LITMIR.BIZ

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tonight.

      What could have reduced him to screaming in a parking garage? Well, one thing was certain: he wouldn’t be calling Franca Brightman, PhD, for a consultation.

      * * *

      IF LIFE WERE as precise, clean and well-structured as an operating room, Marshall would be a much happier man, he reflected the next morning as he performed microsurgery. Although he wasn’t fond of working on Saturdays, the scheduling was necessary due to the shortage of ORs. That would change once the new building opened, thank goodness.

      The patient, Art Lomax, a thirty-three-year-old ex-marine, suffered from a low sperm count and reduced sex drive. He longed to be a father and to satisfy his wife in bed. A man who’d fought for his country deserved a break, and Marshall was glad to be able to provide it.

      Seated at the console of the microsurgical system, he trained his eyes on the 3-D high-definition image of the patient’s body. Marshall enjoyed the way the controls translated his slightest hand movement to the instruments inserted into Lomax’s body. The delicate procedure, a varicocelectomy, would repair blood vessels attached to the patient’s testes, which produced both sperm and testosterone. Restoring them to normal functioning would enhance Lomax’s ability to father children and improve his sex drive, along with muscle strength and energy level.

      Around him, the surgical team functioned with smooth efficiency, from Dr. Reid Winfrey, the urologist assisting him, to the nurses who ensured that the right tools were ready to be attached to the machine’s robotic arms. The OR was a technophile’s dream. The overhead lighting generated no heat, while suspended cameras recorded the surgery for later review. An adjacent pathology lab allowed tissue to be tested during surgery so the surgeon could review the results without leaving the sterile field.

      Early in Marshall’s medical training, he’d felt uncomfortable in clinical settings because he lacked the gift of relating easily to people. The discovery of his talent for surgery had revolutionized his dreams.

      Focusing on the screen, he took little notice of the chatter among the surgical team. Then a name caught his attention.

      “Isn’t it awful about Franca Brightman’s little girl?” a nurse, Erica, commented to the anesthesiologist.

      “What about her?” The slender fellow, who sported a trim gray beard, perked up at the prospect of fresh gossip.

      “She was adopting this adorable four-year-old girl whose mom’s a convicted drug dealer,” the nurse said. “Apparently the mother had agreed to the adoption, but then she got sprung from prison due to an evidence snafu at the lab. Just like that, wham, she took the little girl away.”

      “That’s rotten.” Reid, an African-American urologist who shared Marshall’s office suite, frowned at her. The man did volunteer work with underprivileged kids, and had more than once described the harsh impact of parental drug use on children. “Surely a court wouldn’t hand a child over to a mother like that.”

      The petite blonde shrugged. “She isn’t a convict anymore, and the adoption was voluntary.”

      “How long was the girl with Franca?” asked Marshall. Belatedly, he realized he should have used the title Dr. Brightman. But it was too late, anyway, to keep their acquaintance a secret. When he’d referred several staffers and patients to Franca for consults, he’d mentioned they had a prior acquaintance.

      More than an acquaintance. Her anguish last night had shaken him. But he had no clue how to comfort anyone, especially a parent deprived of a child.

      He’d never fathomed why Franca planned to become a foster and adoptive mom to troubled kids when she could presumably bear children of her own. Sure, Marshall sympathized with the youngsters Reid counseled; he’d donated scholarship money to an organization his colleague recommended. But no matter how much he sympathized with their plight, wasn’t it natural to yearn for a little boy or girl who was yours from birth?

      “She’s been with Franca for a couple of years, half the kid’s life.” Erica peered up at the high-definition screen that showed the same image of the patient’s body Marshall was viewing on his terminal. Observing it helped the staff anticipate Marshall’s needs, plus many nurses took an interest in anatomy and physiology. “Jazz was pretty wild when Franca became her foster mom, I gather, but she was learning to trust that the world is a safe place. Until now.”

      “You seem to know a lot about it.” Marshall registered that the anesthesiologist gave him a speculative look due to his uncharacteristic show of interest, but he was too curious to care.

      “Jazz’s been attending the hospital day care center these past few months,” the nurse explained. “My son Jordan is friends with her.”

      Erica and her husband had a toddler, Marshall recalled. Recently, he’d become more aware of who had children.

      Part of the reason stemmed from learning he had a young nephew, and part of it from turning thirty-five. Many doctors delayed marriage and parenthood during their long training, but he’d moved past that stage. As his medical practice showed, men as well as women experienced a powerful urge to procreate. That was an intellectual way of rationalizing his gut-level desire to be a dad.

      But Marshall couldn’t consider fatherhood until he sorted out the shock he’d received less than a week ago. He’d never imagined that everything he thought he knew about himself could disintegrate with a single stunning revelation.

      That didn’t excuse him for howling like a banshee in his car last night. Luckily, the only person who’d overheard had been Franca, and he respected her discretion.

      With the last of the blood vessels repaired, Marshall yielded his position at the controls to Reid, who would close the tiny incisions. The surgery was only minimally invasive, so the patient should be able to go home later that day.

      As for Marshall, he was heading home now, having completed three operations this morning. Much as he loved the two-story house he’d bought here in Safe Harbor, though, he was in no hurry to get there.

      In the hallway, his footsteps dragged. Marshall needed someone to talk to, someone who could set him straight and provide perspective. Someone like Franca.

      That would be a big mistake. In college, he’d recognized almost immediately that his attraction to her was wrong for them both. Instead, he’d tried in vain to fall in love with her roommate, who met all his requirements, or so he’d believed.

      He’d survived for more than a decade without Franca to bounce ideas off. And he would continue to manage just fine.

      At the elevators, Marshall punched the down button. A second later, the doors opened to reveal the other person he didn’t care to face right now. A man almost the same height, build and coloring as Marshall himself.

      Dark circles underscored Dr. Nick Davis’s eyes from an overnight shift in Labor and Delivery that had obviously run long. He gave a start at the sight of Marshall, and for a moment, the air bristled between them.

      Stiffly, Marshall stepped inside. “Hey.”

      “Hey back at you,” said the cousin he’d disliked and resented all his life. And whom he’d just learned was his biological brother.

      As the elevator descended, Marshall searched for a polite way to break the silence. “Rough night, Nicholas?”

      “Buckets of babies.” Nick cleared his throat. “Say, I have a question.”

      Marshall braced for whatever barb might come next. “Shoot.”

      “Will you be the best man at my wedding?”

Chapter Two

      After meeting with a family at her private office in Garden Grove, fifteen miles north of Safe Harbor, Franca drove to her nearby home Saturday morning with her mind in turmoil. She’d insisted on retaining her old practice when she’d joined the hospital staff, partly in case the

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