Perfect Specimen (2 page)

Ga’rag’s mouth twisted into a creepy smile. “You did not choose him. You chose a man named Adam Baker.”

Sara winced. It was true. She had found Baker on the Internet and had read his profile—nice but nonthreatening. Just looking for a good time. So she had arranged a blind date.

She remembered how nervous she had been, sitting in that bar, waiting for a stranger so she could have sex with him. After almost an hour, she had been certain he had stood her up. And she had felt relief, but also frustration that she’d have to find someone else.

Then a handsome hunk had appeared out of nowhere, calling her by name. She had assumed he was Baker, and had suggested they go to his apartment. It was only after they were in the throes of hedonistic, impersonal passion that she had called him Adam, and he had corrected her—

“You specifically approved of Clay as a substitute for Baker, remember? That’s the only reason I kept seeing him. He was hardly my first choice. But he agreed there would be no strings. No dates, just sex. And he kept that agreement until this morning.”

“Until last night, you mean.”

Sara forced herself not to wince again, although her insides were knotting. She had been hoping Ga’rag hadn’t caught that—the moment when Clay had proclaimed his love for her in a deep, gravelly voice just before he climaxed. It had shocked her. Scared her. And yes, in a way, it had thrilled her. But she had ignored it, hoping Ga’rag hadn’t been listening at that moment.

“It’s just something humans do when they’re having sex. They get carried away. They say things—crazy things.” Biting her lip, she added carefully, “And what if it
is
true? I didn’t
make
him fall in love with me. And as soon as I realized he might feel that way, I broke it off. You should trust me, Overlord. I would have taken care of it today even if you hadn’t shown up at his place. The nosebleed was unnecessary. And embarrassing.”

The alien visitor smiled again. “I am pleased that you dealt with it so quickly.”

“Did you get enough . . . well, enough data? You’re not going to make me find another stranger to have sex with, are you?”

“No. That part of our work is done.”

“Good.” She studied him hopefully. “Can’t we just call our experiment a complete success? I’m anxious to move to the next phase. To see the girls again and this time, to stay with them. I know you wanted to study me for thirty years, but what’s left? I’ve done everything you asked, and I’m nearly twenty-eight. Can’t we just leave for Ra-ahl today?”

“You’re worried about your lover? That I might hurt him?”

She scowled. “Forget about Clay Ryerson! I’m thinking about my daughters. They’re all I
ever
think about.”

The Ra-ahli’s tone turned mechanical. “The experiment will last thirty years. No more, no less. Unless you fail, in which case, it ends abruptly, as you know.”

“Okay. So . . .” Her tone softened. “Can I see them at least? For a few hours?”

His gills vibrated slightly, as they did when he became agitated or angry. “You almost died last time I brought you to the ship.”

“But I didn’t. Because I’m healthy as a horse. That’s why you chose me, remember? Come on, Ga’rag, please?”

“I will consider it. Make your journal entry, then get some sleep. I will give you my decision this evening.”

“Thanks.”

She watched until his slender, six-foot-three form—clad in his customary pale gray jumpsuit under the black lab coat—had disappeared from view. Then she exhaled in relief and walked over to the dining table that doubled as her desk, where she rummaged in a basket for a quilted case containing a single diskette.

Her journal
. That’s what Ga’rag had insisted she call it, and that’s what it had actually become. For the first few years, she had simply recorded things at Ga’rag’s direction. But in her twenties, she had learned to embrace it the way the alien geneticist had always intended—as a mental health tool. A way of talking to herself. Making sense of the bizarre life into which she had been born.

Now she made a new entry, and like the voice-mail message to Clay, it was simple and passionless:
The sex phase of the experiment is over. I’ve broken things off with the stranger I met in the bar. It’s a relief in many ways. And now Ga’rag is considering letting me see the babies again, so this might turn out to be a good day after all. A great day, in fact. I’ll let you know.

The washer buzzed at that moment, so she returned the diskette to its embroidered case then hurried over to the laundry closet and transferred the towel to the dryer. Even if she did end up buying a new set for Clay and throwing this one away, she needed to clean it first. Otherwise, the image would haunt her.

Like the image of Clay’s wounded expression.

She knew how hurt he would be, but it couldn’t be helped.

Technically, this phase of the experiment had been designed to last for two full months, so she had believed she had more time. But Ga’rag was right that it had to end sooner, given Clay’s insistence that he was falling for her. It was a shame, because as much as she had been anxious for it to end—for
his
sake—she had selfishly enjoyed the lovemaking, to the point where she sometimes managed to forget that Ga’rag might be watching them, studying them, recording their behavior and responses.

Yuck. Poor Clay—being spied on by a ridge-faced freak. But at least he got laid. Too bad he couldn’t just relax and enjoy it, but he’s too noble for that.

She sighed, hoping he’d find himself another, more worthy girl soon. Then she reminded herself that she couldn’t afford to think about him anymore. He was part of her past, and not a moment too soon, for both their sakes.

Squaring her shoulders, she headed for the shower, anxious to wash away any lingering traces of the horrific nosebleed that had signaled the official end to her experimental relationship with Clay Ryerson.

* * * *

She had scarcely finished dressing in jeans and a pink T-shirt when a maniacal pounding on her front door, accompanied by loud shouting of her name, told her she had underestimated Clay’s determination and resourcefulness. To her surprise, she was glad he had found her. The old image of him—hurt and confused—would now be replaced by an angry face. He’d say unforgivable things, make wild accusations, and make it easy for her to break it off in no uncertain terms.

Like pulling off an adhesive bandage—one burst of pain, then he could move on. And so could she.

Yanking open the door, she glared into his blazing green eyes. “It’s six a.m., Clay! My neighbors are still asleep.
Please
lower your voice.”

“Etiquette lessons from
you
? That’s effing perfect.” Striding into her apartment, he eyed her critically. “Let’s hear it.”

She closed the door. “If you’re referring to my message—”

“Yeah. I’m referring to your message.” His harsh chuckle sounded like a growl. “You want to break up with me? Fine. But don’t lie to my face—make plans for an effing picnic—then break up over the phone five minutes later. And in a
message
no less. On my
work
voice mail. Unbelievable.”

She forced herself to appear vulnerable. “That was wrong of me. I admit it. But I could see you were getting too attached. And
this
is further proof. How did you find me so quickly?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “I got your address off your driver’s license a couple of nights ago when you were in the shower. I was going to send you flowers for our one-month anniversary. Even though I figured you’d give me a lecture about our no-strings policy.” He stepped closer, his expression softening. “That’s what this is about, right? You’ve got some sort of commitment phobia. I got too close, so you pushed me away. Even though we’re so effing great together it kills me.”

She studied him solemnly, knowing this would be her last chance to appreciate his lean, six-foot-two form. Sandy hair, riveting green eyes. Definitely the hottest guy she had ever met, including Daniel Arroyo.

Add to that the fact that Clay was daring and intelligent—all great qualities in a bedmate. Unfortunately, she had discovered too late that he had a solid, decent core—an inner strength that would have been great under other circumstances, but for purposes of the experiment, it complicated things to an unacceptably dangerous degree.

Either she’d find a way to discourage him right now, once and for all, or Ga’rag would kill him. She knew that even before the cell phone on her entryway table began to ring.

“Sorry, Clay, but that’s probably my doctor returning my call. Do you mind?”

“No, go ahead. I’ll make myself comfortable.” He plopped into a chintz-covered easy chair and gave her a confident smile. “Nice place, by the way. Very you.”

“Thanks.” She checked the phone’s display as though confirming the caller’s identity. Then she opened it and said, “Dr. Parker? Thanks for calling back so quickly.” Edging across the room, she continued speaking. “I had another episode a few hours ago. Yes . . . yes . . . Just a minute . . .” She sent Clay an apologetic wince, then scooted into the bedroom, shutting the door behind herself.

Then she closed the phone and faced Ga’rag calmly. “It’s better this way, Overlord. For Clay
and
for us. Don’t worry. He’ll be gone in five minutes and I’ll never hear from him again.”

The Ra-ahli’s small mouth formed a straight expressionless line, much like the slits on either side of his neck that served as gills. Sara had learned long ago that gills—the ones in his neck and the ones on either side of the vertical ridge down the center of his face in place of a nose—were a Ra-ahli’s primary mode of breathing.

At least his gills weren’t quivering. That was usually a good sign.

“Clay needs closure,” she explained. “To you and me, he’s just a lab rat. But he’s also a human being with a heart and a soul. We need to respect that.”

“That’s exactly what you said about the first one. A heart and a soul. So quaint.”

Sara’s temper flared. “Why? Just because
you’re
soulless?”

“But not heartless,” Ga’rag said with a chuckle. “As I’ve told you, I have both a primary and a secondary heart. Another example of Ra-ahlian superiority. And as for your lover’s so-called soul, it is a figment of self-deception. A pitiful attempt to convince yourselves you are immortal.”

Sara’s temper flared. “You Ra-ahlis made your own lame attempt at immortality, remember? You thought cloning was the key, but it didn’t really work out for you, did it?”

Stunned by her daring words, she added quickly, “Let’s just drop it, shall we?”

But it was too late. Both sets of gills were practically humming. Then he told her bluntly, “Get rid of him for good, or I’ll do it for you.”

“I will, Ga’rag, I promise. Don’t do anything crazy, okay? He’s as good as gone.”

Chapter 2

When Sara returned to the living room, Clay was standing at the front window looking beyond the street to the park, where spring was in full bloom. Her apartment had a great view of the park’s crowning glory, a grove of flowering Japanese cherry trees that had spread their glorious canopies to provide shade for the tables and bike trails punctuating the landscape. Sara suspected Clay was picturing himself there with her, picnicking just as they had planned.

He was such a romantic. If only she had sensed that right away, she never would have started up with him. But he had seemed so mischievous—almost rowdy—that first night, she had assumed he was just a single guy on the prowl with nothing on his mind but scoring. Who would have guessed he was looking for love? Or that he had so much of it to give?

A wave of affection swept over her as she remembered the nights they’d spent in one another’s arms. Even Sara had succumbed for a moment, here and there, to the romance of it all, despite knowing it could never go anywhere.

Be brutal,
she reminded herself.
If you’re not, Ga’rag
will
be.

“Clay?”

He turned toward her, his eyes filled with concern. “Hey, what did the doc say?”

“He increased my dosage. No big deal. Apparently I developed a tolerance for the medicine or something. He wants me to rest today. And he specifically said: no stress.”

“Too late for that,” Clay said with a wink.

It was an interesting strategy on his part. Rather than fault her for leaving that awful message, he was going to charm her into submission, or so he thought.

Which meant Sara would have to be doubly brutal so he’d understand without a doubt that she wasn’t just vacillating about their affair. She was ending it. Forever.

“I have something to tell you, Clay. I’ve probably been unfair to you, but in my defense, I made things clear from the start. No strings. No emotional attachment. Just good sex and lots of it. We had that,” she added softly. “I hope you enjoyed it, because I’m not in a position to offer you more.”

He walked over to her and took her hands in his own. “I want you to see my brother. Professionally. Today if possible.”

She grimaced. “I told you, I already
have
a doctor.”

“Not that brother. The other one. The shrink.” Clay gave her an encouraging smile. “We’ll see him together. Because obviously
I’ve
got issues too. If we work through them together—yours
and
mine—maybe we can figure this thing out.”

“You don’t have issues,” she corrected him with a weary sigh. “You’re just ready to settle down. I think it’s wonderful. And I envy the girl you end up with. But it can’t be me, Clay. I’m taken.”

“Huh?”

She waited for the concept to sink in. Then she said again. “I’m taken. Spoken for. Involved with someone else. That’s why I can’t have a real relationship with you.”

When he dropped her hands and just stared, disbelieving, she nodded. “I didn’t want to tell you. Partly because it’s none of your business. But I also didn’t want to hurt you. Just sex, not love. Remember? That was our deal. I’m so, so sorry if I ever,
ever
gave you the wrong impression about my availability.”

He was visibly cycling through emotions—anger, disappointment, incredulity, and then anger again. When he finally spoke, his voice was soft with fury. “Someone else? What the hell does that mean?”

“Clay—”

“Someone else?” He seemed almost to choke on the phrase. “As in, another boyfriend? Are you
freaking
kidding me? When the hell do you have time for another boyfriend? You’re with
me
every freaking night! I’ve got news for you, Sara.
I’m
your boyfriend now. I don’t know what you and he had—”

“He’s my husband,” Sara blurted, desperate to get through to this incorrigible suitor before Ga’rag decided to do it for her. “I’m married, Clay. Separated, obviously, but it’s just a trial separation. He’s still my husband.”

Clay was staring at her as though she were speaking Ra-ahlian instead of English, but she continued stubbornly. “He and I have been having problems. So we took a break from each other. Or rather,
I
took a break. I got this place and decided to just try to—well, to have a little fun. Things were so rocky with him that I needed to clear my head. But I still love him. And even if I didn’t—” She took a deep breath, then dared to say, “We have children to think of. I need to put them first now. Now that my fling with you is over.”

“Fling?” He stared for a moment, then strode back to the window. But this time, she knew he wasn’t looking at pink-blossomed trees. He was too busy hearing her cruel words:
husband, children, fling
. . .

“How many kids do you have?” he asked abruptly.

“Three little girls.”

“Well then . . .” He turned, looked briefly at her, then headed for the door. “That’s that.”

“Clay, wait.” She hurried to the dryer and pulled out the towel, which was now spotless. Folding it as she walked over to him, she proffered it in halfhearted apology.

“You’ve gotta be effing kidding me,” he muttered. “Keep it as a goddammed souvenir. Or better still, give it to your effing husband.”

He was gone in an instant, slamming the door so roughly that the frame vibrated the way Ga’rag’s gills had done. Sara stared after him, feeling more lost and alone than at any time since the night—fifteen years ago—when Ga’rag had murdered her father. More lost even than she had felt when Daniel Arroyo had been killed.

Don’t cry,
she ordered herself harshly.
If you cry, you sign Clay’s death warrant. So suck it up.

Turning back toward the bedroom, she wasn’t surprised to see Ga’rag standing in the doorway, his black eyes devoid of emotion. She had a feeling he was simply gathering data. If so, she should give him some quickly.

“He won’t be back, Overlord. I promise. Can I see the girls now?”

“Perhaps another time when your behavior hasn’t been so troublesome.”

He was goading her. Trying to break her. But she wasn’t going to let that happen. Not now. Not ever again.

So she just shrugged. “Maybe I’ll go for a walk then. It’s such a beautiful day, and such a
huge
relief to have this sex experiment behind me.”

“You won’t miss him?”

“I’ll miss
it
, but not him,” she said philosophically.

“And if I asked you to take another lover?”

“I’d do it in a minute.” Draping the clean towel over the chair in which Clay had been sitting a few minutes earlier, she stepped right up to Ga’rag and stared into his bottomless eyes. “I keep telling you, nothing matters to me except my babies.”

The Ra-ahli gave an approving nod. “You’ve done well today, Sara. Try to get some rest. Forget about this unpleasantness. Tomorrow, I’ll have a new assignment for you.”

“Bring it on,” she told him quietly. Then for his benefit, she walked back to Clay’s towel, scooped it up, and stuffed it into the trash can next to her desk as casually—and as finally—as if she were disposing of a handful of junk mail.

* * * *

The city streets were coming alive with the morning commute as Clay drove back toward his apartment. He was almost there when on impulse he turned his convertible onto the country road leading to his parents’ neighborhood—the one where he had been raised—and the world turned sleepy again. Not another moving vehicle in sight. He wasn’t sure why he had chosen the detour. His usual habit in the face of stress or disappointment was to bury himself in work, but the thought of going to his office depressed him. And his apartment? It would remind him of Sara.

His married ex-girlfriend.

He hadn’t felt like such a chump—such a loser—since the days when his older brothers had cheerfully demolished him in various games both indoors and out at their family’s sprawling ranch house. Of course, he had eventually grown into a formidable competitor and could now pretty much take either of them in any physical contest. Still, at times like these, the only home that seemed to matter was the one where he’d gotten his ass kicked so often.

Unfortunately, his parents were out of the country celebrating their fortieth wedding anniversary with a whirlwind tour of Europe. Otherwise, his mother would have been happy to cook him a big, comforting breakfast. This morning, however, the house would be empty except for Randy, the youngest of the four Ryerson brothers, and the most delinquent by far. Clay was sure he wouldn’t see lazy-assed Randy until at least noon, which suited him fine.

He didn’t want to actually
see
his little brother. He just wanted to eat some of the neatly packaged home-cooked food his mother would have left in the freezer for her “baby”—the only child remaining in the nest.

Pulling into the driveway next to Randy’s Mustang, Clay realized that the brother he really wanted to see was Mark, a.k.a. the shrink. He had never before sought or welcomed the opinion of either of his older brothers, but given the events of this particular morning, he truly needed Mark’s. So before he entered the house, he flipped open his cell phone and left the psychologist a message that said simply
: I’ve got a problem. Wait, scratch that. I’ve got
two
problems. So meet me at Mom’s ASAP, okay?

Two problems. One that had been dumped on him—unfairly and cruelly—by Sara.

And one he had created himself by doing the stupidest thing he’d ever done in his life.

Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the soft fabric folder he had lifted from her desk in a moment of weakness while she had been conferring with her doctor. The embroidered title—
My
Journal
—had warned him not to touch, yet had also acted as a magnet. He had picked it up, wrestling with his conscience, and then he had heard the bedroom doorknob rotating, announcing her return, so he had shoved the miniature diary into his pocket, intending to return it to its original location before he left.

Then she had dropped the M-bomb and he had stormed out of the place, making a huge display of leaving the
towel
behind, while completely forgetting to leave the diary.

“Because this day wasn’t bad enough already,” he grumbled to himself as he exited his car and strode up onto the back porch. “You had to act like a freaking stalker. Excellent work, Ryerson. Maybe if you keep it up, you can get yourself disbarred. Then the humiliation will be complete.”

As he let himself into his mother’s deserted kitchen, he was almost laughing at the irony of the situation. Every day—hundreds of times a day!—guys got dumped by pretty girls. Sure it hurt, but they drowned their sorrows in their favorite alcoholic beverages and moved on, sadder but wiser.

But that wasn’t enough for Clay. He apparently needed a full-fledged intervention complete with his own personal shrink. He wanted to believe it was because Sara wasn’t just a pretty girl. She was special. Unique. And she was in love with Clay whether she wants to admit it or not.

But didn’t
all
dumped guys tell themselves that?

“Welcome to the club,” he told himself as he opened the freezer and selected a package marked
Turkey and Stuffing w/gravy and mashed potatoes.

His heart might be broken, but at least his stomach was in for a treat.

* * * *

“This is just great,” Mark Ryerson said in good-natured complaint when he walked into the kitchen to find Clay feasting. “I rush over here because I think you’re dying or something, and I find you stuffing your face. With stuffing no less.”

Clay laughed. “Pull up a chair. I warmed one up for you too. And it’s great. But if you don’t want yours—”

“Say no more.” Mark took a seat across from his younger brother and gave him a pained smile. “So? She dumped you?”

Clay scowled. “How did
you
know? And since when did you even know I was dating?”

“I was there, remember?” Mark peeled back the foil from his homemade turkey dinner and dug in. “Man, this smells good.”

“That’s right.” Clay nodded. “You were there. That night in the bar. You and Josh—”

“And Randy too. You were our hero the way you picked up that sexy-assed blonde.”

“She has a name,” Clay warned him, adding glumly, “
And
a husband.”

Mark stopped eating. “She just told you now? That’s rough.”

“Yeah. So . . . ?” Clay cleared his throat. “What do you think?”

“It’ll take a while to get over it.”

“That’s your brilliant advice?” Clay scowled. “I forgot that you’ve actually seen her. How did she strike you?”

“Hot.”

Clay scowled again. “I know I’m not a paying customer, but doesn’t family count for something? What did you think of her? Vulnerable, right? Innocent. Maybe battered by her asshole of a husband?”