The Surgeon's Surprise Twins (2 page)

As she eased onto her feet, leaving off the shoes that pinched like crazy, she heard the waiting room door open. Patients often got confused in the large medical office building and mistook it for the hospital next door. Dredging up a pleasant expression, she padded out. “Can I help you?”

An impatient glare swept over her, and then the lean, tightly wound man in the white coat returned his attention to some papers on his clipboard. After all the publicity about the new head of the fertility program, every employee at Safe Harbor instantly recognized Dr. Owen Tartikoff, and dreaded his infamously acid tongue.

While the man got along well with his surgical nurse, who'd moved here from Boston to join him, he'd already chased off his first office nurse and reportedly was having trouble with his second. What was he doing in Nora's office at five o'clock on a Friday? And how much fuss was he going to make because the doctor wasn't around to respond to yet another of his directives from on high?

Technically, he wasn't Nora's boss—that would be the hospital administrator, Dr. Mark Rayburn—but Dr. T. appeared to believe he ran every aspect of Safe Harbor that touched on fertility treatments. And since he was the darling of the corporation that owned the hospital, Dr. Rayburn allowed him a lot of leeway.

The man still hadn't bothered to speak, so Bailey took the initiative. “Dr. Franco's left for the day.”
Now go away and leave me to my checkup.

He took his time jotting a note. Didn't the man care that she was standing here awaiting his response?

“Well?” Bailey demanded. “Can I do something for you or not?”

That got his attention. Startled, cinnamon-colored eyes flared at her and then burned a trail down her enlarged body, from her shoulder-length, curly brown hair all the way to her feet. “Where are your shoes?”

She resisted the urge to curl her toes like a kid. “I took them off.”
Can't you see I'm pregnant?

He could, obviously, because he was taking another assessing look at her midsection. “You're the nurse?”

“Bailey Wayne,” she confirmed.

“Nurse practitioner?”

“Not yet.” Although she'd earned her degree as a registered nurse, she hadn't qualified to provide routine care for her own patients. Once she delivered the baby, she planned to take additional courses, paying with returns from the savings she'd invested with Phyllis and Boone.

The doctor tapped his pen against the clipboard. “When will Dr. Franco be back?”

“On Monday,” Bailey said.

“When is she on call?” The obstetricians took turns being available to deliver babies.

“Tomorrow morning,” Bailey said. “Why?”

He regarded her coldly. “We need to discuss some of her cases.”

The notion offended Bailey. “Why are you reviewing her cases?”

“Do you object?” Dr. T. stared down at her from what appeared to be a towering height.

Being only five foot four on a good day, Bailey felt at an additional disadvantage without her shoes. “Well, there's the issue of patient privacy,” she said.

“Overseeing the quality of fertility care is my responsibility,” he snapped.

As if it weren't Nora's! But she could see in his grim expression that she'd overstepped her bounds.
Bite your tongue.
“Yes, Doctor.”

He was studying her abdomen again. What exactly did he expect to learn through her uniform? she wondered. For once, she appreciated her sister's discretion in seeking out a clinic elsewhere. No way would she want this arrogant doctor prowling through her medical records.

“You're Phyllis's sister,” he said abruptly.

That startled her. “How do you know Phyllis?”

A pucker formed between his eyebrows. “She didn't tell you about my relationship to Boone?”

He must be one of their investors. “She doesn't discuss business with me.”

Mercifully, a light tap at the open door cut off further discussion. Hospital public relations director Jennifer Martin peered inside. “Oh, there you are! Dr. Tartikoff, the TV news crew is here. Remember, they called earlier, wanting comments on the septuplets born in Newport Beach?”

“Right.” With a subtle straightening of the shoulders and relaxing of the jaw, he transformed from a nosy know-it-all to a gracious, self-possessed expert. “I'd be happy
to answer their questions, as long as they understand that I'm speaking in general terms.”

“They're aware that you have no involvement in the case.” Jennifer, a pretty dark-haired woman, seemed in awe of the distinguished surgeon. She stepped back, holding the door for him.

Bailey supposed Dr. T. was used to being consulted by the press. Since the doctors directly involved in famous fertility cases couldn't speak about them without their clients' permission, reporters often sought outside experts for insight and news bites. No doubt Jennifer encouraged them, since the publicity would benefit Safe Harbor's fertility program.

Just when Bailey thought she was safely rid of him, Dr. T. paused in the doorway and skewered her with a frown. “Miss Wayne, is it your custom to hang around the office barefoot when everyone else has left?”

“I was on my way out.”

“We'll wait.”

Much as she'd have liked to tell him to butt out, she didn't want to make him or Jennifer suspicious. A doctor's office contained restricted medications, and even the slightest hint that she might be abusing her position could seriously harm her
and
Nora. Yielding to the inevitable, Bailey fetched her shoes and purse, and locked the door behind her.

Once they exited the building, the PR director hustled Dr. T. toward the adjacent hospital. His tall straight body swung along the walkway with a powerful gait, the white coat emphasizing his broad shoulders.

Full of himself, of course. Bailey never dated doctors because most of them had a God complex, and here was a perfect example.

Not that she'd had great experiences with any of the
other men who'd wandered through her life, either, including the one she'd married and divorced when she was still in college. Maybe someday she'd find true love, but in the meantime she had more pressing matters to deal with.

Like needing a checkup.

Although she was tempted to sneak back into the medical center, other offices were now closing and she risked being seen. The money situation was intolerable. She had to talk to Phyllis about it, but that could wait. Tonight, she just wanted to crash, not to mention put her feet up.

A few minutes later, with a sense of relief, Bailey steered her battle-scarred compact car inland along Safe Harbor Boulevard. She drove through a modest middle-class neighborhood to Morningstar Circle, where, sheltered in a thick cluster of squatty palms and ferns, lay the beach-style house that was her refuge.

To compensate for asking her to front the money for medical bills, Phyllis had given her a key when the renter moved out last month, and Bailey loved everything about the place, from the tropical ambiance to the open design of the rooms. Here, amid lush greenery, she could relax in the whirlpool bath and enjoy her weekend in blissful solitude.

The TV crew had set up in Owen's office on the hospital's fifth floor. When he entered with Jennifer, a fortyish man in a sport jacket shook his hand and introduced himself in a deep and important tone as Hayden O'Donnell. Obviously, he expected everyone to recognize him, and Owen did his best to play along.

Cooperating with the media was important. While some physicians hated this intrusion into their real work, publicity played a vital role in securing funding for technology and research.

With a wall of medical certificates as a backdrop, Owen assumed a pleasant expression and framed his answers to avoid seeming unduly critical of the doctors who'd handled this particular case. Ethical guidelines called for limiting the number of embryos implanted, and septuplets presented a risk to mother and babies, he explained. However, the patients were doing well, and that was what mattered most.

As soon as he could, he steered the subject to his program's grand opening in September and the state-of-the-art facilities they were installing.

“Weren't you originally supposed to have a separate facility dedicated to your program?” asked O'Donnell.
Either he was better informed than most reporters or Jennifer had briefed him in advance.

“It was our plan to convert a nearby dental building, but the owner went into bankruptcy and matters got tied up in court,” Owen said. “Rather than delay, we're fitting our facilities into the existing hospital. It's a challenge, but my staff is rising to it.”

A few questions later, the reporter thanked him and signed off. “Great interview,” Jennifer commented after the crew had gone. “They'll be running clips all evening.”

“Thanks for your help.” Although he had a well-deserved reputation for riding roughshod over underlings, Owen tried to limit his caustic comments to those who deserved them. Jennifer Martin was good at her job.

Soon she departed. Wondering how to make the best use of his time, he checked his watch. Friday, 6:00 p.m.

The other office in the suite was dark. Alec Denny, Ph.D, director of laboratories, had left for the weekend. Owen couldn't fault his associate, who'd moved from Boston several months in advance to transform the hospital basement into labs equipped to handle all aspects of assisted fertilization. Alec, divorced with a five-year-old daughter, had wasted no time renewing old acquaintances. The Safe Harbor native had recently become engaged to his high school sweetheart.

That was how most men created families, by finding the right woman and marrying her. Owen, however, took little interest in children once they passed the embryo stage.
I'm not the daddy type,
he'd told more than one girlfriend over the years.

Even donating sperm at his brother's request had made barely a blip on his mental radar. His only concern, as he'd commented to Boone, was that the kid might inherit his very different coloring, but his brother had assured him
that everyone would assume it came from Phyllis, who had also been a redhead once upon a time.

When he'd learned of the pregnancy, however, Owen had been surprised at how fascinated he became. He'd begun sneaking glances at young children, wondering how it would feel to see one who was descended from him.

Learning about the surrogate today made him uneasy. True, once the baby was born, he assumed it would grow up safe and happy with his brother and sister-in-law, leaving Owen to play the doting but distant uncle. Still, he didn't like the way Boone and Phyllis had thrown him a curve ball. Not only was there this business of a surrogate, but what about Phyllis's pregnant sister?

For all he knew, Bailey might be married and expecting a child with her husband, though she hadn't been wearing a ring. On the other hand, she might have removed it because of swelling.

Was
she
the surrogate? Her bulge was large for three months of gestation, but every woman carried a pregnancy differently, and Bailey was short. Cute, too, if you went for that type, which Owen usually didn't. Tall, elegant women were more his style. He preferred his girlfriends cool, remote and safe. He'd only come close to losing his heart once, a long time ago, to a fellow medical resident. Luckily, she'd been just as ambitious as he was, and they'd parted by mutual consent.

Phyllis might be using a clinic in L.A., yet here was Bailey right under his nose. He wished now that he hadn't been in such a hurry to leave his brother's house this afternoon. No wonder Phyllis had hemmed and hawed. Maybe she'd been trying to raise a touchy subject.

Was her cheeky sister carrying his child?

As Owen leaned back, he kept seeing that defiant face with its sprinkling of freckles and flashing green eyes.
Usually, he refused to tolerate insubordination, but he had to admire the nurse's loyalty to her doctor. The way she'd stood up to him had taken courage, and a touch of foolhardiness, as well.

Was she reckless? That might explain her decision to carry her sister's baby, if that's what she was doing. And given her open manner, he had no doubt she'd told everyone within earshot the whole story. But surely she was ignorant of Owen's involvement. Judging by her reaction to his mention of Boone, she hadn't had a clue they were related.

A chill crept over him. The last thing he would tolerate was being the subject of hospital gossip about something as personal as donating sperm to his brother. If Bailey
was
carrying his baby, he had to do his best to stop others from hearing about it, including her.

Eventually, she'd learn that he and Boone were siblings, but since his brother and sister-in-law clearly valued their privacy as much as he did, the details of this conception should remain a secret.

It was better to quit wasting time on personal speculation. At his computer, Owen clicked to a folder of applications for surgical fellowships. For three funded positions, he'd received dozens of résumés, including a number from other countries. Not only did he intend to pick the best-qualified and most interesting candidates, he had to consider their areas of expertise to ensure the best possible balance.

Fifteen minutes later, he'd scanned half a dozen applications without remembering a word of what he'd read. Owen closed the folder and logged off. Dinner at the cafeteria should jumpstart his concentration.

He was on his way downstairs when his cell rang. Concerned
that one of the morning's surgical patients had suffered a complication, he answered fast. “Dr. Tartikoff.”

“This is Long and Short Movers,” said a male voice with a Boston accent. “Double-checking the address you gave us. That's 587 Morningstar Circle, Safe Harbor, California, right, Doc?”

“Yes, but I wasn't expecting you till Monday.” He'd planned to go through the house and figure out a layout for the furniture.

“Well, we're here,” the man said. “Problem is, there's some woman, a Miss Wayne, claiming we're at the wrong house. She says she lives here.”

For a moment, Owen couldn't breathe.

So that's what Phyllis had been trying to tell him. Not about Bailey being the surrogate but that she lived in the house.

Or, possibly, both.

“So what do you want us to do?” the mover prompted.

Owen resisted the urge to bang his forehead on the nearest wall.
I want you to go away and return in another reality where the secret mother of my child isn't living in my house.

“Hang on,” he said. “I'll be right there.”

So much for a peaceful, productive evening. He had to get this matter straightened out fast.

 

B
AILEY COULDN'T HAVE
heard right. The moving man said he'd just put in a call to—

“Dr.
Owen
Tartikoff?” she repeated.

“You know the guy?” The solidly built fellow stood with arms folded as they both regarded the van blocking the end of Morningstar Circle.

“Yes, but I have no idea why he's trying to move into my house.” Surely Phyllis and Boone hadn't rented the
place out from under her. But then, Bailey had to admit, she could never tell what they might do.

It didn't help her mood that she was starving, or that delicious aromas were wafting from the far side of a cinder-block wall that ran along one edge of the property. Beyond it lay the Suncrest supermarket and Waffle Heaven, which cooked up great brunches and dinners.

“Nice place. Great landscaping.” The guy indicated the array of fan palms, birds of paradise and hibiscus.

“Yes. It's cool.” The low, open house reminded Bailey of a tiki room set in a rain forest. She loved this restful oasis, even if the rumble of delivery vans did shatter the morning calm at a ridiculously early hour.

It wasn't the type of house she imagined Owen Tartikoff living in. No doubt he'd prefer someplace formal and stuffy, with perfectly clipped hedges instead of lush greenery and abundant flowers. If she raised enough of a fuss, no doubt he'd find some other, more suitable quarters. Anyway, she refused to give up her refuge.

The mover and his assistant sat on the front planter and unwrapped sandwiches. Bailey phoned Phyllis. She hadn't gotten out more than a few words when her sister said, “I'm sorry.”

“How long have you known that Dr. Tartikoff was moving in?” Bailey swatted her neck and discovered that what she'd assumed was a pesky mosquito was in fact a tendril of bougainvillea. The shrubbery was overdue for pruning.

“Since Boone sprang it on me this afternoon. I wanted to call you but we got tied up with clients.” Phyllis coughed apologetically, or at least, Bailey hoped her sister felt apologetic, and not just guilty at telling a big fat lie.

“Well?” she demanded. “What are you going to do about it?”

“There's not much we can do,” Phyllis said. “He co-owns the house.”

“What?” These past few months, Bailey had heard plenty about Dr. Owen Tartikoff's background, but all of the information focused on New York and Boston. No mention of any connection to Safe Harbor. “How did that happen?”

“He and Boone are half brothers.”

Bailey's knees threatened to give out. She plopped onto a low bench surrounded by daylilies. “I never knew Boone had a brother.”

“I was planning to invite you both to dinner and introduce you.”

So that's what Dr. T. had meant about his relationship to Boone. Funny that no one else at the hospital seemed aware of the fact, but then, neither man was advertising it. “Don't they get along?”

“Oh, they get along fine,” Phyllis said.

“He did know I'm your sister,” Bailey conceded. “He mentioned it this afternoon.”

“You don't actually work together, do you?”

Now, why should Phyllis care about that? “No. He stopped by to see Nora. But he didn't say anything about moving in with me.”

“I tried to explain about your living situation when he picked up the key, but he ran off too fast.”

How unthinkable, for the high and mighty head of the fertility program to share quarters with a lowly nurse. Especially one who sided with her doctor against him when they disagreed on treatment plans.

What was she going to do? Bailey had already given up the apartment she'd shared with a couple of friends, and she couldn't afford to rent a place on her own. “I'll have to come live with you until the baby's born.”

Her sister responded with a strangled squawk. Hardly encouraging.

“You're leasing that huge place,” Bailey pointed out. “Lots of empty rooms.” Filled with rented furniture, but empty of humans.

“Boone would never allow it.” Phyllis sounded breathless. “Bailey, you have no idea the pressure we're under. Why can't you both stay there? The house has three bedrooms.”

“Two,” Bailey said grimly. “And they share a bathroom.”

“We lived in places smaller than that when we were growing up,” her sister reminded her.

“Yes, but we were a family.”

“Good news! You and Owen are related by marriage, so that makes you family, too. I have to go. You'll work this out. I have faith!” With a click, Phyllis was gone.

She and Owen were family? Bailey couldn't decide whether to laugh or cry.

No time to worry about that, because here came a black Lexus with Dr. T. at the wheel. Since the van was obstructing the driveway, he stopped a few doors down, got out and strode toward her, shading his eyes against the low-lying, but still powerful, evening sun. “I didn't expect to see you again today.”

Bailey dragged herself upright. “The feeling's mutual.”

“I'm sure you've spoken to your sister by now,” the doctor went on. “And she's explained that I own this place.”

“Half own,” Bailey corrected. “I'm living in the other half.”

“I don't recall it being a duplex.”

“It isn't.”

She had the sense that they were squaring off to do battle. Her opponent was considerably taller than her and
a lot more domineering. On the other hand, Bailey figured that, with the baby, she counted as two, so she had him outnumbered.

The movers watched silently but with a great deal of interest. Bailey wondered if they were taking bets and, if so, who they were backing.

“Do you have a lot of furniture?” Dr. T. asked.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Just answer the question.”

“Do cushions and a futon count?” Her apartment had been crammed with her roommates' furnishings, so she'd never acquired much.

He gestured at the enormous van. “I have an entire houseful inherited from my parents. Putting it into storage would be a fortune, on top of the cost of moving it again.”

“So we're deciding this on the basis of who's going to suffer the most financially?” Bailey didn't see why he got to set the terms. “I have a better idea. Let's do rock, paper, scissors.”

Disbelief flashed across his high-boned face, and then he started to laugh. Amazingly, the man looked almost human. Not only human, but kind of sweet.