he’s dating anyone. Interested?”
Keely snorted. “Not my type.”
Zora didn’t dare ask what that was.
A hint of beer breath alerted her to Laird Maclaine’s approach. The psychologist must have downed a brew before arriving, because they weren’t serving alcohol.
“We’re discussing Mendez?” He addressed his question to Zora, ignoring Keely. “If he snags a better job with that new master’s degree of his, I’d love to rent his room. I hear it has an en suite bathroom.”
“En suite?” Keely repeated. “What a pretentious term.”
Laird rolled his eyes.
“He isn’t leaving.” While Zora understood Lucky’s desire for advancement, she couldn’t imagine him abandoning his friends.
The psychologist shrugged. “Either way, this is a fantastic party house. I’m expecting to move in next weekend.”
Astonished, Zora slanted an assessing gaze at the psychologist. From an objective viewpoint, Laird wasn’t bad-looking, although bland compared to Lucky, and she respected him for initiating and leading patient support groups. But it would be annoying to have to run into this conceited guy every morning over breakfast and every night at dinner.
Impulsively, she addressed Keely. “We have an empty room that used to be Melissa’s. Any chance you’re interested?”
“It’s taken, by me,” Laird rapped out.
“Nothing’s settled,” Zora said.
“Don’t you already have two men living here?” Keely inquired. “You and Karen should bring in another woman. I’d join you, but I couldn’t do that to my roommate.”
“You wouldn’t fit in, anyway,” Laird growled.
That remark didn’t deserve a response. “Who’s your roommate?” Zora asked Keely. “Do I know her?”
“Oh, she doesn’t work at the medical complex,” the nurse responded. “She’s a housekeeper.”
“I admire your loyalty to her.”
“Anyone would do the same.”
A stir across the den drew their attention. It was Dawn Everhart’s turn at the game. Deftly, the little girl rolled the doll with an elbow, tugged on one diaper tab with her fingers and caught the other in her mouth, all while onlookers captured the moment with their cell phones.
“Unsanitary,” Laird protested.
“But clever,” Rod responded from his post beside Karen. “Besides, it’s a doll.”
“And she’s beating the pants off everyone else’s time,” Edmond observed, beaming at his niece. “Literally.”
Her feet having swollen to the size of melons, Zora wandered into the kitchen and sat down. Through the far door, she detected the low rumble of masculine voices in the living room.
What were Lucky and his boss discussing so intently? Had Cole made job inquiries at the conference for his nurse’s sake? Although she’d instinctively dismissed Laird’s comment about Lucky moving, the man couldn’t be expected to waste his master’s degree.
If Lucky departed, who would run out for ice cream when she had a craving? Lucky had promised to haul two bassinets and a changing table to the second floor as soon as she was ready for them. Without him around, who would cart her stuff up and down the stairs? She certainly couldn’t count on Laird pitching in.
Well, she’d survive. In fact, she shouldn’t be relying on Lucky so much, anyway. Zora hated to depend on others, especially someone so controlling and critical and arrogant and judgmental. She might not have the world’s best taste in men, but she knew what she didn’t like, and Lucky epitomized it. Now what were he and Dr. Rattigan talking about so intently?
No matter how hard she strained, she couldn’t follow the thread of conversation from the living room. Just when she caught a couple of words, a burst of cheering from the den obliterated the rest of the doctor’s comments.
Judging by the clamor, Dawn had edged out Anya’s husband, Jack, by two seconds. “I can visualize the headline now—Seven-year-old Defeats Obstetrician in Diapering Contest!” roared Rod, who, as Jack’s uncle, had the privilege of ragging him mercilessly. “I’m posting the pictures on the internet.”
“You do that and you’ll never see your great-niece again,” Jack retorted. He spoiled the effect by adding, “Will he, cutie?” apparently addressing the newborn.
Zora lumbered to her feet. She was missing all the fun and worrying for nothing.
Probably.
Feeling miles from the festivities in the den, Lucky struggled to concentrate on Cole’s account. He kept wishing that, if he focused hard enough, the results would be more encouraging.
“The new stent won’t fix what’s wrong with Vince Adams.” The slightly built doctor ran a hand through his rumpled brown hair.
“Are you certain?” Lucky pressed.
Cole nodded. “It won’t do anything for a patient who has that much scar tissue.”
During the summer, Cole had used the latest microsurgical techniques in an unsuccessful attempt to open the billionaire’s blocked sperm ducts. As the office nurse, Lucky hadn’t assisted at the operation, but he’d read the follow-up report. The procedure hadn’t been able to reverse the extensive damage left by a long-ago infection.
However, Vince continued to press them for options. Cole had told him about a new dissolvable, medicine-infused stent, and Vince had been excited that Cole would get an advance preview of the device. “We have the world’s top urologist right here,” the millionaire had trumpeted. “And I’ll be the first guy he cures.”
The higher the hopes, the harder the fall.
“Do you think his interest in Safe Harbor is entirely based on restoring his fertility?” Lucky asked.
“It’s hard to say,” Cole replied. “His intentions tend to shift with his emotional state.”
A private equity investor, Vince Adams was powerful and rich. But wealth hadn’t compensated for his inability to sire children. Over the years, he’d paid dearly for treatments without success, and others had paid dearly for his desire for fatherhood.
After several turbulent and childless marriages, Vince had wed a woman with two young daughters. Determined to adopt them, he had used his financial clout to overwhelm Portia’s first husband in court.
The man he’d gleefully trounced was Lucky’s housemate, Rod Vintner, who’d faced a doubly devastating loss. First, during his divorce, he’d learned that his daughters were actually the genetic offspring of his unfaithful wife’s previous lover, now out of the picture. Second, Rod had been outspent and outmaneuvered fighting for joint custody.
For years, he’d been forbidden to talk or even write to his daughters, who lived a ninety-minute drive away, in San Diego. Then, earlier this year, the older girl had run away from home. The twelve-year-old had contacted Rod, who’d enlisted the aid of the girls’ maternal grandmother here in Safe Harbor.
Although officially Rod was still banned, Grandma Helen had arranged for Tiffany—now thirteen—and her younger sister to visit her more often. Whenever possible, she let them meet with Rod, and, faced with Tiffany’s threats to run away again, the Adamses pretended not to notice.
Vince’s search for fertility, however, provided him with another avenue for keeping Rod in line. While Vince’s interest in the hospital stemmed in large part from his discovery that one of the world’s foremost