Baby vs. the Bar
M.J. Rodgers

www.millsandboon.co.uk

I wish to thank Attorney Richard L. Peterson, from the law offices of Crawford, McGilliard, Peterson & Yelish, Port Orchard, Washington, for his expert advice. Any errors or stretching of legal procedures that may appear in this story are this author’s sole responsibility.

Richard Peterson doesn’t need to stretch the truth to see that justice is done.

For Elinor and John Paulk, the best neighbors anyone could have.

CAST OF CHARACTERS

Remy Westbrook—Her sperm-bank baby is turning out to be one in a billion.

Marc Truesdale—He’s an attorney defending an eighteen-month-old client.

Louie Demerchant—He isn’t overlooking any opportunity to get custody of his great-grandson.

Colin and Heddy Demerchant—They want custody of Remy’s son, too, but is it for love or money?

Gavin Yeagher—He’s the financial wizard who took a few measly millions and turned it into a billion-dollar fortune.

Norma Voyce—She seems more interested in plants than people.

Brian Pechman—He stands to lose a lot if Remy’s baby gets the money.

Steve Lyton—He’s Marc’s courtroom adversary, very high-powered, very high profile and very hard to beat.

Contents

Prologue

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Prologue

David Demerchant didn’t know his plane was diving directly into the sparkling silver waters of the Pacific Ocean.

A shaft of sudden, piercing light penetrated his closed eyelids, cracking them open, coaxing him back into consciousness. David squinted into the setting sun reflecting off the sea into the cockpit. He snapped to shocked attention, bolted upright and pulled back on the control wheel. The plane’s nose shot up, its engines singing from the sudden thrust that sent it soaring skyward.

David’s eyes became riveted on the climbing altimeter, his heart pounding in his ears as he realized he’d been a few hundred feet away from a watery grave.

Hot sweat broke out on his brow and under his arms. Icy sweat poured down his back. He continued to grip the controls until the plane had climbed to nine thousand feet. Only then did he ease the wheel forward to level off.

He swallowed the thick, cloying phlegm that had collected in his throat. He let out a relieved breath as his heartbeat began to slow to normal. That was close. Far too close.

The monotonous fatigue of the long, lonely flight had come on so gradually that he’d never realized he had been falling into a deep, deadly sleep. That was the first time he’d lost consciousness while at the controls. He was lucky it hadn’t been his last.

He glanced at his watch. Eleven hours had passed since he’d taken off from Seattle. Damn. He had overflown Honolulu, his first stop. He really had been asleep at the controls. He checked his magnetic compass and automatic direction finder. It was worse than he had thought. Looked like a strong southeast wind had taken him hundreds of miles north of his heading. Why hadn’t he noticed and compensated for the wind? Where had his mind been?

It would be too easy for him to drift off again into a sleep born of fatigue. He was going to have to put down soon and get some rest.

David verified his location on his aircraft position chart. He had already crossed the international date line. Great. Just great. Not a whole lot out here in the middle of the Pacific Ocean, except for the Midway Islands just to the southeast of him. And the only airstrip there was military.

Still, it had to be Midway. He had no choice. He folded his position chart and laid it on the empty passenger seat. He banked his plane into a slow left turn to take him southeast. The nose of his plane headed into the darkening sky. Only the droning engine and numbing fatigue surrounded him.

He reached into his pocket for his caffeine pills. They’d better help this time. He grasped his lucky gold flask lying on the passenger seat and unscrewed the top.

“A little tardy, but here’s to once again safely crossing the international date line and eluding King Neptune’s wrath,” he said, holding up the flask in formal salute.

David normally didn’t drink while flying, but ever since his first successful flight over the Pacific, the wine toast had become a tradition every time he crossed the international date line. He meant to keep it—and his luck— going.

For David knew that when a pilot was all alone in the air and over an ocean, he needed all the luck he could get, regardless of his competence or the plane’s safety.

He downed the caffeine pill along with a small swig of sparkling wine from the flask. But instead of refreshing his throat, this time the wine left a bitter taste in his mouth.

David recapped the flask and put it aside.

He didn’t want to make this trip to Guam. He’d been left with no choice. He must know. Everything.

He sat up straight and did rigorous isometric exercises, determined to remain vigilant. His face began to feel warm. From the exercise?

The seconds on the control panel clock marked their passing with a loud clicking in his ears. Or were those minutes that were ticking past so quickly?

His limbs were beginning to feel like mush, his thoughts limp and soggy. Damn, when was that caffeine going to kick in?

He shook his head as though to shake back his proper time sense and disperse the growing fuzziness in his brain.

He gripped the wheel, flexing his hand and arm muscles, and tried to focus on his upcoming radio call. Midway was not going to be happy to get a call from a private pilot way off his course, requesting to land because of fatigue.

David’s face felt so hot, his eyelids were so sore and heavy. He had a hard time sitting up straight. He grabbed the golden flask, unscrewed the top and dumped the remaining sparkling wine over his head.

The alcohol stung his eyes. He fought a sudden whirling white vortex encroaching on his peripheral vision.

Must keep my mind active. Must concentrate on the radio call to Midway. Damn, what do I tell them?

“You don’t have to tell them anything,” a brusque voice said from somewhere inside the cockpit.

David shot up in his seat as his eyes fixed on the owner of that voice. It was a six-inch-high, black-bearded, golden-crowned King Neptune, perched on the instrument panel, sprawled across a black anchor, grasping a silver trident in its right fist.

The hair at the back of David’s neck stood straight up. He shook his head, blinking hard. But the apparition didn’t go away. A part of David’s brain told him this tiny King Neptune wasn’t really there. But another part of his brain, the part that was seeing it, wasn’t so sure. His hands began to shake on the control wheel.

An eerie pink smile cracked the dark beard on King Neptune’s face. “Don’t worry. You’re not going to have to tell those military guys anything. You’ve already crashed, Davy boy. You’re in my domain now. Thirty fathoms deep and descending.”

A flash of icy alarm shot through the still-rational part of David’s brain.

Had he already crashed into the sea? Was he already dead? No! He must not listen! He must not believe!

His reflexes responded to the panic, switching into automatic. He set his transponder at 7700 and squawk indent. That would send a special code to let any monitoring controller know his position and that he was in trouble. He fumbled with the radio dial, trying to find the emergency frequency as the digits on the instrument panel swirled into the whirling white vortex swallowing his vision.

The tiny King Neptune rolled against the barnacled anchor in belly-shaking mirth, mocking David’s efforts, its laughter high and screechy, like static. David grabbed the radio mike. His eyes blurred, his throat burned, his words slurred, as he shoved them through his swollen lips.

“Mayday, Mayday—”

Chapter One

Attorney Marc Truesdale of Justice Inc. looked at the clogged downtown Seattle traffic in front of him, then at his watch, then at the driver of his taxi—all for the seventh time in the last seventy seconds.

Of all days for the monorail to be out of service.

“Isn’t there any way around this mess?” he asked.

“Nope,” his driver said. “You’re looking at the mayor’s downtown renovation project, pal. Pretty soon, all these streets are gonna be torn up. Relax. Lotsa people gonna be late this morning.”

“Not me,” Marc Truesdale said as he pushed open the passenger door.

“Hey, where you going?” the driver asked.

“The courthouse is seven blocks up. I’ll get there quicker by foot.” He threw the full fare onto the front seat and slammed the taxi door behind him.

Marc took off. Runners on the streets of Seattle were not an uncommon sight. But as a rush-hour jogger in a three-piece suit and carrying a briefcase, he got quite a few stares. He ignored the men and smiled at the women. As usual, he got plenty of smiles back.

When he reached the courthouse, he found a floor full of hopefuls waiting for the elevators. He checked his watch. Three minutes to ten. He headed without hesitation for the staircase.

No sooner had the door slammed behind him than he heard the rapidly ascending feet two flights above. Marc’s competitive spirit had him immediately picking up the pace. But the owner of that other pair of feet must have heard him, because their speed increased, too.

Marc smiled. So he wanted to race, did he?

Marc’s long legs skipped every other step in powerful lunges upward. He figured he’d overtake this guy by the next flight. But by the next flight, Marc could still clearly hear the fall of feet on the stairs above him.

Marc increased his already considerable speed, now skipping every two steps in giant lunges, eager to meet the man who could give him such stiff competition. Still, it was a full flight later before he finally closed in on his quarry. And when he did, he couldn’t believe his eyes.

Above him flashed long, shapely feminine legs in luscious black nylons beneath a rustling brown silk dress.

The shock of his discovery threw Marc momentarily off-balance, causing him to misstep. He grabbed the banister and saved himself from a fall. But by the time he had reclaimed his footing and looked up again, he could neither see nor hear the lady with the lovely legs.

Marc lunged up the last staircase and stopped at the landing, listening intently over his labored breath. No footfall resounded on the staircase above. A ladies’ room was on his right; the door to the left led off the stairwell into the courtrooms. Which way did she go?

He snatched open the door to the courthouse floor and searched up and down. The dress and legs were nowhere to be seen. She had to have gone into the ladies’ room.

Should he wait to see the face that went with those fabuous legs? He checked his watch. He had exactly forty-five seconds to make it to court.

“Oh, what the hell,” he muttered beneath his breath as he tore off toward his courtroom. “Probably wouldn’t have been worth it, anyway.”

His client, Louie Demerchant, met him just outside, looking slightly peeved. “I thought you were going to be late.”

“Never,” Marc said, running a quick hand through his thick blond hair to set it obediently back into place. “We’ve waited a long time for this, Mr. Demerchant. Let’s go inside.”

Marc could feel the tension in the packed courtroom minutes later as the tall, thin Stanley Binick slithered up to the witness stand.

“Tear him apart, Truesdale,” Louie Demerchant whispered angrily into Marc’s ear as they sat together at the plaintiff’s table.

Marc nodded, understanding his client’s feelings. This well-publicized suit they had brought against Binick had more to do with revenge than money. What’s more, Marc was happy to be a part of that revenge.

A couple of hundred years ago, Marc would have been acting as second to Louie Demerchant as Demerchant and Binick drew pistols and aimed for each other’s hearts. Today, Marc acted as Louie Demerchant’s lawyer.

Time had changed the mode, but not the emotion. Wounded human hearts cried out for justice in their pain. And justice was Marc Truesdale’s business.

Marc studied Binick as the clerk swore him in. He had gotten to know the man and his attorney, Quon Sato, over the two long years it took to get this case to trial. He respected the dark, compact Sato, who had a quiet manner and considerable knowledge of the law. But whenever the shifty, skin-shedding Binick was around, Marc instinctively kept checking to be sure his wallet was still in his pocket and his watch on his wrist.

Binick had refused to settle. Sato had consistently and competently stalled with every legal trick imaginable. Marc had countered them, overcome them. Now the defense attorney could stall no longer. Finally, Binick was in Marc’s sight.

Marc got to his feet and moved as close as permitted to the witness box. He kept his tone pleasantly neutral. That was how one dispatched an offender in these more civilized times, with indisputable facts and irrefutable logic—a bloodless separation of the incompetent from his professional reputation and financial resources.

A lot of these incompetents, Marc knew, would have preferred the quick bullet to the heart.

“Please state your name and occupation for the record.”

The man’s thin voice came out in a high rasp as he rubbed his sweaty hands together in jerky little movements. “Stanley Binick, president of Bio-Sperm.”

“Mr. Binick, would you please explain to this court what Bio-Sperm does?”

“Bio-Sperm collects human sperm, stores it and makes it available for artificial insemination.”

“Is your business commonly called a sperm bank?”

“Yes.”

“A moment ago you said you were the president of this sperm bank, but aren’t you also the sole owner of Bio-Sperm?”

“Yes.”

“You have no silent partners, no investors? You are totally in control of this private company?”

“Yes.”

“What did you gross last year?”

“Your honor, I object. Irrelevant,” Sato interjected.

The judge turned to Marc. She was an older, gray-haired gal in her sixties. This was her last year before retiring from the bench. Marc had been up before her countless times. She was one of his favorite judges, because he knew he was one of her favorite lawyers. He sent her a small smile.

“Your Honor, this jury must be presented with a clear understanding of all aspects of Bio-Sperm, including its solvency. Only then can they fully appreciate the extent of the improprieties and damages done to my client, Louie Demerchant.”

“Objection overruled,” the judge said. “You may answer the question, Mr. Binick.”

He may, yes, but he was clearly hesitant to do so. He sank lower in his chair as his raspy voice got fainter and his nervous tongue shot out to wet his lips. “A little more than four million.”

“Four million?” Marc said, repeating it loudly, letting his voice rise in surprise; although, of course, he’d already known the answer. A smart attorney had better know the answer to every question he asked of a witness sitting in front of a jury.

“You made four million in one year?”

Binick’s nervousness over the emphasized point caused his eyes to squint as he rubbed his tiny scale of a nose. “Gross, of course. And I work hard for that money. My rules are very stringent for donors. I accept applications only from college graduates. I personally do the interviews to make sure we get good-looking men.”

“So your hard work is to pick out good-looking men?”

“Well, partly...yes.”

“How do you define good-looking?”

“Tall. Physically appealing. Certainly no short men or men with big noses or receding chins. Our clients definitely wouldn’t want to have such a man’s child.”

Marc smiled to himself as he caught the dark looks erupting on the faces of the jury, a group of the shortest men with the biggest noses and most receding chins he had been able to find. So far, this testimony was going exactly as planned.

Binick’s eyes darted to the jury’s expressions, too. Realizing his mistake too late, he sank farther into the witness chair. Marc planned for him to be so low in the witness stand by the time he got through with him that the bailiff would have to get a spatula to flip him out of it.

“Mr. Binick, what procedures do you employ in collecting and storing this sperm?”

“The prospective donor men fill out a comprehensive questionnaire, and then we give them a cup and send them to the cupping room with a Playboy magazine or a videotape and—”

Marc held up his hand to interrupt. “You don’t have to go into that much detail.”

Marc guffawed along with the members of this all-male jury, purposely reminding them that despite the formality of his custom-made suit, beneath it he was just one of the boys.

“Now, Mr. Binick, after the sperm is collected, what do you do with it?”

“The sperm is frozen in liquid nitrogen at approximately three hundred degrees below zero Fahrenheit. It can last for ten years that way.”

“Who receives this preserved sperm?”

“Most of our clients are women married to infertile men. We provide healthy, anonymous donor sperm from men who approximate their husband’s size and coloring in order that they may conceive a child who will resemble them both.”

“Is providing anonymous sperm for women the only service you perform at Bio-Sperm?”

“No. We also store sperm from specific men who don’t wish to start a family right away, but want their sperm to be safeguarded for later use.”

“Why would a man wish to safeguard his sperm—for later use—as you term it?”

“Any number of reasons. An example would be men whose current medical problems require a procedure like chemotherapy that could render them infertile. They are looking for insurance.”

“So you store their sperm in order to ‘insure’ that these men will have the ability to pass on their genes in the future should they so desire?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Binick, did a man by the name of David Demerchant come to you to avail himself of your sperm bank ‘insurance’ services?”

“Yes.”

“When?”

“November and December, three years ago.”

“And what was his reason?”

“David Demerchant’s family carries a genetic predisposition to become sterile by the age of thirty. Both his grandfather, Louie Demerchant, and his father, Colin Demer- chant, had suffered this fate. David wanted his sperm saved in the event that he became infertile before he could have a family.”

“How old was David at the time he visited your sperm bank?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“Were you aware that David was the only child of his father and the only grandchild of Louie Demerchant, the prominent industrialist?”

“Yes.”

“You knew that David was the last of the Demerchant line?”

“Yes.”

“You knew how important it was to safeguard his sperm?”

“Yes.”

“How did you know these things?”

“When Louie Demerchant called to make the appointment for his grandson, he explained the circumstances.”

“He mentioned them in passing?”

“No. He talked about them at length and in detail to be sure I understood the seriousness of the matter.”

“Did you understand the seriousness of the matter?”

“Of course. I said as much many times to Mr. Demerchant. Still, Louie Demerchant was adamant about making all the arrangements and paying the annual storage fee himself to be sure everything was seen to properly. That’s where all the confusion began, you see. If—”

“Mr. Binick, please just answer my questions without any added comments. The jury needs to hear what happened in an orderly manner. Do you understand?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Binick, do you know what happened to David Demerchant after he entrusted his sperm to your company?”

“David Demerchant was killed in a plane crash over the Pacific Ocean in June, two years and three months ago.”

Marc let a small space of time pass—like a solemn moment of mourning—before asking his next question.

“He died six months after he deposited his sperm with Bio-Sperm for safekeeping, isn’t that right?”

“Yes.”

“Did Louie Demerchant approach you regarding his grandson’s sperm shortly after his grandson’s death?”

“Yes. Within two weeks he had found a woman who had agreed to be inseminated with his grandson’s sperm and give birth to David’s child.”

“And when Mr. Demerchant brought in this woman for artificial insemination, what happened?”

Binick’s tongue slithered over his lips. “We couldn’t locate David Demerchant’s sperm tube.”

“You lost this sperm you were supposed to be safeguarding?”

“I’ve been in business for more than ten years without a mistake. I’ve set up a very specific procedure. I have a double-numbering system. Color-coded tubes. Cross-system checks.”

“But you still lost David Demerchant’s sperm, yes or no?”

Binick sank farther into the chair. “Yes.”

“Mr. Binick, what did you tell your lab technician to do when you discovered you had lost David’s sperm?”

“I wasn’t serious.”

“Mr. Binick, please answer the question. What did you tell your lab technician to do?”

“I said something about substituting anonymous donor sperm in place of David’s lost sperm. But it was only a joke! I didn’t know she’d take me seriously.”

“Only a joke? Mr. Binick, didn’t you in fact order your lab technician to quickly find an anonymous donor sperm that could pass as David Demerchant’s?”

Binick’s tongue flicked between his thin lips. “She misunderstood me, I tell you. The woman has no sense of humor.”

“Mr. Binick, the surrogate mother was waiting in the receiving room. Louie Demerchant was outside in the waiting room. You had just found out you lost his grandson’s sperm, sperm that could never be replaced. And you felt this was an appropriate time for jokes?”

Binick slithered farther into his chair. “I made an error in judgment. I’m sorry. I meant no harm. I tell you, it was only a joke.”

He was so clearly lying. Marc could see it and he knew the jury could see it, too. He stared at his witness to allow the jury’s full loathing to come to a boil before going on.

“After you made this joke to the lab technician to substitute other sperm for David Demerchant’s, what did the lab technician do?”

“She went into the waiting room and told Louie Demerchant we had lost his grandson’s sperm and that I had told her to substitute someone else’s sperm.”

“So you didn’t get away with your scheme to pass off someone else’s child as Louie Demerchant’s grandchild, did you?”

“There was no scheme! I tell you, it was all an unfortunate misunderstanding!”

“Mr. Binick, did you ever find out what happened to David Demerchant’s missing sperm?”

“Yes, it had been destroyed.”

“You destroyed David’s sperm?”

“Not me, one of my employees!” Binick’s raspy voice protested, a thin line of sweat breaking out on his brow.

Typical Binick. Trying to put the blame on anyone and everyone but himself.

“Mr. Binick, would you please explain to this court how your company destroyed the sperm David Demerchant had entrusted to you for safekeeping?”

Binick’s visibly sweaty hands rubbed the chair’s upholstered arms. “Our computer form has just one space for a client’s name.”

“And what is the significance of your computer form having just one space for a client’s name?”

“Louie Demerchant’s name went on the computer records for sperm preservation instead of David’s, because it was Louie who called to set up the appointments and insisted on paying for the sperm’s storage. He never should have done that!”

“Mr. Binick, are you trying to tell this court that it was Louie Demerchant’s fault that you destroyed his grandson’s sperm because he emphasized the importance of preserving it and paid you to do so?”

Binick sank some more in the witness chair. “No, I...no.”

“So what happened when David Demerchant later came in and left his sperm deposits for safekeeping, his insurance against an unforeseen future?”

“David Demerchant entered his name on our questionnaire along with his background statistics. The technician ran a computer search. When he found nothing under David Demerchant’s name, he set up a new computer file, number-coded his sperm for confidentiality and placed David Demerchant’s sperm in the donor pool storage receptacle.”

“The donor pool? It was doled out?”

“It wasn’t my mistake!”

“All this happened because there weren’t separate lines on the computer form for payee’s name and donor’s name, is that right?”

“Yes.”

“And who made this determination that there should only be one line and not two?”

By now, Binick’s long scaly face was shiny with his nervous perspiration. He drew out a tissue from his pocket and started blotting. “It would have cost more money to have added another line.”

“So it was your decision to pinch pennies instead of providing adequate space on your computer form?”

“I object to that unfair characterization, Your Honor,” Sato said.

“Sustained,” the judge ruled. “No editorials, counselor.”

“I’ll rephrase,” Marc responded. “Mr. Binick, was it your decision to restrict space on your computer form, an action that caused David Demerchant’s sperm to be doled out to your clients instead of preserved?”

“We didn’t just dole it out! We kept track of who got whose sperm and how well the sperm did. When none of the first six women we inseminated with David Demerchant’s sperm conceived, we rechecked it and found that its motility was impaired so it was withdrawn from donor status.”

“Let’s take this one step at a time, Mr. Binick. Did you or did you not make the decision about the space on the computer form?”

“I—”

“Yes or no, Mr. Binick.”

Binick sank even more in his chair, looking like he wished he could slither beneath it. “Yes.”

“Now, would you please explain to this jury in common, everyday language what you mean by the motility of David’s sperm being impaired?”

“In order for sperm to fertilize an egg they have to be vigorous swimmers. When one of our lab technicians checked David Demerchant’s sperm, she found they were lazy and did not meet the high standards we uphold at Bio-Sperm.”

“Are you trying to tell this court that David Demerchant’s sperm could not have produced a child?”

“His sperm were mobile enough for conception, given time. It’s just that our clients pay for each insemination attempt, and they become impatient when nothing is immediately forthcoming. So we try to provide them with only very vigorous sperm to speed up their becoming pregnant. Which is why when we discovered the motility problem, we removed David Demerchant’s storage tubes from the donor storage receptacle.”

“You mean you destroyed his sperm,” Marc repeated for emphasis.

“Yes.”

“You destroyed David Demerchant’s sperm, sperm you were supposed to be holding for him to insure his progeny?”

“I—”

“Yes or no, Mr. Binick?”

Binick’s eyes flitted to the jury, then back to Marc. His tongue darted out nervously. “Yes.”

“You are responsible for destroying sperm that you knew was supremely important to preserve, because it was the only hope for the Demerchant line, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“And by destroying that sperm, you have destroyed Louie Demerchant’s dream of having a great-grandchild through the surrogate mother of his choice, haven’t you, yes or no?”

“Yes.”

“Mr. Binick, because of your mistake, you have literally doomed the distinguished Demerchant family line to extinction, haven’t you, yes or no?”

“Well...no.”

“No?” Marc repeated, barely able to believe his ears. “Mr. Binick, did you or did you not just admit that Bio-Sperm destroyed David Demerchant’s sperm?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“But, nothing. It was the only chance that the Demerchant line had of continuing. Now there’ll never be a child to carry on the Demerchant name. Isn’t that true?”

“Well, none to carry on the name, perhaps. But—”

“Perhaps? Mr. Binick, when I took your deposition two months ago, you said none of those six women conceived from David’s sperm. Are you trying to say now that one of them did?”

“Oh, no. None of those women conceived. That’s why the lab technician tested the sperm, destroyed it and inactivated David’s computer file, as I said. That’s also the reason why it wasn’t until last week, when we were updating and cross-checking our files, that we found her, you see.”

“Found her. Found who?”

“I have a computer printout of her record right here,” Binick said, his sweaty hands diving into his pocket, dragging out a piece of folded paper that he subsequently shoved at Marc. “See?”

Marc took the paper, unfolded it and quickly perused its contents. “All I see is a bunch of computer codes, Mr. Binick. What is this supposed to mean?”

“It’s all the details about the seventh client. She didn’t get on David’s computer file because at the same time the recipient was receiving David’s sperm, another lab technician was testing David’s sperm, ordering it destroyed, and inactivating his file. That’s also why the positive take wasn’t subsequently recorded.”

“Positive take? Mr. Binick, are you saying this seventh woman received David Demerchant’s sperm and conceived?”

Binick rubbed his tiny scale of a nose as his thin, pushed-out face spread into its first smile. “She not only conceived, Mr. Truesdale, she gave birth to David Demerchant’s baby nine months later.”

Marc stared at Binick, mute in his shock, unable to ask another question for several seconds. It was just as well. He wouldn’t have been heard anyway. The courtroom had exploded with the impact of Binick’s dropped bomb.

A few members of the press, who had commandeered most of the spectator seats, were jumping up and heading for the door, eager to be the first to get out the news. The judge rapped and called for order, but to no immediate avail. Only after she threatened to clear the courtroom did the spectators begin to quiet down.

And all the time Marc’s thoughts were in a whirl as he contemplated the far-reaching ramifications of what this witness had just said.

A woman had given birth to David’s baby? A part of his friend had survived, after all? No, it was too fantastic. It couldn’t be true. Binick had to be pulling a fast one.

Marc’s eyes swung to his client. Louie Demerchant was staring hard at Binick. Gone was the cold, bitter despair that had dwelt in the faded gray eyes for the past two years. In its place was something that looked suspiciously like hope.

Damn. Of course Louie wanted to believe it. What man in his position wouldn’t? Which was why Binick was perpetrating this fraud. And that’s when Marc realized just how cruel a deception this was. He could taste the heat of growing anger on his tongue.

Finally, the courtroom quieted and the judge motioned for Marc to proceed. He wasted no time.

“Mr. Binick, let me get this straight. You’re now saying that your misuse of David Demerchant’s sperm has produced a child?”

“Yes.”

Marc leaned as close to his witness as he dared and let the sarcastic sneer come through in his voice. “Do you really expect this court to believe that after two years of being certain that David Demerchant’s sperm was destroyed without issue, a week before this trial you just happened to find this seventh woman who just happened to have conceived from David Demerchant’s sperm?”

Binick rubbed his hands nervously across the chair arms. Fresh sweat popped out on his upper lip. He had a scared-but-resolute look in his eyes.

“I know it defies the odds, Mr. Truesdale. But, well, it happened, so it just proves that long shots do come in sometimes.”

“The odds against this long shot coming in must defy all the probabilities of chance,” Marc said in a cold, cutting voice.

“Your Honor, I object,” Sato said.

“Sustained,” the judge said.

“What is the name of this woman?” Marc demanded.

“Remy Westbrook.”

“And you claim this Remy Westbrook came to Bio-Sperm for impregnation and was given David Demerchant’s sperm?”

“I don’t just claim it. I know it to be true.”

“How do you know it?”

“By our records, of course.”

“Would those be the same records that caused you to misdirect David Demerchant’s sperm to the donor banks, and which ultimately led to its destruction?”

Binick sank again in his chair. “I explained how that mistake happened.”

“Yes, you put the wrong name on a form. What makes you so sure you haven’t entered another wrong name on Mrs. Westbrook’s form?”

“I showed you the computer printout. Her record doesn’t have a name, it has David Demerchant’s code. This is not a mistake. She got David Demerchant’s sperm. I swear it.”

“You swear it. Like you swore to Louie Demerchant that you would preserve his grandson’s sperm? What good is your word, Mr. Binick? You were ready to pass off someone else’s sperm as David’s!”

The slithering tongue darted out once more. “It was a joke. I told you that! I wouldn’t have really done it! I’m truly devastated about what happened.”

“You’re truly devastated. How do you think Louie Demerchant feels?”

“But there is a child now! He has a great-grandchild!”

“That remains to be proved, Mr. Binick. How well do you know this Remy Westbrook?”

“I don’t know her. She’s just a computer record to me. But my attorney has arranged for her to be present here today in anticipation that you might wish to talk to her. She’s waiting outside this courtroom right now.”

Marc swung toward the bench. “Your Honor, I would like to interrupt my examination of this witness to call this Mrs. Westbrook to the stand.”

“Does the defense have any objection?” the judge asked.

“No,” Sato replied.

“Then bring her in, bailiff.”

Binick slid out of the witness chair and slunk back to the defense table. Like everyone else in the packed courtroom, Marc faced toward the back, eager to see this woman. He didn’t for a moment believe this preposterous story. He’d get to the bottom of it even if it meant tearing her to shreds on the stand.

She was either dumb and had been duped, or she’d been paid to lie. Either way, he was prepared to deal with her; he knew what to expect.

Or at least he thought he did...until she stepped into the courtroom.

Chapter Two

Remy Westbrook’s brown silk dress rustled its gold-and-persimmon flowers against the long slim legs of her five-foot-eight-inch frame. Her high heels clicked on the tiled courtroom floor, an echoing percussion to the rhythm of her long limbs. She held her head high on well-defined, erect shoulders that swung ever so slightly in sensuous synergy with her hips. Her thick, straight chocolate hair lifted off a lovely, serene face—sailing far down her back as though being blown by a slight breeze.

Despite the fact that the last time Marc had seen those legs they had been rising out of running shoes, he knew he would have recognized them anywhere. He also knew he had been wrong. If he had waited to see Remy Westbrook’s face, he definitely would not have been wasting his time.

Marc had always been a sucker for long legs, high heels and a long romantic dress—the combination never failing to set off a violin string or two in his head. But as he watched her enter the courtroom that morning, he suddenly found every red-blooded male corpuscle in his body throbbing to a steamy, sophisticated, sultry jazz beat.

He stared, openly and admiringly, following every inch of her progress, along with every other male eye in the courtroom. Yet she gave no sign that she was aware of any scrutiny. In complete contrast to the hot pulse of her walk, her pale face and serene cinnamon eyes broadcast an ultracool calm.

She passed within inches of him on her way to the witness stand, yet she did not as much as glance in his direction. He caught her fragrance—sweet spice kissed with pepper—a scent that enveloped his nose in one instant, only to vanish in the next, tantalizing a lot more than just his curiosity.

The court clerk swore her in. She claimed the witness chair on a collected downbeat and nonchalantly crossed those long, luscious legs. She leaned back, effortlessly serene and composed.

He stared at her, this time with a different object in mind. He’d always found quiet staring to be one of his most effective beginning techniques with an unexpected witness; in fact, he was capable of rattling even the calmest of countenances.

But he soon realized that this witness was unaffected by his stare. She sat smack-dab in the middle of this courtroom—clearly the focus of all attention—and yet she also clearly dwelt inside some quiet, self-contained center, totally separate and apart from these proceedings.

The way she walked on those luscious legs could melt any lawyer’s brief. But it was her detached, untouchable air that began to set off all sorts of interesting twitches inside his body. Being ignored by an attractive woman was not something Marc Truesdale was used to—and this one was definitely doing just that. His fascination grew.

“Please state your complete name for the record,” he said.

“Remy Westbrook.”

Her voice was liquid and languid, leaving a pleasant vibration in its wake. Marc honed in on her cinnamon eyes, determined to break through their tranquil shell. He drew his lips back in a smile, the kind of sincere smile that had proved effective on females from eight to eighty.

“Mrs. Westbrook, my name is Marc Truesdale. I’m the attorney for Mr. Louie Demerchant, the plaintiff in this case.”

She reacted not at all to his smile, in either expression or tone. “My name is not Mrs. Westbrook.”

He leaned forward, all polite attention. “Didn’t you just say your name was Westbrook?”

“I’m not married.”

“Oh, I see,” he said with another smile as he rocked back on his heels. Naturally, Binick had selected a single woman. A married one would have involved dealing with a husband, as well. Better to keep the dumb dupes or paid-off confederates few.

“Please excuse the error, Miss Westbrook. Or do you prefer Ms.?”

“I prefer Doctor.”

Marc did a double take. “Doctor? Of what?”

“I earned my Ph.D. in the genesis of developmental psycholinguistics within higher primates.”

Well, whatever that was, it certainly ruled out dumb. Which meant that Remy Westbrook had been bought. Marc felt a spate of disappointment, although he couldn’t clearly define why. He had no time to think about it. He only had time for attending to the business at hand.

“What do you do for a living, Dr. Westbrook?”

“I head the new Center for Primate Language Studies at the University of Washington.”

So she was a professional engaged in what was obviously important scientific research. It would be hard for this jury to believe this intelligent, attractive woman would lie. It looked like Binick had chosen his confederate well.

“Dr. Westbrook, did you avail yourself of the services of the Bio-Sperm company?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“I wanted a baby.”

“You couldn’t find a husband?”

“I didn’t look.”

“Was that because as a busy professional woman you didn’t have the time?”

“No.”

“Then why didn’t you marry and have a child in the conventional way?”

Sato rose to his feet. “Your Honor, I object,” he said in his quiet, polite manner. “These questions are totally irrelevant to the issue at hand and constitute an unnecessary invasion of Dr. Westbrook’s life.”

The judge nodded. “I tend to agree. Mr. Truesdale, would you care to explain the purpose of your current thrust?”

“I’m trying to explore the motives behind the actions of this witness in order to determine her credibility, Your Honor. Since Dr. Westbrook is claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child, I have every right to—”

“I am claiming no such thing,” she interrupted in that same liquid and languid tone.

“Excuse me?” Marc said, turning back to her.

“Dr. Westbrook, please do not answer any more questions until I rule on the objection before this court,” the judge admonished. “Mr. Truesdale, the only personal questions I will allow you to ask of this witness are those germane to this issue of the child’s paternity. Objection sustained.”

Marc nodded at the bench before eagerly turning back to his witness. “Dr. Westbrook, did you just say you’re not claiming to have given birth to David Demerchant’s child?”

“That’s right.”

“Then whose child did you have?”

“My child. He belongs to me. I’m here only because I was subpoenaed, Counselor. I would not have come under any other circumstances.”

So, she was playing the reluctant mother who had been dragged into the courtroom battle against her will. A most believable role. Yes, she was smart, all right. Too damn smart.

He belongs to me. How casually she had conveyed the fact that her child was a boy. Marc spared a quick glance at his client. The light of hopeful joy in Louie Demerchant’s eyes struck deeply at Marc’s sense of justice and fair play. This was such a cruel thing this woman was doing. Did she understand how cruel? Did she care?

He swung back to his witness. His fascination for the lady’s lovely legs, sensual walk and mysterious air had momentarily clouded his judgment. Well, not anymore. Work was work and women were women, and Marc knew better than to ever mix the two. He shot out his next questions in rapid fire.

“Dr. Westbrook, how many times were you inseminated with donor sperm from Bio-Sperm?”

“Just once.”

“When?”

“July 5, two years ago.”

“When did you give birth?”

“April 7 of last year.”

“How much did your baby weigh at birth?”

“Six pounds, twelve ounces.”

“Was he a full-term baby?”

“Yes.”

“How do you know?”

“The doctor confirmed my pregnancy at the end of August the previous year.”

“And you think you became pregnant and gave birth to your son as a result of the sperm you received at Bio-Sperm on July 5 of the month before?”

“I know it.”

“You know it? How can you know it?”

“I was only artificially inseminated once, Counselor.”

“There are other ways of becoming pregnant, Dr. Westbrook. How many times did you have intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August during the year when your baby was conceived?”

For the first time, Marc saw a slight stiffening in the relaxed shoulders of his witness. Remy Westbrook shifted sideways in her chair in order to face and address the judge.

“Your Honor, is that question permissible?”

The judge’s lined face looked apologetic. “Yes, Dr. Westbrook. You are instructed to answer.”

Remy Westbrook turned back to Marc, but this time he saw a tiny lick of golden flame in the center of her cinnamon eyes. Its heat gave him a small shock because of the message it conveyed.

It seemed he’d been dead wrong. Remy Westbrook was not tranquil and serene and untouched by these proceedings at all. She was blazing mad.

“None,” she answered, her tone still as mellow as ever.

“You had no intimate relations with a man during the months of June, July and August of that year? Three whole months?” he emphasized with raised eyebrows.

“None,” she repeated.

“How can you be so sure?”

“Engaging in intimate physical relations may be a nonselective, common, insignificant event to you, Counselor. I, however, take such an act seriously, am very selective and, hence, remember each and every occasion well.”

Her voice had retained its languid, liquid quality. But those cinnamon eyes now blazed with that golden, indignant flame.

Marc was struck with a sudden doubt. Could she be telling the truth? Had he entirely misread this situation—and her? Only one way to find out.

“Dr. Westbrook, in the event that irrefutable evidence is uncovered to prove that your child is the descendant of my client, Louie Demerchant, what do you intend to do about it?”

“Do about it? What do you mean ‘do about it’?”

“Do you intend to make a claim on the Demerchant estate on behalf of your child?”

“Certainly not.”

“Are you aware of how much money may be involved?”

“No, and I don’t care. I don’t want any of it.”

“You want none of a billion-dollar fortune?”

For the first time since she had entered the courtroom, Marc watched Remy Westbrook’s calm countenance ripple with a wave of surprise. She leaned forward in the witness chair. “A billion dollars?”

The courtroom rocked with excited whispers as its inhabitants responded to that staggering amount in their own shocked way. The judge rapped for order. The silence that followed was instant and absolute. No one wanted to miss anything that was going to be said.

“Yes, Dr. Westbrook,” Marc assured solemnly, his voice carrying to every corner of the courtroom in that silence. “If your son is the offspring of David Demerchant, he could be the sole beneficiary of a billion-dollar estate.”

She locked eyes with him for a moment. She had completely emerged from that quiet center, and Marc could feel the considerable will of the woman behind that cinnamon stare. Those initial interesting twitches that had begun inside him began to multiply by leaps and bounds.

And then, in the next instant, she leaned back in the chair and retreated again to that quiet inner center.

“I don’t care how much money is involved,” her liquid, languid voice said. “I want none of it.”

“Are you willing to go on record that you would refuse such a financial windfall, even if your child were David Demerchant’s?”

“I just did.”

And so she had. Which brought up some interesting new possibilities. Marc pushed on. “If your child does turn out to be David Demerchant’s, do you intend to grant Louie Demerchant visiting rights to his great-grandchild?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“If my son just happens to have Demerchant genes, those genes came to him purely by accident. It was neither David Demerchant’s intent nor was it mine to have a child together. We never even met. If he were still alive, even he would have no claim to my son, much less his grandfather.”

“You will not even let Louie Demerchant see this boy who could be his great-grandchild?”

“That’s right. I will not.”

“Your attitude seems rather extreme, does it not?”

“I do not believe it is. I paid for anonymous sperm. My contract with Bio-Sperm affords me exclusive rights to that sperm and any offspring produced from it.”

“How are you going to explain away these actions to your son when he is old enough to understand?”

“I won’t have to explain away anything. There is no real proof that my son carries Demerchant genes, and since David Demerchant is dead, obtaining such proof now is impossible.”

“So your son will never even know he might be a Demerchant?”

“He is not a Demerchant. He is a Westbrook.”

“You will not meet with Louie Demerchant to discuss this?”

“No, I will not.”

Marc smiled. Yes, the lady might just be telling the truth, after all. Binick and his attorney would have to be out of their minds to have encouraged her to make up this story.

Because, for the purposes of this suit against Bio-Sperm, her testimony wasn’t damaging at all to Marc’s case. On the contrary. He was delighted with it. Remy Westbrook was a keg of dynamite that he would soon be detonating right in Binick’s face.

Marc could already hear his closing arguments.

“Gentlemen of the jury. Even if Remy Westbrook had David’s child, Louie Demerchant will never know for certain, will he? What agony he will be forced to go through because of this uncertainty! And even if Louie Demerchant wants to believe he has this great-grandchild, the only hope of his line, he will never be permitted to see this child. Nor will this child ever carry the Demerchant name. He will not even be allowed to know who his father’s family was. What could be worse torture for a loving great-grandfather? And all because of yet another mistake that Bio-Sperm has made!”

As the rehearsal for his final statement to the jury whirled through his mind, Marc decided that if he had known of the existence of Remy Westbrook and her child, he would have talked Demerchant into asking for fifteen million instead of ten.

“Thank you, Dr. Westbrook,” he said aloud to his witness. “That’s all I have.”

“Do you wish to cross, Mr. Sato?” the judge asked.

Binick’s attorney nodded, rose and approached Remy. “Dr. Westbrook, I know you’ve had less than a week to learn of and digest these startling revelations, on top of which you have been subpoenaed and have been forced to reveal very personal parts of your life to this court. I can understand how upset you must feel.”

“Can you?” she asked in that languid voice, while even from the plaintiff’s table Marc could see the golden flame flickering again in the center of her eyes.

“Yes, and I truly regret the necessity,” Sato continued. “However, we are only interested in getting at the truth here. And as upsetting as this intrusion into your private life must be, I cannot believe that you would deny your son’s right to even know about his father and his father’s family.”

Marc rose to his feet. “I object. Counsel is making argumentative speeches, not asking questions.”

“Sustained,” the judge ruled.

“Dr. Westbrook,” Sato began again. “Do you love your son?”

“Yes.”

“Do you want the best for him?”

“Yes.”

“Then how can you even think of withholding the circumstances of his birth from him?”

“He’ll be told the truth, Mr. Sato. His genetics come from me and from an anonymous sperm donor.”

“But you know David Demerchant was his father. Bio-Sperm’s records clearly show—”

“I know nothing of the sort,” Remy interrupted. “And I don’t care what Bio-Sperm’s records show. With all the mistakes it has made in this matter, who knows who the sperm donor was?”

“Bio-Sperm knows, Dr. Westbrook. Your record clearly shows David Demerchant’s code and no code is ever reused even if—”

“Your Honor, I object,” Marc interrupted. “Defense attorney is making argumentative speeches again.”

“Sustained. Watch it, Mr. Sato.”

“My apologies,” Sato said, creasing his short, compact body with a small bow toward the bench. He returned his attention to the witness box. “Dr. Westbrook, how will you answer your son’s understandable curiosity about his father?”

“While he is very young, Counselor, I will teach him that it isn’t who his father is, but who he is that will give meaning to his life.”

“But aren’t you concerned that his sense of identity will suffer from not knowing his roots?”

“Roots? Haven’t we gone past that foolishness? We are not our parents, Counselor. Emotionally stigmatizing a child with the blame or fame of his ancestors only retards his real self from emerging.”

“And how do you intend to let your son’s real self emerge?”

“By teaching him that his sense of identity will come from his beliefs, his skills, his actions—no one else’s. The responsibility for who he becomes will be totally up to him. The only thing I or any parent can and should supply to a child is a nurturing environment filled with opportunities for growth and love.”

“Assuming all that to be true, Dr. Westbrook, what harm could come from your son learning of and becoming a part of the Demerchants’ nurturing environment filled with family love?”

“How do I know that the Demerchants are a loving family? Or that they share my ideas about how a child should be nurtured?”

“How do you know they’re not and do not?” Sato countered.

“I don’t intend to take chances with my son, Mr. Sato. I want him brought up right. I’m the only one who can ensure that will happen. These people have no role or business in his life.”

Sato smiled patiently at his contrary witness. “In time, Dr. Westbrook, I think you will change your mind. In time, when the shock you have been forced to endure wears off, I think you will want to share the love and joy you have in your heart for your son with his father’s side of the family.”

“Your Honor, I object,” Marc said. “Once again defense counsel is making speeches.”

“Sustained,” the judge said. “Gentlemen of the jury, Mr. Sato’s thoughts are not evidence. You will disregard them. Mr. Sato, you may continue only if you have a legitimate question for Dr. Westbrook.”

“I am finished with this witness,” Mr. Sato said politely, and sat down.

“Mr. Truesdale, do you have anything on redirect?”

“Yes, Your Honor,” Marc said as he stood at the plaintiff’s table. “Dr. Westbrook, do you think you will have a change of heart and at some time in the future wish to have your son meet the Demerchants?”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“As I have said before, even if I inadvertently received David Demerchant’s sperm—and I’ve seen no real proof of that—I have no intention of sharing my son with the family of some stranger. And that, Mr. Truesdale, is all the Demerchants are to me and my son—strangers.”

“Thank you, Dr. Westbrook. That’s all I have.” Marc sat down once again.

“You’re excused, Dr. Westbrook,” the judge said.

“I’d like to resume my examination of Stanley Binick now,” Marc said.

The judge glanced at her watch. “You may resume your examination after the lunch break. Court is adjourned until two o’clock.”

As Remy vacated the witness chair, Louie Demerchant grabbed hold of Marc’s suit sleeve.

“Go after her, Truesdale. I want to see that boy.”

Marc mentally took back everything he had previously thought about Remy Westbrook helping their case. In his eagerness to win this suit and see Binick pay, he’d forgotten about the emotional impact of this woman’s testimony on his client. That damaging impact wasn’t worth another million or another hundred million.

“Mr. Demerchant, please don’t put yourself through this,” he said. “Binick is just trying to give you false hope.”

“I don’t know that for certain. Neither do you, Truesdale. And you must admit, the woman seems to be telling the truth.”

“Still, it’s only Binick’s records that tie her to David. Even she doesn’t believe—”

“I don’t care what she believes. I have to know. Go after her, Truesdale.”

“You heard what she said. She’s not going to let you see him.”

“Offer her what you have to. Do what you have to, but get her to change her mind! I must see that boy!”

“You can’t know if he’s David’s just by seeing him.”

“I’ll know,” Louie Demerchant said with all the proud illogic of a hopeful great-grandparent, grasping at the smallest straw.

Marc shook his head, face-to-face with the futility of arguing with a man who was currently fully tanked up with emotion and running absolutely empty on reason. “All right. I’ll go after her and see what I can do.”

“Good man,” Demerchant said as he clapped Marc on the back.

Marc silently cursed himself for being a sap as he headed toward the back of the courtroom.

Nothing about this errand was going to be easy. Even getting close to Remy Westbrook was a monumental task. The hallway outside the courtroom was a mob scene of reporters pushing cameras and microphones at the lady as she tried to weave her way out. Marc watched and listened and waited for his chance.

“Dr. Westbrook, won’t you take a moment to talk to us?”

“No. I’ve been drawn into this spotlight against my will and I refuse to remain in it a second longer.”

“What name did you give David Demerchant’s son?”

“I didn’t have David Demerchant’s son.”

“What is your son’s name?”

“Westbrook.”

“You’re going to throw away a billion dollars?”

“Please, let me pass.”

“Are you really planning to keep the Demerchants away from your son?”

“Excuse me, please,” she said, still maintaining her mellow tone as she squeezed forward.

She squirmed through the crowd, pushed open a hallway door marked Women, and disappeared quickly inside. The sign on the door immediately halted the male reporters just outside it. They set their cameras down to wait.

Marc saw his chance and took it. He dove through the throng. Then, much to everyone’s surprise, he burst through the door with the Women sign on it.

He knew this door. It was the one he had come through this morning. Despite its outside labeling, it led to an exit stairwell as well as to the ladies’ room. Marc suspected the former was where Remy was really headed.

The moment the door closed behind him, he heard the quick click-clack of her high-heeled shoes on the metal stairs about a flight and a half below. He had been right. He hurried down the stairs after her. But even in those heels she moved fast. It took some effort to catch her.

“Dr. Westbrook, I have to talk to you,” he called.

Remy had always prided herself on keeping her cool, but this untenable situation was sorely testing her patience. She recognized the arrogant attorney’s voice right away. She kept moving down the stairs as fast as she could as she sent her response back to him. “No.”

His words followed her, as did the sound of his footsteps.

“Dr. Westbrook, I’m sorry about your being dragged into all this. Believe me, I’m on your side. I don’t think your child is David’s, either. I agree that Binick probably selected your record from his files only because the timing would sound right to the jury. He’s just using you and your child in order to try to lower the settlement Louie Demerchant will get in his suit against Bio-Sperm.”

Remy halted on the next landing and whirled on him. “If that’s really what you believe, Truesdale, why did you insist on so ruthlessly exposing my personal life on the stand?”

“Because I thought you were lying. At first.”

His deep-set, cobalt blue eyes stared at her as they had since the moment she had stepped into the courtroom. Their focused intensity was laser blue hot. His body was a tall, lean inverted triangle in a perfectly cut dark blue suit. The stairwell lights lit the thick polished brass of his hair, a color that perfectly matched his far-too-brassy manner.

But the smile he flashed her now was pure charm and overlaid that hard, finely chiseled professional face with an impossibly engaging light of boyish sincerity.

He was so obviously one of those men gifted from birth to simply fly over those obstacles that clobbered the rest of humanity. She thoroughly resented that in him. But resisting that surprisingly boyish smile was something even she was finding very difficult to do.

“Why did you think I was lying?” she asked.

“I thought you were in on this nasty scheme to get Louie Demerchant to think he has a great-grandchild. Binick knows Louie Demerchant would love to believe it’s true. He’s playing on the old man’s emotions, banking on the false hope working to his advantage. If the jury thinks there’s a great-grandchild, Binick believes they might deny Louie’s claim to damages or, at least, lower the damages.”

“I...see. Well, I’m sorry for Mr. Demerchant if that’s what Binick’s doing, but none of this has anything to do with me. Now, I really must go.”

As she turned, she heard the stairwell door a few flights up swing open. The pounding of the quickly descending footsteps told Remy that the news reporters were hot on her heels again. Should she take a chance and try to outrun them? If only she had time to change back into the running shoes stuffed in her shoulder bag!

She felt Marc’s hand on her arm.

“They’ll be here any minute,” he said. “This is the third floor. Duck in here and you can take the elevator down the rest of the way. That should throw them off.”

She nodded and sailed past as he pulled the door open for her. She got her bearings quickly and headed directly toward the third-floor elevators.

As soon as she reached the circle of elevators, she pressed the Down button. She felt Marc Truesdale move behind her, and then his hand was on her shoulder. She turned at his touch.

“Dr. Westbrook, I need to talk to you.”

His hand felt solid and strong and fired tiny trickles of warmth through her shoulder. She knew she could step back and shake it off. But she didn’t. He seemed to be on her side now. She decided she could forgive his earlier transgressions.

Besides, she liked the feel of that strong hand. She also liked the sophisticated, woodsy after-shave that clung to that finely chiseled chin beneath that boyish smile. She couldn’t deny the guy was handsome as hell, and all her female parts were happily sitting up and taking notice.

“What about?” she asked.

“Louie Demerchant believes if he sees your child, he’ll be able to know if—”

Remy felt an instant anger whip through her. She jerked back, quickly shaking off his hand. She kept her outward cool, but only just, as she quickly interrupted.

“First, you assure me you don’t believe my child is David Demerchant’s, and then you want me to parade him before Louie Demerchant so he can decide. What do you take me for, a fool?”

“No. Of course not. But don’t you see? Because of Binick’s deviousness, this claim of a great-grandchild is going to haunt Louie Demerchant until he can see for himself that your child can’t possibly be David’s.”

“And you think one look will assure him of that?”

That simple, boyish sincerity just oozed out of his smile. “I hope so.”

Remy silently cursed herself for being such a gullible sap. She should never have allowed herself to be taken in by that handsome face and boyish smile. No substance lay behind them. They were only weapons this man wielded to get his way.

“You hope so. Yeah, right, Truesdale. Well, forget it. Neither you nor your client are getting anywhere near my son.”

A downward-heading elevator dinged as it stopped on the third floor. Remy swung around to step inside its opening doors. Both of Marc’s hands landed on her shoulders this time and whirled her back to face him, forcibly staying her retreat.

The boyish smile faded into one flooded with earnest desperation. “Look, it’s not going to hurt your son for Louie Demerchant just to look at him.”

Remy angrily shook his hands off her shoulders once again. “Listen, Truesdale. This is over. I never want to see you or Demerchant or Binick again, do you understand?”

“Please—”

“Your pleases are wasted on me. Now, go away and leave me alone.”

She swung back to the elevator at the same instant that its doors closed in her face.

She sucked in an enormous breath and began to count to ten.

“Sorry,” Marc said from behind her, not sounding sorry at all. “While we’re waiting for another elevator, you can tell me about your son.”

Remy’s hands balled into fists. She told herself sternly that she must not lose her cool. She must remain in control. Otherwise, she was going to end up decking this guy.

Suddenly, the stairwell door they had exited a few moments before crashed open. Remy’s eyes darted to the sound in time to see a horde of newspeople come spilling out onto the third floor. It took only a second for them to spot Marc and Remy.

“There they are!” one of the reporters shouted, as they all took off at a run. Remy groaned. Marc swung boldly forward into the reporters’ path, his hands raised in a halting motion.

Remy ducked behind him, frantically pressing the Down button in futile hope an elevator would come before the reporters descended.

Her hope was indeed futile.

In seconds the reporters were swarming over them, lights blinding her, microphones shoved once again in her face as they shouted out their questions simultaneously, the sounds batting against Remy’s ears in a cacophony of confusion.

And then, through it all, Remy heard the faint ding of an opening elevator. She whirled around, fully intending to jump in and close its doors as fast as she could. She never got the chance.

Because at that precise second, someone plowed into her hard from behind, popping the breath out of her, plummeting her to the floor and pouncing squarely on top of her.

* * *

MARC TRUESDALE LIMPED into the Wednesday-morning partners’ meeting at the law firm of Justice Inc. He carefully slid his body into his customary chair across from Kay Kellogg. Kay watched him with amused blueberry eyes over her cup of herbal tea, a large solitaire diamond flashing on her ring finger, a grin subtly playing around her lips.

But Octavia Osborne was not nearly so subtle. She flipped back her long tumble of flame red hair and used the ends of her long, matching, perfectly manicured nails to send the morning newspaper skidding over the top of the conference table. Her aim, as always, was accurate. The newspaper stopped directly in front of Marc, its banner headline proclaiming, Bio-Sperm Delivers Billion-Dollar Baby to Demerchant.

“Looks like you had fun in court yesterday,” Octavia commented, a languorous smile lifting the corners of her generous mouth. “Or should I say during the noon recess?”

Marc followed Octavia’s expressive eyes to the enormous, three-column-size photo of him sprawled over Remy Westbrook on the floor of the King County courthouse. He wore a surprised look; Remy wore her dress up around her ears. Octavia quoted the caption beneath the picture word for word, “‘Baby’s mom and Demerchant’s attorney get away after morning session for ex parte communication.’ Really, Marc, and it was only a couple of months ago that you were chastising Kay here for getting personally involved with a client.”

Marc shook his head wearily in response to Octavia’s goading. “This lady is not our client, and, yellow journalism notwithstanding, the only thing between Remy Westbrook and me this morning is sore feelings.”

“Is that why you’re limping? A case of sore...feelings?” Kay asked in that soft voice of hers, a grin still playing around her lips.

Marc exhaled heavily. “I was only trying to keep the news hounds at bay. Was it my fault one of them shoved me into Remy Westbrook and we both toppled to the floor? You’d think she’d be a little grateful for my efforts. Instead, before I even had a chance to get off her, she kneed me in the...uh...uh...”

“Feelings?” Kay offered with a less-than-innocent look.

Octavia exploded into that uninhibited, throaty laugh of hers that sang throughout the conference room. Kay joined her in an echo of merry amusement.

Marc shook his head in good-natured disgust. “Women!”

Kay reached for a tissue to dab at her eyes. “Sorry, Marc. But if you had any part in getting a picture like that of me run in all the papers, good intentions or no, I probably would have kneed you, too.”

“Well, thanks,” he said sarcastically. “Have you two forgotten that as my partners you’re supposed to be supporting me?”

“If it’s a supporter you need, I can buy you an athletic one,” Octavia said, before bursting out again in laughter, once more echoed by Kay’s giggles.

Marc found he couldn’t keep a straight face, not in light of his partners’ playfulness. “Actually, an ice pack would probably be more useful,” he admitted as he joined in with a chuckle of his own.

Octavia and Kay increased the timbre of their howls.

“Let’s try to keep it down,” Adam Justice admonished as he silently entered the conference room, closing the door behind him, exactly on time for their meeting. “Remember, we have associates doing research in offices on either side and secretaries trying to answer phones.”

The laughter died a timely death.

Marc admired the dignity and solid professionalism that entered the room along with the person of Adam Justice. The man could do it all—try any case, administer any problem. Adam Justice was, in every way, an unbeatable legal machine.

Trouble was, his machine had no Off button. The only time Marc had ever seen Adam outside the office was once at the gym, where Adam had called him for a quick conference about an upcoming case. Even there, Adam had discussed only the case in his typical, all-business demeanor as he mechanically worked the weight machines in a rigid regimen that brooked no deviation. And allowed no pleasure.

Yes, that was what Adam Justice was missing. Pleasure. Marc worked hard, but he found pleasure in his work. That’s why he had joined the smaller firm of Justice Inc. two years before. Here he could take on the cases and clients he wanted and handle them according to his conscience. He might have less prestige than what he could get at one of the bigger firms, but being in control of his cases had added so much more pleasure to his work.

Adam Justice’s absolute control didn’t seem to afford him any pleasure, however. Marc suspected that the scar that jagged from Adam’s jaw to beneath his starched white dress shirt had something to do with it. He’d asked Adam about that scar once. Adam had changed the subject. He was not someone Marc thought he’d ever really know.

That was all right. Mixing work and friends was almost as ill-advised as mixing work with women. Life could be lived much more smoothly with everything organized into its proper place.

“You’re first up, Marc,” Adam said as he settled himself at the head of the conference table and opened his case folder. “How is the Demerchant vs. Bio-Sperm trial going?”

“Very well, despite Binick’s unexpected bomb yesterday morning. I’m working it so that this surprise baby will actually support the damages, not detract from them. Yesterday afternoon I got Binick’s lab technician and her assistant to admit that even they can’t be one hundred percent sure that the donor coding on Remy Westbrook’s record is accurate.”

“When do you think you’ll be able to wrap it up?”

“Judge has some other court business this morning. When we reconvene this afternoon, we go directly to closing arguments. Depending on how long the jury takes to deliberate, it’s possible we’ll have the verdict in today. At the latest, tomorrow.”

“And that’s when you take off for a two-week vacation, right?” Kay asked.

Marc smiled at her. “Gavin and I are going waterskiing before the October rains hit.”

“Any ideas on how we can counteract the impression left by this picture?” Adam asked as he pointed his pen at the newspaper’s front page.

Adam’s tone had not changed, but Marc felt the depth of his concern, nonetheless.

Marc leaned back in his chair. “Every time a reporter called for a statement about it, I told them that it was a reporter who pushed me into Dr. Westbrook, probably just to get a picture like that. I also warned them that if I ever found out which reporter it was, I was going to sue his tail off. They don’t seem too eager to print those comments.”

Adam shook his head. “No, naturally they wouldn’t. But I don’t like to leave it like this. Doesn’t look good for the firm. Clients don’t come to lawyers tainted by impropriety.”

Octavia laughed, the only one who never let Adam’s somber admonishments restrict her flamboyant spirit. She leaned across the table toward him, a twinkle of fresh spirit in her eyes.

“Thanks to Kay’s impropriety hitting the newspapers a couple of months ago,” she said, “we have a dozen new clients. You worry too much, Adam.”

“As senior partner, it’s my job to worry. Give it some thought, Marc. We need a positive follow-up story.”

“Winning the suit should help,” Marc said.

“See you do. We can’t afford to give the impression of laxity in our ethics. We must uphold stringent standards here at Justice Inc. Morality cannot be compromised.”

Marc knew his senior partner was right, of course. Even the impression of a laxity in ethics was a serious matter.

Which meant it was a good thing Adam Justice didn’t know what Marc was going to do right after this meeting was over. A damn good thing.

Chapter Three

Remy snatched up the morning newspaper and ground her teeth as she read the extra-large headline. But the steam really began to curl out of her ears when she read the caption below the three-column picture of Truesdale straddling her with her skirt over her head.

She slammed the paper down on the lab table in her office and snatched at the coffeepot.

“Good morning, Remy,” her sister said as she rolled her wheelchair over. “Sorry I’m late, but I’ve been fiddling with... Hey, what’s wrong?”

Remy shoved the nozzle of the coffeepot into her mug and poured. “That’s what’s wrong, Phil. Did you see it?” she asked as she nodded at the newspaper.

Dr. Phillida Moore shifted her wheelchair and glanced over one of her well-muscled shoulders at the headline. “Oh, yeah, that.” She tsk-tsked. “Really, Remy. And you assured me yesterday morning you were only going to the courthouse to give testimony.”

Remy squinted her eyes. “Oh, very funny. I swear that’s the last time I ever put on a dress and heels again.”

Phil’s mouth twisted into a crooked grin. “Look on the bright side. You were wearing sexy underwear, at least. Why, right this minute there are probably dozens of love-starved men out there who are cutting this picture out of their morning paper so they can make you their latest pinup.”

Remy shook her head. “How marvelously comforting that image is. Thank you so much.”

Phil chuckled. “What shall your big sister do? Track down this attorney and run over his feet with my wheelchair? Or should I go after the photographer? The newspaper editor? The caption writer?”

Remy grinned as the anger drained from her thoughts. Phil was great for getting Remy’s thoughts away from those things she couldn’t do anything about. Which was precisely what Phil had intended to do, of course.

“I already took care of the attorney.”

“Now that’s my little sister talking,” Phil said proudly, the expression on her strong angular face matching the humor in her tone.

“You can don your avenger cape and start with the photographer, though,” Remy added. “Want some coffee?”

“I would sell my right wheel for a cup,” Phil said, grabbing a mug off the table.

Remy smiled as she dumped a couple of sugar cubes and then some coffee into her sister’s mug. “You were starting to tell me why you were late?”

“Oh, the wheelchair ramp on my van got stuck again. The guy from the auto club finally came by and fixed it.”

But not until Phil had sworn and fussed, trying to fix it herself for a couple of hours, Remy was certain. Phil hated not being able to do everything for herself, because she could so clearly do most everything for herself. She simply refused to let the wheelchair stop her. Phil was the strongest and most determined person Remy had ever known.

“You could have left the wheelchair, put on those new steel-strong plastic legs the doctor fitted you with and hailed a taxi. I thought you walked really well in them last time.”

“Yeah, sure. I saw the video of how well I walked. Kind of reminded me of Frankenstein’s monster.” Phil laughed. “Too bad the faculty’s Halloween party next month isn’t a costume ball. Talk about typecasting!”

Remy’s brow furrowed. “That’s nonsense and you know it. Just let your hair grow a bit, put on some makeup and walk in wearing a long black dress. You’d be smashing.”

Phil chuckled with very little mirth. “Oh, I’d be smashing, all right. Into everything.”

“Phil, if you don’t try—”

“Hey, I don’t need phony legs, Remy. Or any phony compliments about how gorgeous I could be all dolled up. I like this old mug of mine. I like my wheelchair just fine, too. I can move faster with these wheels than most people can walk, present company excepted, of course. I know what’s best, kiddo. Always have.”

Yes, Phil always seemed to. For as long as Remy could remember, she’d been following her older sister’s advice. And benefiting from it. Phil was strong where it counted. She had taught Remy to be strong, too.

The telephone rang. Remy answered it with her name as she always did when she was at work.

“Dr. Westbrook, this is Kate Saunders from Channel Five. I’d like to interview you sometime this morning about—”

“No,” Remy interrupted coolly. “No interviews.”

“But—”

Remy hung up the phone quickly and turned to Phil. “That’s the third newsperson this morning and it’s not even ten o’clock.”

She downed some of the steamy coffee, forgetting to sip in her pique. It burned her throat. She paid little attention. The thoughts firing through her mind were suddenly a lot hotter.

Phil grinned. “You should get harassed by the press more often. Puts a nice color in your cheeks.”

Remy ignored the tease this time. “Three of them were waiting for me when I drove up this morning. Fortunately, Braden got here at the same time and misdirected them over to another building so Nicholas and I could sneak inside and lock the door. Although, we were still waylaid on the steps by some fool dressed in a knight’s armor who went down on bended knee and proposed to me.”

“No kidding? Ha!” Phil yowled, her head thrown back. “What a hoot! Who was he?”

“One of my students a semester ago. But he’s not the worst of it. You wouldn’t believe the guys who have been making a play for me. Last night after the TV news flashed my picture and mentioned the reason for my appearance at the Bio-Sperm trial, I got a call from a plumber who once fixed my sink, the owner of the dry cleaners I frequent, and even the guy who sold me my car—all asking for a date.”

“What did you tell them?”

“Let’s just say the last time I repeated that type of language I was twelve and you washed my mouth out with soap.”

Phil smiled.

“And, as if these news hounds and money-hungry lotharios weren’t enough,” Remy continued, “my first call this morning was from an attorney who said he’d be happy to represent me in my fight to get the Demerchant money, and he’d do it for only a third of the estate.”

Phil shook her head. “They sure start crawling out of the woodwork when a lot of money is mentioned.”

Remy took another sip of her coffee. “It’s Binick’s fault. He’s the one who made up that lie about Nicholas being Louie Demerchant’s great-grandson.”

“Are you sure it is a lie, Remy?”

“Of course it’s a lie. Think about it. Binick knows he’s responsible for destroying David Demerchant’s sperm. If Louie Demerchant wins that ten-million-dollar suit against him, Binick’s going bankrupt. He told me that himself when he and the process server arrived on my front doorstep with the subpoena.”

“He actually told you the ten-million-dollar award would bankrupt him?”

“Yes, like he thought that would influence me. And when I made it clear it didn’t, he acted like I should be pleased to learn I had received David Demerchant’s sperm. Probably thought I’d jump at the opportunity to claim the dead man’s money.”

“Which reminds me,” Phil said. “Why aren’t you?”

“Phil, Nicholas is not a Demerchant, so taking any of that money would be dishonest. And even if he were, I wouldn’t want it. Too much money is just as corruptible as too much power, since one inevitably leads to the other.”

“For a billion dollars, I wouldn’t mind being corrupted a bit.”

Remy put her cup down and studied her sister’s face, surprised to see its strong features set in a serious look. “Where is this mercenary streak coming from?”

Phil laughed. “It’s always been there, Remy. Face it, you turned out to be the only incorruptible kid in the family.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Phil smiled. “Yes, that’s what I like most about you. You’re putty in my hands. Don’t worry, I’ll stand...uh...sit by you through the worst of this, even if you refuse every cent.”

Remy rested her hand on her sister’s shoulder. One of Phil’s strong hands covered hers.

“Hey, this hand is going to mush. Have you been keeping up with your weights?” Phil asked before removing her hand and wheeling herself away.

Remy knew Phil’s intentional change of subject came because of her difficulty in displaying her gentler feelings.

“I’ll get back to the hand weights today, Phil. Promise.”

The telephone rang, again. Remy reached for it automatically, but this time Phil stayed her hand and answered it. “Dr. Phillida Moore... No, she’s not here. She left this morning for a long vacation in the Virgin Islands.... Yes, naturally she took her baby with her.... Yes... You’re welcome.”

Phil hung up the phone. “Maybe you’d best let Braden screen your calls for the next few days.”

“Don’t you need him to help you with Thumper’s physical?”

“We already did that yesterday while you were at the courthouse. You got back to the lab so late you missed everything.”

“How’d it go?”

“Braden relates well to the chimp, has from the first day. And now that the boys are no longer shy around him, I think he’ll work out just fine.”

Remy followed Phil’s eyes to the scene taking place on the other side of the glass partition. Their new lab assistant, Braden Fromm, a dark-haired, Atlas-shaped graduate student, was taking notes as Remy’s son, and another toddler and a chimpanzee all practiced saying hello to one another in sign language.

“We always seem to end up with good-looking body-builders for lab assistants, don’t we, Phil?”

Her sister’s eyes twinkled. “Yeah. Don’t we.”

Remy chuckled. She knew Phil always selected attractive men because she liked looking at them.

Remy’s eyes, however, were drawn to her son. A small smile circled her heart, as well as her lips. She was certain there had never been a more beautiful child.

Nicholas’s hair was a silky cognac cap, his large eyes bright blue lagoons fringed in a ring of coral lashes. His lean, sturdy little body—wrapped in an over-the-shoulder, tiger-striped outfit—gestured with overabundant enthusiasm at Thumper, the chimp.

“Nicholas is so smart for just seventeen months,” Remy said. “Sean’s twenty-one months, and yet Nicholas has a much larger vocabulary. And did you notice that Nicholas also understands he must never talk in the sign-language sessions with Sean and the chimp?”

“I noticed,” Phil said without a lot of enthusiasm.

Remy immediately picked up on the change in her sister’s tone. “I’m being one of those adoring, boring mothers again, aren’t I?”

“No. I’m just as proud of our little Nicholas. He catches on to things quickly, and his curiosity for finding out how things work is amazing. Unfortunately.”

Remy turned to her sister in surprise. “Unfortunately?”

Phil laughed. “You haven’t noticed? Not only has Nicholas memorized the keypunch code on the security doors, but the other day I saw him teaching Thumper how to unlock them, too.”

Remy looked back at her boy, her lips drawing into a proud smile. “The little rascal. I’m constantly amazed at what he picks up and then turns around and teaches Thumper. She learns faster from him than she does from us.”

“Yes, and that fact is rapidly becoming the most interesting part of this research for me. You were smart to make him part of your work.”

“I couldn’t stand the idea of being separated from him all day. I don’t know how other working mothers do it.”

“They do it because they’ve learned that being with a toddler dynamo, who has to be constantly watched and worried about twenty-four hours a day, constitutes far too much cruel and unusual punishment for one stay-at-home mom.”

Remy laughed. “You’re probably right. Here, at least, I have Braden, Sean, the chimp and all the lessons and activities to help keep Nicholas occupied and focused. Not to mention his very special aunt. Still wish he had been a girl?”

“Stop baiting me. You know I stopped wishing that the moment I held him. He’s perfect just the way he is. Just perfect.”

Remy looked away from the sudden stillness in her sister’s eyes and back to the joy on her son’s face as the chimp returned his sign for “toy” and they went off to the toy chest together. She was happy to share him. Nicholas would probably be the closest Phil ever got to having a child of her own.

The telephone rang once again. Phil picked it up and announced her name. “Yes, she is. Do you want to talk to... Oh... Okay... I’ll tell her.... Yes... Goodbye.”

She turned to Remy. “Dr. Feeson wants to see you in his office right away. Says it’s urgent.”

Remy frowned. “If it’s urgent, why couldn’t he have told me over the phone?”

“I thought you liked the handsome Dr. Feeson. I know all the other single faculty women were positively green when you guys went out six months ago.”

“Well, I was the green one by the end of the evening, believe me. Only thing he had any passion for was genetically engineering white mice with persimmon coats. When I asked him why he was doing it, he looked at me as though I had asked Picasso why he had painted an eye where an ear should be.”

Phil smiled. “So that’s why you never dated Feeson again.”

“Fortunately, I offended him enough that he never asked me again. Until yesterday afternoon, that is, when he waylaid me on my way back from the courthouse.”

“Wait a minute. Don’t tell me he came on to you, too?”

“He’d heard a radio bulletin about how Bio-Sperm was claiming Nicholas to be David Demerchant’s son. Apparently, he thought I’d jump at the chance to marry him and produce his persimmon-coated mice. I’m sure he still thinks I’m crazy for declining his generous offer.”

“What an incredible imbecile. Remy, why didn’t you tell me about this when you got back to the lab yesterday?”

“Because I was embarrassed for having even dated the guy.”

“He’s the one who should be embarrassed, only he’s too dumb to be. Take it from your older and wiser sister, men are good for one thing only—and most of them need detailed instructions just to get that right.”

Remy laughed as she checked her watch. “In another ten minutes, it’ll be time for the children and the chimp’s cookie break. I don’t want to miss that. Feeson can cool his heels.”

“Maybe I’d better go. Feeson’s just received a lump-sum donation from an anonymous source, earmarked for our higher-primate language studies.”

“A donation? For us? He said that?” Remy repeated in rapid succession as she swung out of her chair and landed on her feet. “Phil, why didn’t you tell me that in the first place? I can stomach Feeson long enough for him to hand me a check. Keep an eye on Nicholas for me, will you?”

Her sister smiled as she called after Remy’s fast-retreating figure. “It’ll cost you. I want that lump-sum donation for some EEG monitoring equipment. A research vet does not live by stethoscope alone.”

* * *

AS REMY CHARGED OUT the front doors of the Primate Language Studies Lab, Marc ducked down inside his Mercedes. He watched her glide quickly down the stairs on her way to Dr. Feeson’s office in the next building.

She wore faded jeans and a bulky sweater today. Her long hair was braided down her back. He only got a glimpse of her, but he would have known that long, beautiful, sensuous sway anywhere. As soon as she was out of sight, he turned to the man sitting impatiently in the passenger seat.

“Okay, Mr. Demerchant. She’s gone. But Dr. Feeson said he couldn’t guarantee how long he can delay her so we’d best move fast.”

Louie Demerchant pushed open the passenger door. “I don’t understand why we’re pussyfooting around, Truesdale. I just got finished writing out a check for twenty thousand dollars to this Primate Language Studies Lab. You secured official permission for both of us to tour the place. We even got a key. We have a right to be here.”

“Yes, but we don’t have a right to be viewing Dr. Westbrook’s son, and that, of course, is the real reason for this visit. Now, let’s just get in, let you have a look at the boy, get out and return Feeson’s key to him. Okay?”

“Okay,” Louie Demerchant answered grumpily.

Marc got out of the car and walked toward the front door with Demerchant right beside him. He hadn’t meant to be sharp with his client, but he was doing this under extreme duress. It was stupid. No one could take a look at a kid and know who its parents were. Yeah, this was really stupid. But it was the only way to keep Louie Demerchant from doing something probably even more stupid in order to see this child.

And maybe, just maybe, a look would finally convince the old guy that Binick had fabricated this totally improbable story.

Marc slid the key in the lock of the door Remy had exited only a moment before. He pushed it open and they went inside.

The building was new. The lab was an expanse of gleaming white floors and a long corridor. As they walked down the corridor, Marc stopped at each door on either side and quickly opened it to glance inside.

He found a couple of empty offices, a small kitchen and a large, vacant habitat room with an enormous skylight and sleeping quarters obviously designed to accommodate one or more chimps. Behind another door was an empty medical examining room. Then, at the far end of the corridor, Marc pushed open a door to a small room smelling of fresh-brewed coffee. It contained a table, a computer and a couple of chairs. Marc entered this room with Louie Demerchant on his heels.

On the other side of a two-way mirror was a large, colorful play area, decorated with plastic furniture in wild splashes of orange and blue and yellow. A woman in a wheelchair, her short dark hair waving around her ears, was gesturing at a chimp, while a younger, muscular man sat and took notes.

There was a chubby child in a blue sailor suit sitting next to the chimp. He had large dark eyes and a tuft of curly black hair at the top of his head. He was watching the woman in the wheelchair. He looked like he was trying to mimic the hand movements the woman was making.

Marc instantly heard the deep sigh beside him. “That child doesn’t look like David at all,” Louie Demerchant said sadly. “He could be anybody’s.”

The chimp got up and took a fake potted plant off an orange shelf and took it to the woman in the wheelchair. The woman shook her head and moved her hands again.

“Well, that’s it, then,” Marc said, relieved. “Let’s go.”

But just as they began to turn away from the scene on the other side of the glass, a toddler, who had previously been hidden from view behind the wheelchair, stomped sturdily over to the chimp, grabbed it by the paw and began to lead it to the bookcase.

As soon as the second boy, wearing a tiger-striped outfit, came into view, Louie Demerchant grabbed Marc’s arm with a grip of iron and sucked in a shocked breath.

Marc looked at his companion. “Mr. Demerchant, what is it?”

“Truesdale, don’t you see? That toddler with the chimp. Look at the color of his hair, his bright blue eyes, his cocky little walk. By God, I’d know him anywhere! That’s David’s son!”

Marc’s eyes swung to the sturdy little boy who was now carrying a book and leading the chimp back to the woman in the wheelchair. The woman was nodding and smiling and gesturing.

Marc watched the boy as the woman in the wheelchair took the book from him. He immediately began to fiddle with the masking tape wrapped around the shoulder button of his tiger-striped outfit. In mere seconds, he had worked both it and the button free. He pulled off his clothing, diaper and all. Then, with a mischievous squeal, he ran around the wheelchair, just out of reach of the woman’s hands, in what was obviously a favorite game.

Children, particularly ones this young, seldom looked like their parents. This one certainly didn’t look like Remy at all. But Louie Demerchant was absolutely right. He did look exactly, uncannily, like David Demerchant.

Until that second—that very second—Marc had not believed it possible. But looking at that little toddler and his antics, he now had no doubt. This boy was his dead friend’s son.

“What are you doing in here!” an angry voice demanded from behind them.

Marc whirled around and came face-to-face with the golden flames in the cinnamon eyes of one very angry Dr. Remy Westbrook.

He had absolutely no idea what to say to her. Louie Demerchant suffered no such hesitation. He bounded forward and wrapped his big arms around the mother of his great-grandson, crushing her to his barrel chest in an old-fashioned bear hug.

“Thank you so much for having him! You don’t know what you’ve done for me!”

* * *

REMY PUSHED AGAINST Louie Demerchant’s chest, trying to free herself from the unwanted, exuberant embrace. But despite his seventy-five-plus years, the tall, silver-and-auburn-haired man proved to be as strong as an ox. She couldn’t budge him.

She lifted her head, ready to demand he let her go, but found she couldn’t when she saw the tears swimming in his moist gray eyes.

Damn.

Louie Demerchant was crazy, of course. But he was obviously sincere. She could forgive this deluded old man who was so desperate to find a great-grandson. But his controlling, pushy attorney was another matter altogether. She deeply resented this impossible position he’d just put her in with Demerchant. Deeply.

After a moment, Louie Demerchant released her and turned his head away, pulling an old-fashioned handkerchief out of his pocket to dry his eyes. Remy immediately faced Marc Truesdale, the real culprit in this awkward assembly.

She kept her tone quiet and controlled, but it took a lot of effort. “If you are not out of here in one minute, I’m calling campus security to throw you out.”

“We have a pass to tour the center,” Marc countered with all the polish of his brassy manner as he stepped forward and fished a paper out of his suit pocket. He grasped her hand and slid the paper into it.

Remy took a deep, startled breath as she felt the bold insistence of his warm touch melting inside her like hot molasses. The physical reaction to his touch infuriated her, but it excited her, too. Very much. Too damn much.

His eyes held hers until she tore them away to look at what he had forced into her hand. She snatched both the pass and her hand from out of his grasp.

She looked at the pass, then at Demerchant, and finally back to Marc. “So now it becomes clear who the mysterious anonymous donor of twenty thousand dollars is and why Dr. Feeson kept trying to delay me in his office.”

“Mr. Demerchant just wanted to see—”

“You don’t have to tell me what Mr. Demerchant wanted to see,” Remy interrupted Marc, her eyes blazing as she tore up the pass. “This paper is worthless. There are no unescorted passes to my building.”

She swung back to face the older man. “Mr. Demerchant, I understand you are in pain over your tragic loss, but you will only invite more pain if you allow yourself to be deluded further. My child is not your great-grandson.”

Louie Demerchant smiled indulgently as he pointed to Nicholas, who was now being firmly held by the male lab assistant on the other side of the soundproof glass. “But he is, Dr. Westbrook. It’s all over his cute little mug. What’s his name?”

Remy took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Please leave. Both of you,” she said, far more calmly than she felt. “Immediately.”

“Let me bring by a baby video of David that we had made from an old home movie,” Louie pleaded. “All you have to do is take a look.”

“Mr. Demerchant, I’m sorry, but I don’t want to look at your grandson’s baby video. Even if there is a resemblance between him and my child, it proves nothing. A lot of babies resemble adults who are not their parents. Now, this is over. Leave.”

“Come on, Mr. Demerchant,” Marc said, taking hold of his arm. “We’d best go.”

“But he’s David’s child! He’s my great-grandchild!” Louie protested.

“Mr. Demerchant, I’ll handle this.”

Remy watched as Louie Demerchant reluctantly let Marc lead him toward the door. But just before they exited the room, Marc turned to Remy, his lips drawn back into a charming smile, his cobalt blue eyes icy with intent. “I’ll be back,” he said.

It was a promise. And a threat.

A crazy shiver filled with both excitement and dread ran up Remy’s spine.

She was still listening to the echoes of their shoes down the long corridor and fighting her conflicting emotions, when Phil wheeled herself in from the sign-language room.

“Well, Nicholas has pulled his strip act again and... Remy? For heaven’s sake, you look ghastly. What’s up?”

“Phil, I’m beginning to think a trip out of the country might not be such a bad idea, after all. Do you think you could carry on without Nicholas and me for a few weeks?”

“You’re considering leaving your work? Remy, what’s happened?”

Remy told Phil about the visit from Demerchant and Marc Truesdale.

“So the old guy thinks Nicholas is his great-grandson. So what?”

“What if he comes back?”

“You throw him out. Remy, the guy can think anything he wants. He can’t do anything about it. Nicholas is yours. You have the right to say who sees him and who doesn’t.”

As always, Phil was right. Remy nodded. But she still worried. Because she had seen something Phil hadn’t. She had seen Marc Truesdale’s eyes when he said he would be back.

* * *

“LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, have you reached a verdict?” the judge asked the jury, who had returned after less than an hour’s deliberation.

“Yes, we have, Your Honor,” the foreman said.

“And what is that verdict?” she asked.

“We find for the plaintiff, Mr. Louie Demerchant, in the amount of ten million dollars,” the short man with the big nose and receding chin said with a smile.

Louie Demerchant reached for Marc’s hand and gave it a hearty shake as the courtroom erupted in response. The judge rapped for order and got only a halfhearted compliance. She gave up, thanked the jury and quickly adjourned.

“You did a hell of a job, Truesdale,” Demerchant said as they remained at the plaintiff’s table and let the courtroom clear.

“You got that Binick good,” Colin Demerchant echoed as he and his wife, Heddy, came forward to congratulate Marc.

Marc acknowledged the praise with a brief nod in the direction of David’s parents.

“Now, what are you going to do about my great-grandson?” Louie demanded.

Marc had expected the question. But he hadn’t expected to discuss it in front of Colin and Heddy. Marc didn’t have a whole lot of respect for the couple who had ignored their only son for most of his life.

“There’s plenty of time to decide,” Marc said evasively, gathering up his papers.

Louie turned to his son and daughter-in-law. “Why don’t you two go see the woman in Kent who has those eighteenth-century English enamel boxes for sale that you are so eager to add to your collection. I’ve some things to discuss with Truesdale, here.”

“She’s asking fifteen thousand apiece,” Colin said, leaning toward his father. “You’ll cover my check?”

“I will not,” Louie said, his irritation clear. “What do you do with your money?”

Colin’s smile flashed all his teeth, suddenly making them appear as the most prominent feature in his face. “I spend it, of course. That’s what money is for.”

Louie flipped his wrist dismissively, shooing away his son and daughter-in-law. Colin took hold of Heddy’s bony arm and headed out of the courtroom.

As soon as they left, Louie turned back to Marc.

“Now, what do you intend to do about my great-grandson?”

“I intend to do plenty. What do you want?”

“Well, for starters, I want to know his name.”

“It’s Nicholas Alexander.”

“Nicholas Alexander Demerchant,” Louie Demerchant said with definite approval.

“Nicholas Alexander Westbrook,” Marc corrected him.

Louie waved his hand as though the reminder was merely an insignificant impediment. Then his eyes suddenly snapped back toward Marc. “Wait a minute. You knew his name? All along?”

“No, not all along. I called Ariana Justice at her private-investigation firm yesterday during the noon break and asked her to start checking into the background of Remy Westbrook and her child. A.J. came by the office last night and filled me in on what she had learned so far. That’s how I knew his name and that his mother takes him to work with her and involves him in the sign-language research she’s conducting with a chimpanzee.”

“If you knew his name last night, why didn’t you call to tell me?”

“Because until you saw him this morning, you weren’t even sure he was David’s son. There wasn’t any point in telling you the name of a boy who might have been no relation to you.”

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