One
Mac Duncan stared down at the letter in his hand and swore softly. This was a hell of a way to find out he was going to be a father.
The letter was from the Buttonwood Baby Clinic where he’d left a certain deposit with the fertility department three years before to help out a platonic female friend. Since Linda had changed her mind about having a baby by artificial insemination and was now happily married, Mac had figured it was time for his sperm sample to be destroyed. Spotting the envelope with his incoming mail this afternoon, he’d assumed it contained some kind of consent form for him to sign.
Was he ever wrong.
The brief letter read,
Dear Mr. Duncan,
Our staff is looking forward to helping you and Ms. Megan Malone prepare for the birth of your baby. As per your request, you have both been registered for the next series of childbearing classes at the clinic. Please see the enclosed brochure for details.
Huh?
He hadn’t signed up for a childbirth class, he wasn’t having a baby—and who the hell was Megan Malone?
Could one of his men be playing a practical joke? No, that didn’t make sense. None of them knew about Mac’s donation to the clinic.
Slowly he read the letter again, staring hard at the innocent-looking blue script printed on thick, cream paper. Was it possible that some mix-up had occurred and his sperm had actually been used without his permission?
Mac laid the letter on his drafting table, his hands shaking as the implication sank in. This woman, this stranger, could be pregnant with his child.
His stomach did a queasy somersault. And what was this nonsense about a childbirth class? Weren’t the names of donors and recipients supposed to be kept confidential? Mac glanced at the enclosed flyer in disbelief. The class was for expectant mothers and their partners, not anonymous donors. Not even if their sperm had been used by accident.
Fury replaced Mac’s original confusion. One way or another, a hell of a big mistake had been made and he wanted some answers.
Anger simmering, he grabbed the cordless phone from his desk and punched out the clinic’s number from the letterhead. “Dennis Reid,” he growled.
Mac and the chief of staff had met at the local health club and sometimes played racquetball. Although Dennis was older than Mac, he was fiercely competitive. If he didn’t have answers, he could at least point Mac in the right direction.
Unfortunately Dennis was at a seminar in Denver. “Can I take a message?” the receptionist asked.
“Yes. This is Mac Duncan. There’s been a foul-up,” Mac said, too impatient to wait. “Let me speak to the person in charge of class registration.”
“Just a moment.”
Mac sat back, leather chair creaking like an old saddle, and pinched the bridge of his nose.
“I’m sorry,” said the same cheerful voice. “She’s not available. Perhaps I can help you with that.”
“Not unless you’re prepared to explain why I’m having a child I knew nothing about and am registered for a class with a pregnant woman I’ve never heard of.” Mac held on to his temper with difficulty, frustration curdling in his gut.
“Just a moment.” The annoying cheerfulness was gone from her voice as she put him on hold again. Unable to sit still, he leaped to his feet. His elbow bumped a stack of blueprints and they rolled to the floor. Swearing, he nudged them aside with the toe of his boot. He’d stayed home this morning to get some work done. Too bad the sun and his dog, Rusty, had lured him outside to the mailbox. Now the plans for the Delany project would just have to wait.
After several frustrating minutes, the receptionist came back on the line. “I’m sorry for the delay. I’ll access your file now.”
There was another pause long enough for Mac to slowly count to ten while he stared out the window overlooking his backyard. The flower beds needed attention, he noticed absently. The warmer weather had brought out the weeds.
“I’m sorry,” she said finally. “Patient records aren’t coming up on my computer screen. We’ve been having trouble with the system. Why don’t you call back later?”
“Isn’t there anyone else who can help me now?” he demanded through gritted teeth.
“Not really, but I can have someone get back to you.”
“You do that.” He rattled off his number before he hung up. Then he sat back down and reread the letter for the third time. It had to be some kind of clerical error. Any clinic dealing with fertility would take precautions against this kind of breach or they’d be up to their test tubes in lawsuits.
Mac drummed his fingers on his desk. Someone else named Duncan had probably signed up for the class and the letter had been sent to Mac by mistake. It was a computer glitch. No point in getting stressed out.
Not yet, anyway.
He wanted a baby, but not by a stranger. He was thirty-seven and it was past time to start a family, but there was more to fathering a child than just standing at stud like a syndicated racehorse.
He’d been considering the idea of proposing to Justine Connors, the woman he’d been seeing for the past six months, and that was one reason he’d finally gotten around to contacting the clinic about his sperm.
Tying up loose ends was quickly turning into unraveling the Gordian knot.
What if they had actually used his sample by mistake? A chill slid down his spine. If not for the letter, he never would have known.
What if a similar notice had been sent to Ms. Malone? She’d certainly know if she was pregnant, and by whom. All he had to do was to ask her.
Mac flipped open the local phone book, found the right page and ran his finger down the column. There was only one M. Malone. She must be single. He reached for the phone and then he hesitated. What was he going to say? Are you having my baby?
Megan Malone hit the Save button on her computer and leaned back in her chair. She’d been working all morning on a vegetarian cookbook and her back was beginning to ache. Megan knew from experience that it was time for a break.
With a self-deprecating grin at her own awkwardness, she heaved herself out of her chair and waddled down the stairs of her townhouse with one hand on the banister and the other cradling her bulging stomach. True to form, her baby had stopped kicking the moment Megan got up.
When she reached the bottom of the staircase, she called to the heap of gray fur dozing in the sun shining through the patio door. The rebirth that spring always brought made it her favorite season.
“Time to get the mail, Cassius.”
The cat, a big gray Persian with gold eyes, didn’t even stir. The only indication that he was alive at all was the gentle rise and fall of his stomach.
With a shrug, Megan went outside, breathing in the fresh, sweet air. Sometimes Cassius liked to accompany her, but only if it was his idea. He preferred acting the aristocrat he resembled rather than the bedraggled stray she’d adopted a year ago.
Megan walked out to the cluster of mailboxes in front of her building and retrieved her mail. Turning, she stopped to admire the vivid hues surrounding her—the periwinkle-blue of the sky, the rich green of the velvety lawn, the buttery-yellow daffodils, the waxy white hyacinths and fringe of royal purple crocus that lined the sidewalks.
The complex where she lived was a small one, two units to a building, all painted cream and trimmed with navy-blue. Megan knew several of her neighbors well enough to exchange a few words, especially since she had started to show. They asked how she felt and when she was due, but so far, at least, no one had mentioned the missing father.
Humming to herself, Megan took her mail inside and sat