The Sheikh's Defiant Bride. Sandra Marton
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“Okay. I shouldn’t have said—”
“And then, a couple of months ago, a girl who once interned for me dropped by. She had a belly the size of a beachball, her back hurt, she had to pee every five minutes—and even I could tell that she’d never been happier in her life.”
Madison let go of Barbara’s hand and sat back as the waiter served their fresh drinks. When he was gone, she picked up her glass.
“Right about then,” she said, trying to sound lighthearted and failing, “I realized I’m going to be thirty soon. That sound you hear is my biological clock ticking.”
“Thirty’s nothing.”
“Not true. My mother had an early menopause. For all I know, it’s hereditary.” “I still say there’s a man out there meant for you.” “Not if my mother’s bad taste in men is also hereditary. Go on, give me that look, but who knows? She was married three times, always to rich, gorgeous, world-class bastards. If she hadn’t been in that accident, she’d probably be on husband number four.”
“What about kids needing two parents?” Barb said stubbornly.
“Did you have two parents?”
“Well, no, but—”
“One loving parent is better than two who screw things up. And, yes, I know A.I. might not be the answer for everyone, but it is for me.”
“You really are serious,” Barb said, after a second.
“Yes.” Madison gave a shaky smile. “I want a child so much…I ache, just thinking about it. The whole thing, you know? The good and the not so good. A tiny life kicking inside me. My baby in my arms. Diapers and two a.m. feedings, the first day of kindergarten, visits from the tooth fairy and in a few years, arguments about curfews…”
“Okay. I’m convinced. You actually might do this.”
Madison took a breath. “I am going to do it,” she said quietly. “I’ve already made the arrangements.”
Barb widened her eyes. “What?”
“I’ve seen my OB-GYN, I’ve been charting my periods—and I went through the donor files at FutureBorn and picked out a guy who seems perfect.”
“Meaning?”
“He’s in his thirties, he has a Ph.D., he’s in excellent health, he likes opera and poetry and—”
“What’s he look like?”
“Average height and build, light brown hair, hazel eyes.”
“I mean, what’s he look like?”
“Oh, you don’t get to see photos. It’s all very anonymous. Well, unless the donor wants his sperm kept for his own future use, of course, but when a woman purchases sperm—”
“Purchases,” Barb said, with a lift of her eyebrows.
Madison shrugged. This part of the conversation was easier. Talking about the emotions driving her was tough; the technicalities were a snap.
“It’s not a romance novel,” she said dryly. “The purpose is to have a baby, not a relationship.”
“And you’re going to do this…when?”
“Monday. And if things go well—”
“Monday? So soon?”
“There’s no point in waiting. Yes. Monday, two o’clock. If all goes well, nine months from now, I’ll be a mother.” Madison hesitated. “Will you wish me luck?”
Barb looked at her for a long moment. Then she sighed, picked up her glass and held it out.
“Of course. I wish you all the luck in the world. You know that. I just hope—”
“I’ll be fine.”
The friends touched glasses. They smiled at each other, the kind of smile women share when they love each other but disagree about something truly important. Then Barb cleared her throat.
“So,” she said briskly, “since Monday’s the big day, how about we celebrate tonight?”
“Aren’t you meeting Hank?”
“Actually I thought we’d both meet Hank. His boss just bought a place on Sixtieth off Fifth, and he’s throwing a big party.”
Madison batted her lashes. “A party in the city in June?” she said in her very best East Coast boarding school voice. “How unfashionable.”
“Come on, don’t say no. It’ll be fun.”
“And maybe, just maybe, I’ll be swept off my feet by some Prince Charming.” Madison laughed at Barb’s blush. “You are so transparent, Barbara!”
“Heck, this is only Friday. Your date with a test tube isn’t until Monday.”
“Very amusing.”
“Come on, Maddie. If your mind’s made up about this test tube thing—”
“It’s not called ‘this test tube thing,’ it’s called—”
“I know what it’s called.”
Madison sighed. “It’s been a long day. And I’m not dressed for—”
“The party’s only a couple of blocks from your place. We can stop by first so you can change. Please?”
“Sometimes, I forget what you’re like when you get an idea.”
Barb grinned. “Like a dog with a bone, that’s me. Look, one last try at finding Prince Charming can’t hurt.”
“There are no princes, there are only toads.”
“You’re a tough woman, Madison Whitney.”
“No, I’m a sucker for an old friend.”
“You’ll go?”
Madison nodded. She’d go, but only because it meant a lot to Barb. Come Monday, she’d put all this nonsense behind her.
The procedure would take.
She would get pregnant.
She’d have a baby, raise it alone and give it all the love in her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
BY THE time Tariq’s taxi pulled up in front of the town house in the Sixties, he was having second thoughts.
Second thoughts? The truth was, he was on thirds and fourths.
What on earth had made him come here? He was looking for a wife, and were the chances of that happening at a summer party in Manhattan?
The cabbie looked at him. “Mister? You getting out or not?”
Not, he thought, but he was here. He might as well go inside.
The cab pulled away and Tariq looked around him. The street, bounded at either end by wide, busy, heavily trafficked thoroughfares, was tree-lined and quiet like many others in this part of the city but by the time he got to the front door, he could hear the beat of overamped music.
Finger poised above the bell, he hesitated.
It was not too late to change his mind. Strike three, he thought with a mixture of amusement and irritation, but not an important one. He’d go home, change into his running gear and head out again. A couple of miles through Central Park, perhaps he’d clear his head enough to stop thinking about obligation and duty and—
The door swung open.
One hundred and twenty decibels of guitar riff inundated him. A brunette with a cigarette in one hand and a lighter in the other tilted her head back and flashed him a delighted smile.