jon. I want you to donate your sperm so I can be a mother at thirty-six.”

      He went perfectly still, stared at her as if he’d never seen her before. “You want a designer baby?”

      Sudden calm enveloped her, and clarity of thought finally followed. “Let’s sit down.” She gestured toward the living room to the small sofa in front of the fireplace. He followed.

      “I’ve already got my daughters, I don’t want any more kids,” he said. “And I’m planning a sabbatical once Lacy graduates and goes off to college. I’ve waited a long time to be free again.”

      “You won’t have to be a part of the baby’s life. I’m just asking you to be the sperm donor.”

      “Why not ask Phil? He’s single. Young.”

      “He’s also a playboy and irresponsible.” She left out the part that she preferred Jon’s nose to Phil’s. “Jon, I’ve thought about everyone I know, and you are the top of the list. You’re intelligent, healthy…you have an endearing personality—” How was she supposed to tell him the next part? She took a deep breath and spit it out. “And I think your DNA would work really well with mine.”

      “A superbaby?”

      “A baby. Just a baby with a lot going for it. I’ll take complete responsibility for the child. Nothing—I repeat, nothing—will be expected of you beyond your, uh—” her eyes fluttered and she suddenly needed to swallow “—donation.” She tugged her earlobe and hoped she wasn’t blushing, though her face definitely heated up. “All things considered, your job will be relatively easy.”

      Their eyes met and he seemed hesitant, as if he’d mentally walked his way through exactly what his part would be, and was completely uncomfortable with her proposition.

      “But we work together,” he said. “How on earth am I supposed to not be involved?”

      “I admit it could get tricky, but if you just put yourself in a clinical frame of mind, think of it as a scientific experiment between friends and colleagues, it could work.”

      He didn’t look convinced.

      She patted his hand, the same hand she’d never touched before tonight. “I just know we can handle this.”

      He didn’t look nearly as sure as she professed to be, but she homed in to the subtle willingness to explore the possibilities with him, and seized her opportunity.

      An hour or two or three later, after they’d discussed everything from health history to parental obligations or, in his case, lack thereof, to attorney input and whether or not to do home insemination versus clinical, intravaginal or intracervical insemination, the bizarre nature of their conversation seemed almost normal, as if two medical colleagues were discussing lab results.

      “You feel like some dessert?” she asked.

      He laughed, but admitted he did.

      Amazingly, he ate every bite of the apple-and-berry torte she’d picked up at the bakery. Then, when it was time to leave, he hesitated. “I need time to think this over, René.”

      “Of course! I’m just grateful you haven’t gone bolting out my door, peeling tire rubber trying to get away.”

      “I wouldn’t run out on you.” He squeezed her shoulder.

      “I know that, Jon.” She ducked her head against his chest, something else she’d never done with him before tonight, then quickly lifted it.

      “I guess I’d better be going.” It was almost midnight.

      “When you make your decision, if it’s yes, all you have to do is give me the nod and I’ll have my attorney draw up a contract. If you do decide to help me with this, I won’t hold you responsible in any way, Jon. You have my word. I promise.”

      He took a breath and got a goofy look on his face. “In that case, we could save all kinds of trouble and do this the old-fashioned way,” he said with a devilish glint in his eyes.

      An absurd laugh escaped her lips, and she socked his arm. Jon thought more like most men than she’d imagined. “You’re such a joker.” Though in the five years she’d known him, joker was never a word she’d use to describe him.

      They’d had a conversation about creating a life without sex. He’d recited the statistics on success rates depending on his motility, and her fertility considering her age. They’d taken it to the scientific level, which made sense since they were both doctors, and he’d almost agreed to the plan. She wasn’t about to throw one major potentially mind-blowing wrench into the mix, no matter what he suggested in jest. The old-fashioned way? No way. No how.

      She bit her lip and stared at him. As their gazes fused, a new understanding bridged between them. Under the most unlikely circumstances, they’d taken their business relationship to a new level. Whether Jon decided to take her up on the deal or not, things between them would never be the same.

      

      Jon could run a hundred miles and still not work out the crazy mix of emotions sluicing through him. He’d woken up early—hell, he’d never officially fallen asleep by true sleep study standards—and after tossing and turning he’d gotten up before sunrise and hit the Santa Barbara foothills. What little REM time he did manage had been cluttered with vivid dreams about babies and doctor babes, outlandish propositions and some interesting positions, too. At one point, René had straddled him. He liked that part of his dream, yet it had made him sit bolt upright, disoriented. And poof, the sexy vision had vanished.

      A sudden steep hill forced him back into the moment, and he hit it with determination, refusing to slow his pace. Last night, in another transition from non-REM to early REM, he’d seen René as if looking through the wrong end of a telescope, motioning to him to follow her as she floated farther and farther away toward a baby. A tiny baby. In a test tube.

      Crazy dreams matched by crazy thoughts.

      His lungs burned with each stride, his leg muscles protested with aches and near cramps, but he refused to stop, refused to give in to the hill. That damn proposition. He had plans, for crying out loud! He was going to take a sabbatical and travel to the Far East. He’d study with Asian healers and cardiologists and learn their methods while imparting his knowledge. His daughters had reached the age where they’d be going out into the world, and he dreamed about doing the same. Finally!

      It still seemed unreal that two years ago his wife, out of the blue, had asked for a divorce after seventeen years of marriage. It

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