The tiny red light on Lemuel Reis’s tape recorder glowed like a demonic eye as the microcassette inside whirred, catching all of Devin Sloane’s commands, requests, and observations. “Send a check for one thousand to Bill Masters at the university for his search fee,” Devin said, tossing a note into the trash can at the side of his desk. “And write five letters to the women whose names he sent. Polite replies to all, thanks for their interest, but they aren’t appropriate—or something discreet. Be tactful, but don’t say anything to imply I gave them any serious consideration. We wouldn’t want to invite a breach of contract suit.”
“Were none of them suitable?” Lemuel asked, thinking of the five files Masters had delivered the day before. Each had contained a dossier on a beautiful, intelligent university student. All five were young and healthy; all had IQs of over one hundred twenty . . .
“None.” Devin’s gaze flitted over the folders on his desk with impassive coldness. “I don’t know what Masters was thinking. The first one, this Stephanie Maple, didn’t even bother to respond to the question about her favorite comedy. I’ll not have my child carried by some humorless female with the soul of a microchip. Nicole Haley’s mother died of breast cancer, a genetic risk, and Andrea Belknap is at least ten pounds underweight. I can’t risk everything on an anorexic beauty queen. Janet Redfield’s family is living below the poverty level—”
“Surely you don’t think poverty is genetic,” Lemuel interrupted, lifting a brow.
“No.” Devin’s eyes darkened dangerously. “But if the girl is not money-hungry, her mother or father will be; count on it. These women are applying to be the surrogate mother to my child, and intuition tells me Janet Redfield is thinking mostly of dollar signs.”
Lemuel’s eyes darted toward the last folder on Devin’s desk. “There was one other.”
“Ah, Glazier Thomas.” Devin picked up the file and flipped it open. From where he sat Lemuel could see the photograph paper-clipped to the folder—Glazier Thomas was a lovely blonde with green eyes. “Twenty-three years old, IQ of one twenty-two, psychology major, good health, stable parents, no obvious poverty or physical defects.”
“So why not interview Miss Thomas? If she is willing to participate in the experiment—”
“No religious affiliation.” Devin abruptly snapped the folder shut and tossed it onto the pile with the others. “No spiritual concerns whatsoever. A woman with vast emotional, physical, and social resources, but nothing else. And my child, Lemuel, will be a spiritual person. Our ancient ancestors knew how to embrace the mystery of creation, how to feel its vast power within the depths of their souls, how to plumb its riches and majesty. But people like Glazier Thomas scarcely take the time to look up and consider the stars, much less the power behind them.”
He smiled, but with a distracted inward look, as though imagining something only he could understand. “My child will be different,” he whispered, swiveling his chair. He leaned forward, flicked the louvers of the shutters over the massive window behind his desk, then stared out over the emptiness of his perfectly manicured lawn. After a long moment, he turned to Lemuel and shoved the folders across the desk. “Polite rejection letters to each. Thanks but no thanks, the sort of thing you do so well.”
Lemuel gathered the files and stacked them on his lap. “So what should I do now? If none of the university students are acceptable, will you broaden your search?”
“I’ll find the woman on my own,” Devin answered, standing. He moved to the wide window again and looked out across the silent lawn. “Pay Masters his thousand dollars, but do not accept any more of his calls. We’re finished with him. But write another check to Helmut Braun; I’ll deliver it myself.”
“Another five hundred thousand?”
“One million.” Conviction edged Devin’s mellow voice. “For that kind of money, Dr. Braun will help me find the woman I want.”