The Surgeon's Surprise Twins (3 page)

Must be a hallucination fueled by hunger pangs. “Well?” Bailey demanded.

He cleared his throat. “I've got a key and I'm moving in. Will I be able to tell which bedroom is yours?”

“The smaller one. I've been using the master bedroom as a study.”

“The master bedroom will suit me fine.”

“But we can't possibly live together!” The idea was just weird.

He blew out a long breath. “I've got too much on my plate these next few weeks to mess with finding a house, especially when I happen to own this one. I suppose the
fact that we're sort of related might make our living together slightly less scandalous.”

“In Southern California, this doesn't even come close to scandalous. But…”

He strode past her, signaling to the movers. “You fellows get started unloading while I take a look around.”

“Right you are, Doc,” said the larger of the pair. As he passed Bailey, he gave her a sympathetic wink.

She balled her fists in protest, but what could she do? Since it went against her nature to do nothing, she looked through the numbers in her cell phone. Her friend Patty was a former police officer turned detective. Perfect! If there was a legal loophole, she'd find it.

Bailey placed the call. “So, hey,” came her friend's reassuring voice. “What's up with Little Mommy?”

Bailey explained, which took some doing. Fortunately, Patty, who'd known Bailey since high school, wasn't easily shocked. “I wondered about that deal with your sister, letting you move into the house instead of paying your medical bills. You have to admit, it's unusual.”

“None of which solves the immediate problem. I mean, can you imagine me living with Dr. Tartikoff? Everybody hates him.”

“Everybody being Nora,” her friend corrected. “Alec likes him fine.”

Patty's fiancé was Owen's close associate. “Alec's more or less his equal. That's different.”

“In your condition, there could be advantages to having an ob-gyn on the premises,” Patty noted.

That would be true if he weren't the last man on earth Bailey wanted snooping into her situation. “Seriously, can't you think of some legal justification to throw him out? Like invasion of privacy?”

“Sorry, no. But remember the old saying—keep your friends close and your enemies closer.”

“I never thought that included sharing a bathroom,” Bailey grumbled.

“Don't you live right behind a supermarket that has early morning deliveries?” Patty asked.

“Yes.”

“He won't last long.”

“You don't know doctors.” Bailey sighed. “They can sleep through anything. If not, they'd never survive their residency. Thanks anyway.”

“Keep me posted,” Patty said.

As she tucked away the phone, Bailey dodged back to avoid getting bowled over by a formal sofa that, in her opinion, would be right at home in a funeral parlor. The movers toted it up the walkway toward the double doors, which Owen had flung wide.

His mouth twisted as he regarded Bailey. It was the smirk of a man who enjoyed winning.

Well, let him enjoy his moment of triumph. At the hospital, he might be the great Dr. Tartikoff, but he'd just moved in with a woman who wouldn't hesitate to take his ego down a notch.

She was almost looking forward to it.

Owen didn't recall the house having such an open design, but then, on his only previous visit while attending a medical conference in L.A., he'd rushed through to approve Boone's choice of an investment. He certainly hadn't been thinking in terms of living here himself.

In the low-ceilinged living room, his parents' antique furniture looked painfully out of place, hunkering heavily around a plant-filled atrium. Bamboo wallpaper lined the master bedroom, which opened on to the patio and spa through a sliding glass door that appeared to be the only rear exit from the house. Then there was a single bathroom, which connected the bedrooms.

By the time the movers left, it was after eight o'clock and boxes filled every available space. A couple of large table lamps remained swathed in packing materials. Wishing he hadn't moved a cartoon-character pole lamp into Bailey's bedroom, Owen stumbled through near-darkness into the dimly lit kitchen.

Seeing a small, glum figure eating yogurt at the breakfast table, Owen felt an unaccustomed twinge of guilt. True, her furniture in the main rooms had consisted mainly of flowered cushions and a card table, all of which fit into her bedroom, but he'd been ruthless about taking over
the house. He supposed he could at least have asked her opinion about where to place his entertainment center.

Too hungry to frame an apology and too impatient to wait for a pizza, he peered into the fridge. “I don't suppose you have one of those you can spare?”

“You like yogurt?”

“I'll eat it when I'm starving.” He didn't see any, though.

“This was the last one. I'm also out of raw red meat you can rip off the bone.”

How did she know he preferred a good steak? “This will do.” He took out a block of cheese and some bread, fixed open-face slices and popped them in her toaster oven. “Look, I don't plan to be here much except to eat breakfast and sleep.”

“That's good news.” She moved her legs away quickly as he sat down, as if any contact between them might burn.

Owen could carry his food into the other room, but he didn't feel like it. In fact, he rather enjoyed having this freckle-faced young woman keep him company. In the silence of the house, he felt for the first time exactly how far away he'd moved from everyone and everything familiar.

In the Boston area, where he'd lived and worked since arriving at Harvard Medical School, he'd had a favorite café—in Cambridge actually. All he had to do was take a table and soon he'd be joined by friends and colleagues, people as passionate as he was about discussing the latest world news and medical developments.

The funny thing was that, right now, Owen couldn't picture anyone in particular. He missed the environment, not the individuals. As for the food, melted cheese on toast tasted remarkably good, he discovered as he began to eat.

After polishing off the meal, he addressed his companion. “We should lay down a few ground rules.”

“I take my morning shower at seven-thirty,” she announced. “You'll have to work around that.”

He didn't like being ordered about. “It's not up to you to dictate terms.”

She propped her elbows on the table. “Let's get one thing straight. At work, you may be Dr. Tartikoff and you may be way higher on the food chain. At home, you're the guy who moved into my house and stole my cheese.”

“I plan to replace it. The bread, too.” He made a mental note to find a supermarket tomorrow and buy a supply of frozen dinners, as well.

That remark disappeared into the pool of her disapproval without a ripple. “And as you may have noticed, the only rear exit is through your room, so when I want to use the spa, I will knock once, wait five seconds, and then walk through. With my eyes closed, sort of.”

“Sort of?”

“You've got this place so crammed with junk, I'll have bruises all over my shins if I'm not careful.” Even in the faint light from the ceiling globe, her green eyes managed to flash fire.

Owen enjoyed teasing her, but this raised a serious subject. “You shouldn't be using the spa. Water that hot isn't healthy for pregnant women or their babies.”

“I lowered the temperature,” she told him. “Anything else you think an obstetrical nurse is too stupid to know?”

Didn't she understand that he'd only meant to protect her? Well, if she was determined to take offense, he might as well continue. “Since you're a professional, I hope you realize how awkward it could be if our living arrangement became common gossip.”

“Oh?”

“For example…I don't suppose you could avoid mentioning it to Dr. Franco?”

Bailey shook her head, sending curls tumbling across her forehead. Owen felt an inexplicable temptation to brush back those rebellious strands. “I don't keep secrets from Nora.”

He'd assumed as much. “All right. But I'd appreciate your not mentioning this to anyone else.”

“Well…” She bit her lip.

Now that he thought about it, he'd seen her on the phone while the movers were working. “Who else did you call?”

“Just my friend Patty.”

“Does she work at the hospital?”

“No.”

He felt a rush of relief. “Good.”

“I'm sure her fiancé won't tell anyone,” Bailey went on.

“He works there?” It seemed as if everybody in this town was linked to each other. “And her fiancé is….?”

“Alec.”

“Is that supposed to mean something…Alec
Denny?
” He saw the answer in her rueful expression. “Oh, wonderful.” His closest associate was marrying this woman's best friend. If Owen had nurtured even the slightest hope that secrets might be kept, this smashed it to rubble.

Much as he itched to ask about her pregnancy, he'd better steer clear of that subject. Because if he weren't careful, Bailey Wayne would find out the whole story about her baby's paternity. And so would the entire town of Safe Harbor.

If a juicy item like this reached the press, Owen could imagine the jokes on late-night talk shows.
Did you hear about the fertility doctor who took his job a little too seriously?
The backlash would tarnish his entire program.

“You could move out,” Bailey said sweetly.

Owen gritted his teeth. If he possessed a magic wand, he'd gladly have removed his possessions, but he simply
didn't have time to deal with this. “I'm performing surgery in the morning.” Another thought struck him. “And I still have to find my sheets and towels for tonight.”

His roommate tossed her empty yogurt carton into the wastebasket. “Have fun.”

Owen cleared his tableware and began fitting everything inside the dishwasher. “Since it's the weekend, I presume you sleep late. I set my alarm for 6:00 a.m. I'll try to be quiet in the bathroom.”

“Oh, you'll be awake before that,” Bailey said.

He shot her what he hoped was a quelling glance. “I expect you to be considerate.”

“I'm not the problem.” With a beatific smile and no further comment, she sauntered out of the kitchen. A moment later, he heard the click of her bedroom door.

They must have early rising neighbors, or possibly barking dogs nearby, although he hadn't heard any so far. Surely no one in this neighborhood kept a rooster. He hadn't moved to Outer Farmovia, had he?

Dismissing the matter, he went to unpack his sheets.

 

O
WEN AWOKE IN A SHIFTING
darkness pierced by what seemed to be headlights playing through the vertical blinds in his bedroom. Groping on the bedside table, he found that his cell phone read 3:25 a.m.

What was that rumbling noise? He must have been hearing it in his sleep. His dreams, when he remembered them at all, usually involved replaying surgeries and reviewing patient charts, but now he recalled huddling behind a barbed-wire fence while military-style trucks rolled past. The frightening scene seemed ripped from an old film about a Soviet prisoner-of-war camp.

From outside came the squeal of hydraulic brakes, followed by silence. He sat up, struggling to shake off his
disorientation. He hadn't been recalling a film but vivid images he'd formed as a teenager after reading articles his father had written for a Russian émigré newspaper about his own imprisonment. Although weakened by years of incarceration as a dissident, Yevgeny Tartikoff had survived and moved to America, where he'd eked out a living as a writer and editor. He'd been pleased by his son's interest in medicine, but had died while Owen was still an undergraduate.

More rumbling set Owen's heart pounding. Those were real trucks, and real lights glaring through the blinds….

Oh, you'll be awake before that.
This must be what Bailey had meant. He'd noticed a high wall behind the property, but the tangle of vegetation had blocked whatever lay on the other side. A business that received early morning deliveries, obviously.

Despite his annoyance, Owen had to smile. Bailey must have enjoyed her little joke. Right now she was probably sleeping soundly thanks to a good set of earplugs, dreaming about her unwanted roommate departing posthaste with his furniture in tow.

Well, she was about to learn that Owen Tartikoff was no lightweight. In his phone's organizer, he added earplugs to his shopping list, then scooted down on the bed and pulled the pillow over his head.

Doing his best to ignore the rattle and bang of trucks pulling up to a loading dock, he drifted off.

 

“Y
OU LIVE BEHIND A SUPERMARKET
?” Nurse Erica Benford chuckled as she watched Owen. He appreciated the way she stood ready to anticipate his needs as he performed a hysteroscopy on an anesthetized thirty-seven-year-old woman who'd been trying for years to have a second child.

The minimally invasive surgery involved inserting a
thin scope equipped with a camera that allowed him to remove small fibroids and adhesions. There was a good chance he could clean out the obstacles to conception, and since the procedure avoided the need for an incision, recovery should be swift.

“I drove by the Suncrest Market on my way here,” he said as he worked. “Big place with a pharmacy, deli, the whole shot. And how's this for irony? There was a sign in the window advertising sleep aids.”

“You don't suppose Bailey paid someone to put that up for your benefit, do you?” Erica teased.

“I wouldn't put it past her. Maybe I should move out, but I take this situation as a challenge.” Owen had filled Erica in about his living arrangements, since she already knew he planned to occupy a house he co-owned. Also, he preferred to let her spread the word quietly before Bailey got a chance to put a colorful spin on things.

“So Dr. Franco's nurse is your sister-in-law's sister. Now, there's an interesting twist. I haven't met her yet, but I'm sure I will.” Small, blonde and dedicated, Erica hadn't originally planned to move to California. Then she'd announced that her troubled marriage had broken up and she was eager for a fresh start. Lucky for Owen.

He stayed alert to the other people around them, especially the anesthesiologist, Dr. Rod Vintner, who kept a close watch on the patient's heart rate, blood pressure and other vital signs. Having a state-of-the-art surgical suite meant a lot, of course. Not only did the surgeon get to manipulate the coolest tools in the medical field, but an overhead camera recorded each operation for later review, while an adjacent pathology lab permitted immediate examination of tissue, and computer terminals allowed him to review test results without leaving the sterile environment. Still, there was no substitute for skilled, reliable personnel.

“You
are
aware that Bailey's pregnant with her sister's child, right?” It was the first time Rod had joined the conversation, but clearly he'd been listening. To them,
and
to hospital chitchat.

Silently, Owen thanked him for confirming the fact of Bailey's surrogacy, even as he felt a spark of annoyance at having to learn about it from a man he hardly knew. “It should be interesting to watch my niece or nephew develop day by day.”

“Do you have kids?” Rod asked.

Why was the fellow so nosy? But perhaps it seemed like a routine question to him.

Erica spared Owen the bother of answering. “Neither of us does. That's our joke, considering the kind of work we do. Personally, I prefer keeping my personal life neat and orderly.”

“You have kids, Rod?” Owen was glad to steer the conversation away from himself.

“I thought I did.” The anesthesiologist left that cryptic remark hanging in the air while he adjusted the patient's breathing tube. “When my ex-wife got ready to remarry, she produced DNA tests to prove our daughters weren't really mine. She tried to cut me off from seeing them, but the judge said they're still legally my responsibility. Big of him, wasn't it?” His voice caught. “All those years, I had no idea she'd cheated on me. I still feel like they're my girls.”

What a heartbreaking mess. While Erica expressed sympathy, Owen kept his gaze on the patient. Best not to get involved, especially since his thoughts shifted defiantly to his own circumstances.

How often would he get to visit
his
baby? Although he was currently living near Boone and Phyllis, he had no rights at all, either as an uncle
or
a sperm donor. He sup
posed he should have considered that before he agreed to donate, but somehow it hadn't mattered until he learned about the surrogacy. And until he met Bailey.

This morning, she'd padded into the kitchen wearing a Cheshire-cat grin and asked how he'd slept. “Fine,” he'd answered truthfully, since he did feel energetic despite his restless night. He'd also appreciated the way the morning light bathed Bailey in gentle radiance, as if she were a fertility goddess.

A what? Owen nearly choked at the ridiculous image. It probably stemmed from living in a tropical rain forest.