MEGHAN FINISHED APPLYING her makeup and stepped back to study herself critically in the mirror. With her body bathed, lotioned, powdered and perfumed, her hair french braided and coiled skillfully at the nape of her neck, she was well satisfied with her efforts.
The outfit she’d bought especially to wear this evening lay on the bed. Over black silk string bikini panties she fastened a matching black garter belt and carefully pulled on dark silk stockings. Braless, she tied a black satin halter top around her neck and again behind her at her waist. Although the garment was completely backless, the front had a gently draped cowl neckline and appeared from that angle to be a nice, conservative blouse, perfectly suited to wear with her cinnamon-colored crepe dirndl skirt and jacket. Next she donned a pair of large, round nonprescription glasses.
Surveying the results in her full-length mirror, Meghan almost crowed with delight. In her one-inch pumps she looked ready to do business with a judge. If she took off the glasses and jacket, let down her hair, and put on higher heels, she’d look ready to give him the business.
Stuffing her extra pair of shoes and a clipboard, which held a hundred copies of her questionnaire, into her oversized shoulder bag, she took one last glance at herself in the mirror. Finally she grinned stunningly and winked at her image. With an anticipatory bounce in her walk, Meghan Shay set out to get pregnant.
In the cab, Meghan felt unexpectedly calm. It wasn’t as if she did this every day. Maybe her confidence sprang from her conviction that what she was about to do was right for her, that the plan she had hatched had been years in development. She knew she wasn’t being impulsive. It was a deliberate, well-thought-out, logical act. At least Meghan thought so.
She would have preferred to do this in the conventional manner. She knew hers wasn’t the easiest way, but her heart was possessed by the idea. Meghan felt driven to take matters into her own hands. It was strange, she thought, the way you could affect your own destiny at times, and at other times fate took over. Then no matter how you tried to change things, you couldn’t gain control.
In their most unrealistic moments of daydreaming she and Carl had planned to have a dozen children. They had finally settled on having three or four babies, to be started immediately after their “I do’s,” the day after graduation from law school.
Meghan shook her head regretfully. It still didn’t seem fair that Carl’s life had been cut short. Not just because of how it had affected her, but because Carl had been a kind, gentle, loving man. A good man, who could have had the world by the tail, if he’d only had the chance. Meghan still missed him and probably always would.
Years later she had fallen in love with Bob, a wonderful man who had much in common with her, except the desire to have children. When he proposed marriage, Meghan had been truly upset because she’d had to refuse, but she knew she wanted a child at least as much as she’d wanted him.
Her experiences with Carl and Bob were now arguments in favor of what she was doing. Life was short and it gave no guarantees. Meghan had come to learn that very few things in life were just given to you. Getting what you wanted called for effort and determination, for total control of your own destiny.
At the age of thirty-four, Meghan had decided not to wait for another man to come into her life. Time was passing and there was no assurance that he’d show up before her biological clock ran down. She desperately wanted a child. She had everything to give, and her heart told her it was time to take action.
“Have you considered seeing an exorcist before you get carried away with this plan of yours?” Lucy, her best friend and only confidante had asked after hearing Meghan’s grand scheme.
“For heaven’s sake, Lucy. All I want is one little sperm with some decent chromosomes. Is that so much to ask for?”
“No,” she had conceded, “but have you thought about the man’s right to know about his own child?”
“Give me a break, Lucy,” Meghan had said vehemently. “Men run all over New York dropping their seeds indiscriminately. Exceptionally ‘nice’ men will take a woman to bed and just assume she’s taken care of protecting herself and never even ask. So what if one of those seeds falls on fertile soil? Do you think the man will even think twice about the possibility? That’s why he has to be a stranger. Preferably one from out of town. He’ll drop his seed, leave town, and think of it as a fling at a convention in New York City.” She paused briefly, then added in a gentler tone, “I don’t want to hurt anyone, Lucy. I just want a baby. If I were honest with a man and asked him to please impregnate me, he’d turn and run like hell, thinking I wanted to make some sort of claim on his life. But if he thinks he’s just getting a nice roll in the hay for free, if he never knows I’m pregnant, how could it possibly hurt him?” She had finished, making the whole outrageous idea sound simple.
“There’s got to be a flaw in there somewhere. I just don’t hear it yet,” Lucy had replied. “Give me some time to think it over.”
“You have till Saturday,” Meghan had warned.
Lucy had called several times to voice her objections. Each time Meghan had calmly and logically shot down her every protest until Lucy had given in.
“As my contribution to this harebrained idea,” she had started without preamble over the phone that morning, “I have a title for the thesis you’re supposedly working on.”
“Okay, let’s have it,” Meghan had said with a laugh, glad she finally had Lucy’s reluctant support.
“Call it ‘Ramifications of the Out-of-Town Convention Upon the Professional Male of the Species.’”
“That’s great.” Meghan had chuckled. “That sounds dry enough to put a real sociologist to sleep.”
“Meghan”—Lucy’s voice had been sober and serious—“you be careful.”
“I promise I will.”
Putting phase one into action, Meghan explained to the desk clerk at the Essex House Hotel that she was working on a sociology thesis and got his permission to “tactfully” conduct her survey in the lobby.
In her planning she had obtained several convention schedules from the larger hotels and had methodically eliminated possibilities until she’d come to her final decision. A Physics Symposium at the Essex. She was hoping her baby would have the intellect of a physicist and the superbly athletic body for which members of her family were known.
She had never in her wildest imagination thought it was going to be so difficult to find one decent man to get her pregnant. She must have met hundreds of men in her life, and, of course, she’d always mentally accepted or rejected them as possible husband material. But picking out a stranger to father her baby was something else entirely.
She had, however, worked out a logical system for interviewing the candidates ambling about the lobby of the hotel. The first priority was general appearance. She didn’t mind bald men, but height was a definite point of consideration. If the baby grew up to be a short person, he or she would feel inferior in the Shay family. A pot belly and thin, straight, greasy hair were probably irrelevant, but if coupled with a short stature, the conventioneer was automatically eliminated. The second factor involved was how Meghan felt about the person in general. Considering herself an excellent judge of character, she didn’t approach a man unless she had a good feeling about him.
There were five hundred men attending the Physics Symposium. Of the possible subjects in the lobby, Meghan had interviewed twelve, none of whom had turned out to be the right man.
An hour later, she was in the cocktail lounge. She had explained herself to the bartender, and he had graciously given the pleasant, harmless looking sociologist free reign of his domain.
Meghan thought she had hit pay dirt when she encountered four gentlemen, whom she guessed were all in their mid-thirties, sitting at a table. They happily agreed to answer her questions, and had great fun with their responses.
“I definitely wouldn’t mind taking a woman who was a total stranger, to bed,” one of the men was saying, as he eyed Meghan lecherously.
Feeling extremely uncomfortable and about ready to chuck the entire project, Meghan looked away from the table, toward the entrance to the lobby.
There were people passing back and forth in front of the archway. A cluster of men were talking and shaking hands. All these people are perfectly normal human beings, she thought to herself. Over half are probably married, or have been, and I’ll bet most of them have fathered a child. Why can’t I find just one?
It was then she noticed him breaking away from the group. He said something to the man on his right, shook the man’s hand and turned toward the lounge.
Meghan felt her breath catch in her throat. He was the most magnificent man she’d ever seen. Tall and burly, his movements were fluent and graceful. Then, as she watched him turn in response to his name and allow himself to be draped in the long white arms of Daphne Alexander, her lip curled with disgust.
Daphne traveled in the fast lane. She was one of those young, plastic society women who never seemed to have anything better to do than flirt with men and paint her toenails. Not that Meghan had anything against wealthy people in general; some of her favorite clients were well-to-do. But the idle rich who had more money than manners, more time than they knew what to do with, and who knew more gossip about their so-called friends than they knew about current world events, irritated her beyond control.
Meghan had met Daphne at several of the lavish affairs thrown by her law firm’s senior partners. Meghan had always considered the events to be a bit on the garish side and found it interesting in retrospect that Daphne had always seemed right at home amid the festivities.
The giant man gave Daphne a brief, polite embrace, then stepped back as she launched into conversation. He kept nodding and smiling for several minutes, and to Meghan’s delight he didn’t appear to be enjoying himself very much. She almost giggled when he thrust one hand deep into his pants pocket and impatiently shifted his weight from one leg to the other. The gesture spoke volumes on his good manners.
Somewhere in the back of her mind she realized that the professor who was currently answering her last question was nearly finished. She glanced back at the men, now finding them totally lacking as specimens, and asked her next question. Their answers were irrelevant to her, but she needed time to plan her moves on “Mr. Right.”
When he was finally able to break away from Daphne, he entered the lounge with an air of bold self-assurance, exuding total masculinity. Briefly scanning the room, he chose a table behind and to the left of where Meghan was sitting. Stretching out in the chair, his legs reaching under the table for what seemed like miles, he glanced up to find Meghan watching him. She saw him give her a brief half smile before she quickly drew her attention back to the four ex-candidates.
Discovering that she had been holding her breath since first seeing him, Meghan sighed.
“If I were guaranteed that my wife would never find out, I probably wouldn’t hesitate very long either,” another, more serious physics professor was saying.
“What?” Meghan asked, confused.
“I was answering your question,” he said.
“Oh. So you would have a fling at a convention then,” she restated for him.
“I would if my wife’s radar were out of commission, but she’s got almost a sixth sense about my faithfulness. One time I had this gorgeous blonde in one of my classes.” He went on to tell his story, but Meghan’s own radar was homing in on the man behind her. In her mind she reviewed the smooth contours of his face, the cap of thick, dark hair, the keenness of his eyes. …
Michael Ramsey was dog-tired and frustrated when he entered the cocktail lounge on the main floor of the Essex House Hotel. He’d taken the late flight out of Dallas the night before, and since nine o’clock that morning, he’d been discussing preliminary plans to buy out a company named Dobson Publishing. It was perfect for his needs—good reputation, moderate size, excellent facilities, superb staff. But Lord, those Dobson brothers could hem and haw. They quibbled and dickered over every point as if Michael, too, were haggling … and he wasn’t. He was very aware of what selling out meant to the two men and was more than willing to meet their demands. But after three or four hours with the picky old gentlemen, Michael’s patience and understanding had begun to wear thin. He’d be glad when he could turn the whole deal over to his lawyers.
He should have gone straight up to his room, but he needed to unwind—a lot—before he would be able to sleep.
After the waitress had come and gone, leaving his drink behind, Michael looked around the lounge. Not many unattached women were out tonight, he noted absently. The majority of the people present were men in ties and suits, and an occasional woman in a business suit or casual dress. There were also several couples who were obviously out for a romantic night on the town. Lucky them, he thought wryly.
His attention finally settled on the group of men in front of him and the woman who had been staring at him earlier. She seemed to be throwing out topics for discussion, and the men were responding with animated conversation. She was probably a secretary, he speculated. As he watched, the woman turned her head slightly, looking from man to man, and as she did so, to Michael’s bemused amazement, her hair changed colors.
As the soft lights in the darkened lounge reflected off the top of her head, her shiny red hair went from a golden copper color to chestnut, then to a flame red, and then to a deep, dark brick red. His weary, enfeebled brain found it fascinating. For several minutes he watched her in a daze.
His eyes narrowed slightly as the woman began to straighten her spine, sitting taller in her seat, her head held high. When she gave him a quick, sidelong glance, he knew she was still very aware of him.
He was amused. Women were one of his favorite sports. He tremendously enjoyed watching them use their tactics on men. He couldn’t count the times a woman had set her cap for him and then proceeded to maneuver and connive to get his attentions. It was almost like a game to him to set his wits against those of the formidable fairer sex.
With the survival of his bachelorhood in mind, he sized up his latest possible opponent. Well, maybe she wasn’t too much of a threat after all, he thought disappointedly. Considering the way she had quickly turned away when he had caught her looking at him, and the stylish but prim way she dressed, she was probably as shy as a church mouse. Too bad, he thought, because aside from her gorgeous hair, she also had incredible legs—beautifully shaped, and damned near as long as his.
As he examined her stems, the shy flower stood to take leave of the gentlemen. Michael’s gaze followed the long, shapely limbs up to the voluptuous curves and bulges barely concealed by the conservative skirt and jacket. “Good Lord,” he lamented out loud, thinking it was probably just as well that she was timid. Take down that hair, take off the glasses, and she could be a very dangerous woman.
He watched as she reluctantly turned toward him. She hesitated several seconds before she resolutely started walking toward his table. Nothing could conceal her lithe movements or the subtly seductive sway of her hips. For the first time he got a good look at her face. Her skin was creamy white, her high cheekbones flushed with a rosy glow. She had a pert, little nose that turned up slightly, and the way her chin was set at a stubbornly determined angle very much appealed to Michael.
Her eyes startled him. She looked at him straight on, and he was amazed that even through the glasses he could see how purely green they were. Her eyes were as green as her hair was red, not hazel or a mossy green, but almost a true kelly green. It fleetingly crossed his mind that she was indeed a “bonny Irish lass.”
“Excuse me,” she said softly. “Could I bother you by asking you a few questions?”
Michael had stood when she arrived at his table. She couldn’t be more than six inches shorter than I am, he thought with pleasure. At least if I kissed her, I wouldn’t have to get down on my knees to do it. The idea brought his gaze to her lips, which were soft and luscious looking. Pulling himself together as much as possible, he smiled at her.
“Certainly. What sort of questions?” he asked, offering her the chair opposite him.
“Well, it’s a survey actually,” she said, her voice cracking slightly. The man was magnificent. Meghan couldn’t remember ever feeling so nervous or self-conscious around a man. She didn’t care if he was from out of town or not at this point. If he was, he’d fit into her plan perfectly. If he was a full-blooded New Yorker … well, so what. Her first choice would have been to have a legal daddy for her baby, anyway; that he was big and gorgeous and sent her heart racing wouldn’t hurt, either.
He looked at her with a bold honesty that made her feel as though she had “phony” written across her forehead. His face was tanned and he had little laugh lines around his eyes, eyes which were an unusual steel gray, almost teal color. Knowing instinctively that, barring venereal disease or mental illness, he was the one, she gave him extra credit for his eyes. Meghan wouldn’t mind at all if her baby had his eyes and hair—it was time for a little color variation in the Shay family.
The woman was staring at him again. Poor thing. Wanting to help her, Michael prompted, “What sort of survey?”
“Oh, sorry. I’m working on a sociology thesis. There aren’t very many questions; it won’t take long,” she recited from habit.
“Okay. Ask away. Would you like a drink?” he added, trying to make her comfortable.
“No. No, thank you.” She cleared her throat gently and launched into the interview. “Your age, please?”
“Thirty-six,” he stated.
Meghan was writing feverishly on the clipboard and didn’t look up when she asked, “Your general health?”
“Healthy,” he replied. He watched as she continued to write. “Is it taking you all that time to put down thirty-six and healthy?”
“No. Oh, no,” she stammered. “I’m also writing down your general physical description.”
“Why?”
He was the first man to ask her a question, and Meghan was not prepared. She suddenly became more anxious. She touched her forehead and glanced at her fingertips to see if the paint was still wet on her “phony” sign.
“I don’t know,” she said as frankly as she could, not understanding why herself. She wasn’t likely to forget him. “Do you mind?”
“No, I don’t mind, if you’ll read your description to me.”
Meghan had written “gorgeous hunk of man, tall, wonderful big gray eyes, long black lashes, dark wavy hair.”
Truly flustered now, she responded, “I … I wrote tall, large frame, dark coloring, gray eyes. … Is that okay?”
“Will you relax? I’m not going to attack you, I promise.” He chuckled at her in a friendly manner. “It’s fine. Ask your next question.”
“How tall are you, and what is your weight?” she went on, giving him a brief smile.
“Six-four. Two hundred and forty-five, usually,” he retorted briefly. “How about you?”
“How about me what?” she asked, her green eyes round in startlement. Michael watched as even, white teeth nipped at her lower lip. It was a very inviting gesture.
“How tall are you?” he restated, his admiring gaze roving over the top half of her body.
“Five-eleven,” she said, watching him look at her, increasingly aware of her own femininity. Her heart rate accelerated and her flushed cheeks began to burn with a sensation she hesitated to identify.
However, his glance was not a leer, she noted. It was merely admiring. His eyes were friendly, and he had intended the look to be a compliment, not a lecherous advance.
Nervously, she cleared her throat once more and spoke before he could ask her anything else.
“Do you have a family or personal history of diabetes?”
“No.”
“Allergies?”
“No.”
“Mental illness?”
“Mental illness?” he repeated.
Meghan nodded, giving him the innocent look that had always worked on her father, except when she’d been caught red-handed.
“No,” he stated with a perplexed frown, as he motioned for the waitress to bring him another drink. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”
“No, thank you. Do you happen to know your I.Q?” she asked, beginning to feel a little more at ease with him. He was really a very nice man; she could feel it in her bones.
“No, I don’t. Sorry,” he apologized.
“That’s okay,” she said casually, before asking, “Do you take illegal drugs?”
He eyed her suspiciously now. “Does that have something to do with my IQ?”
“I’m not sure. I suppose it could, but it’s just one of the questions,” she informed him with a shrug.
“No, I don’t take illegal drugs,” he answered, still frowning. He was about to take a sip of scotch from his glass when she dropped her first bomb.
“Do you have a social disease?”
Michael coughed and sputtered after having gasped and inhaled part of his drink. A worried Meghan was instantly at his side, giving his back several well-intended blows. Gulping air to return the oxygen to his brain so he could think again, he scrutinized her with sharp eyes.
“Did I hear you correctly?” he asked, dumbfounded, pushing his drink to the side of the table.
“It is one of the questions, but if you’d rather not answer …” Her best attorney’s voice was interrupted.
“Hell, no, I don’t have a social disease,” he almost yelled at her. “What …”
This time she interrupted him before she lost her nerve.
“Would you happen to know whether or not you’re sterile?” she threw at him, putting on a totally guileless expression.
“Who are you?” he asked, stunned and a little angry.
“Well, these questionnaires are usually totally anonymous. I don’t think that they include my name either. I’m just someone asking someone else a question.” She squirmed in her chair, hoping he’d find his sense of humor soon, before she had to cross him off the top of her list.
For several minutes he just sat still, his head cocked to one side, considering her. As the silence became uncomfortable, Meghan became flustered again. It wasn’t going right. She didn’t want to offend him, but there were certain things she needed to know. Trying to calm herself, she attempted a new approach.
“Look, mister, this is just a survey for a sociology thesis. I don’t want to pry into your life or offend you. Let’s just call it quits,” she bluffed, starting to rise from her chair.
He reached out and put a hand on her clipboard. “Sit … please,” he said, his thick Texas drawl gentle. “You are prying into my life, but in answer to your question, to my knowledge, it’s yet to be confirmed.”
The woman was a Chinese puzzle to Michael. How could she look like a wallflower one minute, and then without batting an eye, ask him intimate questions the next. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe she was just extremely wily. He began to visualize how she’d look without the glasses, with her hair down. …
“Would you describe your education,” she requested, breaking into his reverie.
“I have degrees in American Literature and Journalism, and an MBA,” he rattled off, his mind on far more interesting things.
“And you teach physics?” Meghan asked, frowning in confusion.
He thought he must have missed part of the conversation. “I don’t teach physics,” he said simply.
“What do you mean, you don’t teach physics?” she questioned, panic rising in her voice.
“I mean, I don’t teach physics. I’m a publisher,” he clarified. As she sat gawking at him as though he had suddenly grown horns on his head, he tried to be helpful. “You know—books, magazines, newspapers.”
“Where?” she uttered.
“Where what?”
“Where do you publish?” she asked testily.
“Texas and California at the moment.”
She sighed audibly, visibly calmed by his answer.
“So you don’t live in New York?” she said, wanting it made perfectly clear.
“I live in Dallas,” he said thoughtfully, then added, “You know, this is the strangest survey I’ve ever heard … or answered. What’s this thesis about, anyway?”
“The Ramification of the Out-of-Town Convention Upon the Professional Male of the Species,” she said, grinning at him.
A deep chuckle rose from inside him. His eyes twinkled as he shared her enjoyment of the title.
“That sounds dry enough to put any sociologist to sleep,” he observed in his deep, fatigue-slurred voice.
Meghan laughed aloud as he nearly quoted her remark to Lucy that morning. “I didn’t dream up the title,” she confessed honestly, “I’m just asking the questions.”
“Well, I answered your questions, but I’m not attending a convention,” he pointed out to her.
She looked around, doing an excellent impression of a CIA agent, then leaned forward and curled her index finger at him. He looked from side to side, joining in the game, and came face to face with her across the table. His breath was warm on her face. They grinned at one another, their gazes locked. In the few seconds before Meghan spoke, they seemed to have exchanged something with their eyes. A secret? A promise? A sensation? A bond of some kind? She didn’t know what it was, but she knew they both were aware of it. She knew that if they parted in the next minute, they each would remember having shared something indefinable for a few brief seconds in the dim lounge of the Essex House Hotel.
“You know that. And now I know it,” she whispered. “But do you think anyone reading the thesis will?”
“Nope.” His grin widened. The amused twinkle in his eyes was intoxicating. Meghan willingly could have drowned in them. Why couldn’t he live in New York after all, she thought. She could forget this whole thing and do it the right way … with him.
“To tell you the truth,” she continued to whisper conspiratorially, “asking these questions of strange men is terribly embarrassing and not a lot of fun for me. So if you don’t mind being mixed in with a few physics professors, I’m just going to shuffle your answers in with theirs and call it a night.”
“You mean you’ve finished?” he asked, his brows raising with interest.
“Yes. Thank heavens,” she said, leaning back in her chair again, oddly breathless.
“Will you join me for a drink then?” he asked, also returning to a relaxed position, aware that he was hoping very hard she would stay. Sometime during the last few minutes she had lost that shy, uncertain air. Her eyes had taken on a look of self-assuredness, and she was smiling in a shrewd, knowing manner. Michael was intrigued.
“Again, thank you, but I really can’t.” She paused briefly and gave him a very special smile. “I do thank you for answering those awkward questions though,” she said as she gathered her things and prepared to leave. The last question on her list that she had not asked was whether or not, as a conventioneer, he would have a brief fling if the opportunity arose. It was a superfluous question at this point. She already knew that she was going to do all in her power to have him.
“Are you a sociologist then?” Michael asked, ignoring her readiness to leave, wanting to know more about her.
“No,” she admitted, “but I’m in a related field, and the subject of the individual human being in society has always interested me,” and felt good at being truthful with him.
“You enjoy your work. That’s good. So many people don’t,” he said, for no real purpose other than to keep her talking about herself.
Meghan studied him thoughtfully. He looked tired. Lines of fatigue etched his face, and his eyelids drooped over blood-shot eyes, even as said orbs danced with friendliness and interest.
“Life is too short to do something you don’t like, just as it’s too short not to fill it with all the things you want to do, or have, or be,” she said sincerely.
“I agree,” Michael solidly confirmed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he sat across from her, each of them measuring, speculating, forming opinions of the other. So what if she didn’t dress to do her beauty justice; she was thoughtful and intelligent … and not at all shy, he determined as he watched her boldly assess his own features. This woman was different. She didn’t seem to be at all aware of her good looks, or if she was, it didn’t matter to her. She gave the impression of someone who enjoyed living and fulfilling her life to her own satisfaction, as opposed to someone who simply floated through her existence, dreaming but never achieving. This woman achieved.
“You’re not a native New Yorker,” he stated more than questioned.
“No,” she said, and grinned. “I developed my twang in Boston, but I’ve lived in New York for so long, people hardly notice it anymore. Strange the way people adapt to their surroundings,” she speculated. “Even their voices change. However, I do think that drawl of yours would be very hard to alter, even after living in New York,” she added with a warm-hearted laugh.
“Again, I agree with you,” he said with a nod of his head and a good-natured laugh. “But then, we Texans tend to hold on to things once we got ’em,” Michael informed Meghan in a thicker-than-thick stage drawl.
“Well, that’s good, because I like it,” she confessed, still smiling happily as she made her move to leave him. “I really have to go, but thanks again for being such a good sport about the questionnaire. I enjoyed talking with you,” she said, holding out her hand in a friendly gesture.
Neither was prepared for the small flash of sparks that flew when Michael took Meghan’s hand. Their arms tingled in the aftermath of the shock; their eyes registered their wonderment. They were silent for several seconds.
“There’s no way I could talk you into staying a little longer?” he asked hopefully.
Meghan gave a regretful shrug. “I’m sorry. But maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” It was more of a promise than a prophecy.
“I’d like that. And I wish you luck on your project,” Michael said, knowing he’d kick himself later for letting her get away.
“Thank you,” she replied sincerely, standing to leave. “It will make me very happy if it turns out the way I’m hoping it will.”
A short time later the waitress approached Michael.
“Would you like another?” she asked politely, cataloging his good looks with interest.
He considered having another drink. He felt restless, disconcerted, and strangely exasperated. It was that woman, that redhead. He didn’t even know her name. The Red-Headed Woman With No Name. It sounded like the title of a B movie. He kept picturing her walking toward him with that alluring sway of her hips. In the next sequence, her glasses were gone, and her glorious red hair hung in waves to the middle of her back. Subsequently, she sauntered toward him in nothing but a black teddy. At this point his heart would race and he’d feel definite signs of quickening in his body. Then the film would begin again in his mind.
He glanced up and realized the waitress was waiting for his answer. Maybe another drink would destroy the haunting memory. … Then again, he was so tired and the two drinks he’d already had had relaxed him considerably. If he drank any more, the Red-Headed Woman would come riding in on a pink elephant.
“No. Thanks. I’ll just finish this one,” he said morosely.
In the ladies’ room just outside the cocktail lounge, Meghan had removed her glasses and jacket, changed shoes and was unbraiding her hair in front of the large mirror.
Second, third, and fourth thoughts of carrying out her self-imposed assignment riddled her conscience. The man was perfect. Wonderful genes. A stranger from out of town. He fit the bill exactly. Going to bed with him wouldn’t be too painful, either, Meghan thought wryly. As a bonus, he was dead on his feet with exhaustion. He would probably pass out immediately afterward and there wouldn’t be any uncomfortable scenes.
“Have you thought about a man’s right to know about his own children?” came Lucy’s voice, honest and frank.
“Damn,” Meghan said aloud, pulling a brush from her bag and dragging it through her tight waves of hair.
A sleazy character had been out of the question from the beginning. She had pictured a decent looking, egotistical but essentially harmless womanizer. A faceless, walking, talking spermmobile of sorts. But this nice, honorable man?
He had probably never slain a dragon or settled a violent labor dispute single-handedly. He may never have been an Eagle Scout or given a quarter to a stranger for a phone call, but Meghan felt he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. He had integrity. It showed in his face and the way he carried himself. He was a good man. Wasn’t he?
Guilt and uncertainty warred with her own wants and needs and rights. Childishly, she pouted that it didn’t seem fair that the man played such a large part in the creation of a baby when it was the woman who did all the work. She fortified herself, thinking that one little spark in a man’s eye could bloat a woman’s body, cause her the untold pain of delivery, and give her a lifetime of moral, physical, mental, and emotional responsibilities.
Calmly, she asked herself, “Do you really want a baby?” “Yes,” she answered. “So when will a more perfect subject come along again?” Meghan could tell her muse was all for going ahead with the plan. And she was right. The chances of the right man and the right time coming together again at a convenient place were almost nil.
In two and a half hours or less she’d be home and in her own bed. He’d wake up in the morning, get on a plane, and never look back. He’d never even know what hit him. She had no intentions of hurting the man in any way. What he didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. But what she didn’t know about him, could hurt her, came her hundredth thought. Under normal circumstances, she’d trust her first instincts about a person without question. But this was far from a normal situation even for Meghan on one of her more outlandish days, of which there had been several in years gone by. Was she so desperate to have a baby that she’d delude herself into going to bed with a gorgeous murderer? Could she trust her nearly faultless instincts in a case such as this?
Loath though she was to admit it, there was a way for her to be certain. Daphne Alexander. Meghan rolled her eyes in dread and dismay. It was better to be safe than sorry.
Finishing her transformation, she hurriedly found a quarter. For authenticity and to avert suspicion, she used the pay phone rather than the house phone to call the main desk.
She chewed on her lower lip anxiously while she prayed Daphne was still in the Essex and able to hear the page.
“Hello,” rang Daphne’s sugar-sweet voice over the line moments later.
“Ms. Alexander,” Meghan started enthusiastically, “This is Meghan Shay. I understand you called.”
“I did?” Daphne asked, her tone vague.
“That’s the message I got from my secretary,” she said simply, inferring her secretary had better things to do than make up false messages.
“Well, I did call once, at your office,” the society darling admitted, still confused, “but that was about two months ago.”
“How may I help you?” Meghan said, as if a two month waiting period were customary, glad she hadn’t returned Daphne’s call earlier. It was strange the way things always had a way of working themselves out, Meghan decided philosophically.
“How did you know where to reach me at this time of night?” the not-so-stupid debutante asked.
“Ah …” Meghan had to think quick. “I was on my way out of the Essex a little while ago and saw you. I knew you wouldn’t have called me at the office unless it was important, so when I got home, I thought I’d try to reach you there. Have I interrupted something?” she asked politely, humoring the girl.
“Actually, I, …” Daphne paused. Apparently deciding the information she’d wanted two months ago was still important enough to preempt whatever she was doing at the moment, she continued, “I called to see if you’d enjoyed the party at the Clarensons’. They’re such lovely people and always make their guests feel so comfortable.”
“Yes, they are,” agreed Meghan, frowning disjointedly. “I had a lovely time.”
“I suppose that handsome young man you were with had something to do with that as well,” Daphne mentioned none too discreetly.
A sly, knowing smile curved Meghan’s lips. “Tim? Oh, yes, he’s a doll. A really nice person,” she said with enthusiasm.
“Have you known him long?” Daphne asked.
“No, not really, but I wish I had time to get to know him better. I’m just so busy, I never seem to find time for dating. And men like Tim don’t come along every day,” Meghan responded with just the right amount of wistfulness. “I saw for myself that that isn’t the case for you though. I saw you hugging that enormous man in the lobby of the Essex a little while ago. He was nothing to spit at,” Meghan said teasingly, but in fact she was very truthful.
“Oh, him. You’re right. He isn’t anything to ignore, but he’s very picky. He’s nice, don’t get me wrong, but he doesn’t … play around much, if you know what I mean. He likes to joke around, but he’s real serious about his publishing company and keeps his private life … private.”
“He’s antisocial?” concluded Meghan, her mind suspicious.
“Not at all,” rushed Daphne, unaware that her brain was being picked almost clean. “It’s just that he doesn’t run with our crowd even though he’s been invited often enough. When he’s not behind his desk, he’s into horses and cows and sports and staying healthy. Things like that,” she explained, as if “things like that” were terribly low class interests. “But basically, he’s a really nice guy.”
The self-satisfied grin and devilish glint in Meghan’s eyes would have terrified the calmest soul. “He certainly was handsome,” she reiterated.
“Oh, yes, he is that, but so was that Tim you were with at the Clarensons’. What was his last name again? I’ve forgotten.” Daphne was nothing if not obvious.
Tim Brogan wasn’t a particularly close friend of Meghan’s; she hardly knew him. How would she know whether Daphne wasn’t just exactly the type of woman he was looking for? It wouldn’t be like feeding him to the wolves; he could always say no for himself.
“Brogan,” Meghan stated quickly, before she changed her mind. After all, she sort of owed Daphne one. “Tim Brogan. He’s in real estate development and making a killing at it, from all accounts.”
“How interesting,” Daphne cooed. Meghan could almost see the saliva dripping from Daphne’s fangs and suddenly felt sorry for poor Tim.
“Thank you for calling, Daphne. I’ve enjoyed talking to you, but I have to run,” Meghan said, unable to resist the temptation to scatter Daphne’s thoughts once more.
“It was my pleasure, Meghan. We’ll talk again soon,” replied Daphne, none the worse for wear.
Meghan could only shake her head disbelievingly as she hung up the phone. Then she settled her attention firmly on the task at hand. Reassured that her good judgment was intact, she set out to complete phase one.