The Surgeon's Surprise Twins (5 page)

The mention of surrogates broke into Owen's concentration. Was there a need for regulation in that regard? As it stood, he wasn't the only one who'd been deceived; so had Bailey. Should there be ground rules about how much had to be disclosed? And if so, to whom—the woman, or the donor, too?

“Dr. Tartikoff?” prompted the moderator. “What do you think?”

Startled, he realized he'd lost track of the discussion. Rallying, Owen said, “The field of fertility is advancing rapidly. I consider it inadvisable to impose rigid rules or a government bureaucracy. What seems unreasonable or unsafe one year may be standard practice the next.”

“Dr. Tartikoff raises a good point,” the ethicist put in. “Also, it isn't good medicine to apply one-size-fits-all guidelines to such intensely personal cases.”

Relieved at having ducked a curve ball, Owen stayed
attentive from then on. But his traitorous brain kept trying to stray to his own situation.

It disturbed him that he'd lost some of his objectivity. Fertility issues had never felt personal before, but they did now. He didn't like the fact that he—and apparently Bailey—had been tricked. And he had an ethical issue of his own to consider.

Namely, since he'd found out the truth, was he morally obligated to tell her?

With breaks for equipment checks and lighting adjustments, the discussion lasted far longer than the half hour that would air on the cable channel. Still, as he shook hands with his fellow panelists afterward, Owen considered it an afternoon well spent.

He had dinner with a colleague from UCLA, then drove back in rapidly falling darkness. The sprawling, flat landscape made him miss the green, rolling hills around Boston. On the other hand, he had to admit that, when he needed to merge through traffic, the drivers in Southern California were less likely to engage in bumper-to-bumper combat.

His thoughts flew to the evening ahead. On a Saturday in Boston, he might have attended a social event, but it wasn't unusual to return to a quiet house and an evening of catching up on medical journals. Tonight, he realized, he had no idea whether his house would be filled with Bailey's friends.

Or simply alive with her presence.

He pictured her curled on the couch, reading or watching TV. When he walked in, she'd slant him a glance full of mischief or possibly irritation. It would be fun matching wits with her. He might even plop down and insist on watching the rest of whatever chick flick she'd chosen, since it was his big-screen TV in the living room.

Bailey's Honda was hogging the single-width driveway and, in front of the house, an unfamiliar sedan blocked the curb. Owen found a space on the cul-de-sac and retrieved his briefcase from the trunk.

Wondering if she had a visitor or if the car belonged to a neighbor, he made his way through predatory palm fronds to the front door. Didn't his brother employ a gardener for this place? Also, half the low Malibu lights along the walk were burned out. For the past year, Boone hadn't paid Owen any proceeds from the rent, claiming it all went to the mortgage, insurance, upkeep and repairs. What repairs had been done, exactly?

From inside came the sweet soaring notes of a favorite song, “If I Loved You” from
Carousel
. A sucker for Rodgers and Hammerstein musicals, Owen paused on the porch to enjoy the lovely alto voice and the simple piano arrangement. He didn't recognize the recording…and then he heard a sour note on the piano and realized it wasn't a recording. Not a piano, either, but a keyboard, judging by the tone.

The music stopped. He heard a man say, “You can't quit now!”

Even though Owen agreed, he felt a flash of disappointment. Bailey hadn't mentioned a boyfriend.

“I'm not quitting!” she challenged. “You were supposed to join in.”

“It's the wrong key,” the guy protested.

“You're just making excuses.”

“That's true. I prefer listening to you. With a voice like that, you could have been a…”

“Nurse,” Bailey finished, and they both laughed.

Gritting his teeth, Owen turned the key and let himself in. Across the open main room, at the gleaming mahogany
dining table, Bailey sat behind a keyboard. Next to her, a deeply tanned blond fellow leaned close, beaming.

With a start, Owen recognized Ned Norwalk, the nurse he'd bossed around at the hospital today. And judging by Ned's narrowed eyes as he looked up, the guy wouldn't mind getting payback.

Much as it galled Owen, he'd better watch what he said. It might get repeated at work. “Good evening.” That seemed safe enough.

Ned ducked his head in grudging recognition. Bailey tapped a note on the keyboard. “You can close your door if the music bothers you.”

“I'll do that.”

He didn't mind the music itself, Owen reflected as he strode through and shut himself into his room. But what on earth made Ned think his tenor was worthy of joining Bailey in “Edelweiss”? If those two planned further duets in the bedroom, he'd have to put in his earplugs, Owen grumbled as he set his laptop on his desk.

He should be the one singing with Bailey. In high school, he'd starred in several musicals, and had performed roles in college productions, as well. He was eons better than that idiot Ned.

But on his home territory, he'd just been one-upped. And for tonight, there wasn't a damn thing he could do about it.

Usually, Bailey liked to stay up late, especially on the weekend, and songfests were among her favorite activities. Tonight, though, she caught herself drooping by 10:00 p.m.

“I can hardly keep my eyes open,” she told Ned as she sat in the kitchen, watching him fix ice cream sundaes. “It's ridiculously early.”

Through an open window above the sink, a welcome breeze played over her. That revived her a little, but she could feel a whole series of yawns backed up like cars at a stop sign.

“You're pregnant. You need your sleep. And your calcium and potassium.” He set a bowl in front of her. Bananas, vanilla ice cream, caramel topping, peanut sprinkles. Mmm. “Also, you're big for your date, as I'm sure you know. That doctor in L.A. really isn't concerned?”

“I'm fine.” Bailey toyed with the notion of admitting the truth and persuading Ned to give her a checkup, but she hated to confide such an intimate family matter. Also, he wasn't a nurse practitioner, and she didn't want to involve him in anything that might boomerang on him.

Her friend had already had one dustup with Owen today, she'd learned. Judging by the glare Dr. T. had cast in their direction earlier, it wouldn't take much to bring down his wrath on Ned's hapless head.

“You ought to be living with someone who cares about you.” Bringing over his own sundae, Ned took a seat.

“You volunteering?” she teased, although they didn't have that kind of relationship. She liked Ned too much as a friend to get romantic, and besides, they'd never struck any sparks. The problem was, the men who set off chemical reactions with her tended to flame hotly and then burn out, leaving the taste of ashes in her mouth.

Ned glanced toward the living room, although there'd been no sign of Owen for at least an hour. “If he weren't here, I'd offer to move in. You know you can count on me if you need anything.”

“Of course.” Impulsively, she asked, “Are you unhappy at work? You told me you weren't enjoying being a surgical nurse as much as you expected.”

“I like being part of a team, and it's miraculous what a good surgeon can accomplish.” He paused to enjoy a mouthful of ice cream before continuing. “But I miss forming a relationship with the patients. They're too groggy to notice me, and then I never see them again.”

“It's more fun being in an office,” Bailey agreed. “You could transfer. There'll be some new doctors joining the staff, so there should be openings.”

“I might do that.”

After they finished eating, he rinsed the bowls, loaded the dishwasher and turned it on. What a considerate guy, Bailey reflected as they said good-night. Ned had everything Owen lacked: kindness, humility, dependability. She wouldn't trust Dr. T. to put anyone's interests ahead of his own. He did take care of his own dishes, she conceded, but that was no doubt due to a surgeon's dislike for germs.

Barely able to set one foot ahead of the other, Bailey went to bed. Her hormones must have put her into a near-coma almost instantly, because the next thing she
knew, she awoke to diffused, early morning light filtering through the blinds.

One of Southern California's occasional spells of summer gloom, with overcast skies and temperatures dropping into the fifties overnight, had arrived this weekend. What a perfect morning for a dip in the hot tub. She didn't use it nearly as much as she'd expected to, and she might not get many more chances before summer's heat struck in earnest.

Now, what did a strapped-for-cash pregnant lady wear to the spa? Bailey hadn't wanted to spend money on a maternity swimsuit and she wasn't about to go out in a bikini, even in her fenced rear yard, so she pulled on a pair of loose shorts, a T-shirt and flip-flops. That ought to serve well enough.

For breakfast, she finished off the last banana with her cereal. She was collecting a beach towel from the linen closet when it occurred to her that the sliding-glass exit to the patio lay in Owen's bedroom. The alternative was to go out the front door and fight her way through the odds and ends in the side yard.

How inconvenient. Besides, either he was already awake or he'd put in earplugs and might not even notice her. Why should she go to a lot of trouble on his behalf?

The closed door to Owen's room presented a forbidding obstacle. Refusing to be daunted, Bailey tapped lightly, turned the handle and peered inside.

Dark wood furnishings crowded the room, and firmly shut vertical blinds blocked almost all the light. In the high, old-fashioned bed, a large shape lay under a heavy quilt that rose and fell gently. The scents of aftershave lotion and male hormones, or whatever the man exuded, filled her nostrils. Pregnancy had made her ultrasensitive
to smells, but she didn't find the odors unpleasant. In fact, she got a little buzz.

She did
not
have chemistry with this man. No way.

Pressing her lips together, she ventured inside. Why did it have to be so dark in here? She expected at any moment to stumble over a pair of his shoes, but the carpet was mercifully uncluttered. Oh, right. Control freak surgeons probably lined up their shoes in their closets, color coordinated with their suits.

Reaching the glass door, Bailey faced her next challenge: she couldn't exit without rattling the blinds as she pushed them aside. True, it might be fun to crash her way out and close the door with a thump, just to test the quality of the man's earplugs and be as pesky as possible. He deserved it for snapping at Ned yesterday. Didn't he see how unfair it was to pick on people who couldn't fight back?

Common sense won. If she meant to relax in the spa, she'd better not wake the man. So, as quietly as she could, Bailey bunched the slats in one hand, unlocked and slid open the door, and scooted outside.

 

A
BURST OF COOL AIR WOKE
Owen, followed by a vibration as if someone had shut a door or window. He blinked in the dim light, taking a moment to recall where he was and why he couldn't hear anything.

When he removed the earplugs, he heard a whooshing noise from outside. The jets in the spa, he assumed.

Had Bailey sneaked through his bedroom to get there? Of course she had. But surely she didn't have the nerve to bring her boyfriend tromping through here, as well. That would be pushing her luck.

If she pushed, he'd push back, harder.

Owen showered, shaved and put on the sleek blue swim
trunks he'd bought for the move to California. He hadn't yet joined an exercise club, but he planned to.

With the blinds drawn, he couldn't see what was going on outside. He couldn't hear voices, either, but that might be due to the rumble of the Jacuzzi jets. How awkward if he stepped out and surprised the two of them in flagrante delicto.

Giving no warning, Owen yanked on the blinds and opened the slider. In the round tub, Bailey's lightly freckled face turned toward him. She blinked as if coming out of a pleasant daze.

No sign of anyone else in the tub or on the patio. Just a screen of ferns and palms, and a couple of tall, tropical bushes covered with orange and pink blossoms. “What happened to Nurse Nelly?” he inquired as he threw his towel over a lawn chair.

“You mean Ned?”

“I was referring to the nurse in
South Pacific.
” He hadn't intended to be rude. Much.

“You don't have to act like a total jerk about him,” Bailey retorted. “He's had a tough life.”

Owen had never considered what kind of life a male nurse led, one way or another. He didn't care to mention that to Bailey and spark another biting comment. “Is that so?”

“You should admire him for earning his RN. Hold on. It's too noisy in here.” She reached out to turn off the jets, seemingly unaware of how the T-shirt stretched tantalizingly across her breasts. “He got bounced around from one relative's home to another, growing up. Not everyone comes from a privileged background.”

Forcing his gaze away from her nearly transparent T-shirt, Owen slid into the water. Pleasantly warm but, as
she'd mentioned, not hot enough to endanger the fetus. “Privileged? My mother was a cleaning lady.”

“You're kidding!” She sat upright, as if challenging him.

“Nope.” He rarely told anyone.

A few seconds passed before she apparently accepted that he wasn't going to retract his statement. “Boone never mentioned that.”

“Has he said much about our family?”

“Just that his parents are dead. I didn't even realize he had a half brother.” At least she'd quit glaring since Owen had revealed his mother's occupation. “You had different fathers, right?”

“Yes.”
Very
different.

“What was his dad like?”

“I gather he had some trouble with the law.” The man had been in and out of prison and had died there, but Owen saw no point in revealing that. “He was a…businessman.” Of the grifter persuasion.

“What did your father do?” Bailey asked.

“He edited a newspaper for fellow Russian dissidents who'd fled to the U.S.” It was a well-known fact, but Owen found himself going beyond that. “As you can imagine, it didn't pay well. Soviet prison camps destroyed his health, so he couldn't do much else.”

“That must have been tough on you.”

“When I was a kid, I simply accepted my parents' circumstances. Sure, I wished we were rich, but we got by.” His parents had loved and encouraged him, which was more than a lot of children experienced. In a way, Owen supposed, he
had
been privileged.

“How'd you get through medical school?” Bailey brushed back a curly strand of damp hair.

“Scholarships. Loans. Summer research internships.” He leaned back, letting the warm water soothe him, and
hoped he wasn't talking too much. On his résumé and in person, Owen preferred to show himself to advantage. Revealing your weaknesses opened you to people's condescension.

But Bailey, who'd stretched along the underwater ledge that served as a bench, wasn't sneering. “So neither you nor Boone grew up rich.”

Owen's mouth stretched into an ironic smile. “No. We weren't that close, by the way. He was seven when our parents married, and eight when I was born, so by the time I reached junior high, he was already out on his own.”

“Getting his MBA, right?” Bailey said.

Owen doubted his brother had earned that degree. “He took business classes at NYU.”

“While you went to Harvard.”

“Yale, undergrad. Then Harvard Medical School. On scholarships, as I said.” Usually Owen didn't mind showing off, but with Bailey, he seemed to make more headway when he confessed his weaknesses.

Headway? He had no agenda with her. In fact, the last thing he sought was any entanglement with a nurse at the medical center, especially one with whom he shared a house.

And who was carrying his baby.

His gaze slid instinctively to her rounded abdomen. There was something deliciously sensual about her pregnancy-enhanced shape. Must be some ancient instinctive male attraction to fertility, especially since there was part of him inside there.

Best to avoid the subject. But how could he resist? Besides, as the supposed uncle, he had an excuse to be curious. “Why did you agree to be your sister's surrogate?”

Bailey's eyebrows drew up in a wonderfully school-marmish expression. “Exactly how did you segue from medical school to my baby bump?”

“Just answer the question,” Owen said.

“Because she needed me.” Without pausing to let him ask anything further, Bailey volleyed, “My turn! Why did you decide to work with infertile women? You don't seem like the warm fuzzy type.”

She had a frustrating talent for throwing Owen off balance. He wished he had a simple explanation, but the truth was more complicated. “Let's start with the fact that I'm interested in using my skill as a surgeon to improve people's lives. I considered other specialties.”

“Such as?”

He thought back to his days in medical school. “Cardiac surgery, for one. My father died of a heart attack, but he'd been weakened by starvation, and surgery couldn't have fixed that.”

“I'm sorry,” Bailey said. “And you lost your mom, too.”

“To cancer. She didn't even tell me she was ill, so I never got to share her battle.” His breath caught at the memory. Why was he getting emotional about a loss that had happened a decade ago? “By then I was doing my residency in obstetrics.”

“You still haven't told me why you chose that field,” she persisted.

Owen hadn't reviewed his reasons for a long time. “I suppose that after all the death and suffering my parents went through, I chose a field filled with hope. I'd more or less forgotten that along the way. Thanks for reminding me.”

“Wow. I can't believe what I'm learning about you,” she said. “You sound halfway human.”

“Don't strain yourself paying me compliments.”

She stuck out her feet and wiggled her toes. “I promise not to ruin your reputation as a grouch.”

Her toenails were painted lavender, Owen noticed, and
wondered how much longer she'd be able to reach them, at the rate her baby was growing. “That's big of you. Literally.” Without pausing to think, he blurted, “Why does Phyllis need a surrogate?”

“She's forty.”

“That isn't old for a maternity patient these days. What else?”

Bailey regarded him aslant, as if weighing whether to trust him. “Well, you
are
part of the family, so I guess it's no secret. After she had a couple of miscarriages, her doctor diagnosed something called Inherited Chromosomal Rearrangements. I guess you know what that is.”

“I do.” In two to four percent of cases involving repeated miscarriages, one of the parents turned out to have an unusual structure of chromosomes. These didn't affect the parent because the translocated chromosomes were balanced, with no missing or extra pieces, but when they were passed to the child, pieces might go astray. The result could be severe birth defects or miscarriage. While such parents had a chance of producing healthy children, Owen understood why a forty-year-old woman who'd had several miscarriages might give up. “You didn't inherit the condition?”