Finding Mr Right Letter to Reader Title Page CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN Copyright

Finding Mr Right

Welcome to the exciting conclusion of Leigh Michaels’s wonderful trilogy—all about dating games and the single woman!

Meet Kit, Susannah and Alison. Three very special women who are friends, business partners—and happily single! Ambitious and successful, they live life to the full and have no room on their agenda for husband hunting!

But it seems they don’t have to go looking for Mr Right...because each finds herself unexpectedly pursued by her very own dream date....

Practical Kit has already won her perfect man in The Billionaire Date (March #3496)—and bubbly Susannah has been reunited with her gorgeous first love in The Playboy Assignment (April #3500).

Only one of the three friends, Alison, remains steadfastly single—until she can no longer deny her craving for a baby! This month we meet Alison as she encounters a doctor who could help her, and finds herself taking on The Husband Project (May #3504).

You’ll laugh, you’ll cry, but you won’t be able to put these books down as you share in a very special friendship between three wonderful women, and fall in love with the gorgeous men who—eventually—win them over!

Dear Reader,

Over the years I’ve greatly enjoyed writing books that are connected—sequels, prequels and spin-offs. They usually come about because a secondary character in one book is so interesting that he or she demands a story of their own. But until now I’ve never tackled an interconnected set of books, knowing from the very beginning that the stories would be so closely tied together that—while each book can stand alone—the three form a very special package. So the FINDING MR RIGHT trilogy has been both a challenge and a joy.

My editor and I had been talking about a trilogy for some time, and I’d been looking for the perfect setting in which my heroines could be business partners as well as friends. Then one of my friends mentioned that her sister was a partner in an all-woman public relations firm in Kansas City, Missouri. Now, that was a story possibility made just for me, since I have a joumalism background and public relations experience. And though, to this day, I know nothing more about that real-life PR firm than that it employs only women, I want to thank the members of that company for the inspiration they provided for the FINDING MR RIGHT trilogy.

And I thank you, my wonderful readers, for following along through the fifteen years since my first book was published, all the way to this new challenge. I think you’ll enjoy meeting Kit, Susannah and Alison every bit as much as I enjoyed writing about them. I must warn you, though—I cried when I had to give up these three special new friends....

With love,

PS. I love to hear from readers! You can write to me at:

PO. Box 935, Ottumwa, Iowa, 52501-0935.

The Husband Project
Leigh Michaels

www.millsandboon.co.uk

CHAPTER ONE

EVERYWHERE she looked, there were babies.

In the supermarket, they cooed and grabbed at bright-colored packages. In the park she passed each day on her walk to work, they toddled through tall grass and dug in the sandboxes. In the office of one of her clients, a set of twins napped cherubically on a blanket behind the enormous walnut desk...

Despite what she was seeing, however, Alison Novak knew that the Windy City hadn’t actually had an abrupt population explosion. Human beings had a tendency to see what they looked for, and she was no exception. As soon as a person became acquainted with a new word, she was apt to see it everywhere from billboards to telephone books. Likewise, as soon as a woman realized how urgently she wanted a baby...

It was the first time she’d admitted that her longing for a child had gone beyond desire all the way to desperation, and the realization twisted Alison’s heart into a pretzel. As if in answer, the pain which had for weeks been coming and going in her abdomen flared sharply. This one was worse than usual; it shot clear through to her back and brought tiny beads of perspiration to her upper lip.

Abruptly, she changed her mind about going back to the office and turned into Flanagan’s instead. The small neighborhood bar was quiet and cool, and she could sit there for a few minutes till the pain calmed, as experience told her it would.

In any case, it was just half an hour till her partners would be joining her; the three owners of Tryad Public Relations met at Flanagan’s every Friday evening for brat-wurst and a wrap-up of the week’s work. With any luck, by the time Kit and Susannah arrived, this attack would have passed and Alison would be back to normal.

She sank into a booth not far from the front door and asked the waitress for a glass of seltzer water with a slice of lemon. As Alison waited for the drink to arrive, she leaned her head against the tall back of the booth and closed her eyes, focusing her attention inward. Though the pain was a little worse than it had been before, it was following the same basic pattern—starting off like the worst stitch in her side she’d ever felt, and gradually diminishing as she sat still. This time it seemed to be concentrated on the left.

She was so intent on analyzing the discomfort that she didn’t see the waitress bring her drink, and she didn’t realize her partners had arrived till she heard Susannah’s voice coming toward the booth. “It’s perfectly awful, that’s what it is.... Are you taking a nap, Ali?”

Alison opened her eyes and sat up a bit too suddenly; the dim little bar , seemed to revolve for a moment, and Susannah’s face, full of concern, swam before her eyes. “I’m fine. What’s so awful, Sue?”

Susannah flung herself into the seat beside Alison. “The single most valuable piece of art the Dearborn Museum owns was vandalized this afternoon.”

“The Evans Jackson painting?” Alison was startled. “How could anybody vandalize it?”

Across the table, Kit choked and started to laugh. “You sound almost like me, Ali. I wanted to know how anyone could tell it had been damaged. It was nothing but smears of red paint on a white canvas in the first place, so—”

“That was not what Ali asked,” Susannah said firmly, and turned to Alison. “Somebody sneaked a can of spray paint into the museum and made a few additions.”

“Maybe it’ll actually increase the value,” Kit murmured.

“You have no appreciation of modern art.”

“Neither do you, so don’t be a hypocrite, Sue.”

Susannah looked stem for only a few more seconds before she burst into giggles. “That’s true. And actually, I have to admit—only to you guys, of course—that it did look better. At least there’s some variety now. However, when anything that’s insured for half a million gets damaged, it’s.... Why aren’t we in our usual spot, Ali?”

“Fresh air.” Alison waved a hand toward the propped-open door. “Fall’s coming fast, so we’d better enjoy this while we can.” That wasn’t bad for thinking quickly, she told herself. She wasn’t about to admit that ten minutes ago she hadn’t felt like walking another step.

“It is warm in here,” Kit agreed. “Though you look a bit pale, Ali. You didn’t walk all the way back from downtown, did you?”

Alison shrugged. “It’s rush hour. If I’d tried to get a cab I wouldn’t be here yet.”

Susannah slid to the far end of the bench seat, turning to stare at Alison with her eyes narrowed. “If it was the walk, she’d be flushed instead of pale, Kit.”

Kit’s eyebrows rose. “You’re right. Then—”

Susannah picked up the glass of wine the waitress had set before her. “And it’s not just today, either. Ali’s been pale for a couple of weeks. I’ve always thought she looks sort of like an old-fashioned china doll, all shiny black hair and porcelain complexion—but there are limits.”

“And one of my limits is when you talk about me as if I’m not here,” Alison reminded. “Anyway, I’m fine. I’m just a little tired from a long week.”

She didn’t think she’d been terribly convincing, for Kit’s eyebrows remained elevated and Susannah’s blue-green eyes watchful. But to her relief neither of them pushed the question.

Kit drew circles on the table with the base of her soft drink glass and said, “Sue and I have some great ideas for getting the singles club up and running, Ali.”

Alison sighed. “Look, guys. I’m sorry, but you know very well I’ve been no more than lukewarm on the idea of the singles club since Sue first came up with it.”

“You’re the one who suggested getting a restaurant to sponsor it,” Susannah pointed out. “And that’s the key to—”

“One suggestion hardly makes me a fan. And I can’t do a good job on a project I think is ludicrous.”

“Oh, really?” Kit murmured. “What kind of public relations person are you, anyway? We’re always doing something ludicrous. If you think I want to brag about creating a bunch of dancing ducks to promote the new water. park—”

“But you believe in the water park,” Alison reminded.

- “Doesn’t matter. Besides, you can’t expect either Susannah or me to do it You’re the only one of us who can, Ali.”

Alison sighed. “Because I’m the only one of us who’s still single.”

“Exactly.” Kit murmured.

“That is completely illogical, you know. It’s like saying I can’t make a good video welcoming newcomers to Chicago unless I’m a newcomer, and that’s just—” There was no warning this time, and the pain which racked her was by far the worst she’d ever experienced. Alison clutched at her abdomen. She’d have doubled up, but there wasn’t room in the narrow booth.

Susannah’s gaze met Kit’s. “An ambulance, do you think?”

“No!” Alison struggled to sit upright. Almost automatically she said, “It’ll pass.”

“Sure of that, are you?” Kit sounded skeptical.

“It always has before.”

“Oh, that’s reassuring! How long have you been feeling this way, Ali?”

“Weeks,” Susannah said darkly. “Remember, Kit? Clear back when you started having morning sickness, Alison was—”

If she hadn’t been feeling so wretched, Alison would have burst into laughter at the sudden suspicion in Susannah’s eyes. “I’m not pregnant,” she managed. “It’s just...cramps or something. A little worse than usual, but—”

“I’m relieved to hear it, Ali,” Kit said crisply. “Excuse me for missing the occasion, but just when did you get your medical degree?” She didn’t wait for an answer. “We’re going to check this out right now. If you’ll go get your car, Susannah...”

Susannah didn’t move. “Are you sure I shouldn’t call the paramedics?”

“I’m not sure of anything,” Kit said. “But we can’t ride with her in the ambulance, so we’ll need the car anyway.” She dug her cell phone from the depths of her handbag.

Susannah nodded and hurried toward the door.

“Oh, for heaven’s...” Another wave of pain swamped Alison’s voice.

Kit Hipped madly through her address book. “I knew I should have put this number on auto-dial.”

“I don’t want an ambulance, Kit.”

“I’m calling a friend.”

Alison, taken aback, could only stare at her. A friend?

“A friend who also happens to be my obstetrician.”

“I told you, I’m not—”

“—Pregnant, I know. Well, obviously there’s something wrong, and the way you’re clutching your tummy makes it a good bet that you’ll end up consulting somebody in that field. Besides, Logan’s the only doctor I can think of who’s likely to still be in his office after six on a Friday night...” She turned her attention to the telephone. “Hello, is Dr. Kavanaugh in? I see. Will you page him and ask him to call Kit Webster? It’s an emergency.”

- The worst of the wave had passed, and Alison could get her breath again. “I’m too busy for this. I’ve got a video to finish...” She was startled by the high, tight pitch of her voice and the panic which clutched her throat.

Kit put the phone down. “Exactly. And if you’d stop to think about it, Ali, you’d realize that I’m only doing this because I’m darned if I want to get stuck finishing your video.” The words were tart, but her smile was warm and reassuring.

Alison’s panic eased a little, but the lump in her throat suddenly felt as big as the Sears Tower. “Yeah, right,” she said. “Kitty, I don’t deserve you and Sue.”

“Can we get that in writing?” Susannah said breathlessly. “I’m parked on the sidewalk, Kit, so it might be a good idea if we don’t hang around here much longer.”

Kit’s phone rang and she turned away to answer it.

“I can walk,” Alison said.

Susannah looked doubtful, but when Alison pushed herself to her feet. Susannah quickly offered her arm. Their progress was slow, hampered not only by Alison’s discomfort but by Flanagan’s other patrons, crowding around to offer advice.

They were almost to the car when Kit caught up. “Now that’s luck,” she said briskly. “Logan’s at the nearest hospital, just finishing a delivery—so he’ll meet us in the emergency room.”

Alison sank into the back seat. There was no comfortable position; what she wanted to do was draw her knees up to her chest and howl. In a feeble effort to distract herself, she said, “Was his delivery a boy or a girl?”

“I didn’t stop to chat,” Kit said dryly. “For all I know it could have been a Federal Express package.”

In the emergency room, Susannah went off to deal with the paperwork, and Kit waited outside the small treatment room while two staff members swarmed over Alison to do a preliminary examination. It was only after they had left and quiet descended on the room that she really realized where she was, and what was likely to happen.

Time to face the truth, she told herself. You were an idiot in the first place to try to pretend nothing was wrong. Now you can’t pretend anymore. And if your nightmares turn out to be fact after all—

Alison’s heart seemed to be skipping every other beat as fear pumped adrenaline through her veins. She tried to keep her eyes so tightly closed that the tears couldn’t seep out, but it was impossible.

Kit took her hand. “Another one?” she said gently. “Squeeze as hard as you need to, Ali.”

Alison shook her head. “No. I’m just...so stupid. Thinking that if I pretended it didn’t hurt, it would stop.”

Kit said slowly, “And if you didn’t see a doctor then nothing could really be wrong? That’s a first-class case of denial, Ali, and I could just—” She took a deep breath. “No, this isn’t the time for a scolding.”

Susannah appeared in the doorway. “Why not? Sounds to me like she deserves one.” She brushed a lock of Alison’s perspiration-dampened dark hair back from her temple. “It’ll be all right now.”

It might never be all right again, Alison thought.

Susannah’s grin was mischievous. “I can promise that because I just caught a glimpse of your doctor, and let me tell you, Ali, you’re one lucky girl.”

A rustle from the doorway made both Susannah and Kit move away from the side of the examining table. Restlessly, Alison turned her head.

Lying flat on her back, looking almost directly into the bright overhead lights, was hardly the best way to get a good view. Even so, Alison had no trouble figuring out what Susannah had been talking about. Her visual perception might be skewed and a good part of her attention focused on her pain; nevertheless, she realized with her first glance that her new doctor was one of the best-looking men she’d ever seen.

He was tall and broad-shouldered; the washed-out green scrub suit which would have been baggy on another man fitted him as easily if it had been tailored. His hair was an unruly dark brown thatch, just a little longer than it ought to have been. His face was angular, with a strong jaw and a mouth which hinted that he liked to smile.

She looked up into his eyes. They were green—a deep, true green that Alison had never seen before—surrounded with indecently long and curly lashes.

He was surveying her every bit as closely, but for different reasons; Alison could almost see the calculator in his brain checking off symptoms even before he offered a hand, large and capable and tanned. “Ms. Novak? I’m Logan Kavanaugh,” he said. “Tell me when you started to feel this pain.”

He listened with his head tilted just a little to one side, jotting notes from time to time on the clipboard he carried, those brilliant green eyes seeming never to leave her even when Kit interrupted now and then with more details. Then he laid the board on a nearby cabinet and said, “And it hurts... right here, is that right?”

Alison. was sure that under normal circumstances the pressure of his hand on her abdomen would have been no more than a firm touch. As it was, however, she felt as if a cannonball had hit her squarely where she hurt worst. She screamed, and her body instinctively folded up into a fetal position.

If she’d been lying on her side, there would have been no awkward consequences from simply pulling her knees up tight to her chest and bending her head protectively over her vulnerable midsection. Instead, she was on her back, with Logan Kavanaugh bending over her—and as she reared up off the table, her forehead collided with his jaw. Her vertebrae rattled with the impact.

He staggered back from the table, one hand pressed to his face. “I see I found the right spot.” His voice was level, but when he took his hand away from the comer of his mouth, his fingers were red. “Excuse me a moment.”

As he left the room, Alison lay back on the table. The pain in her abdomen was almost relentless, and now her head ached, too. Even breathing hurt.

“Now that was a full-speed retreat,” Susannah said admiringly. “You’re a wonder, Ali. I’d never have come up with such a novel way to get rid of a man.” She moved closer to the table and patted Alison’s hand.

Despite the pain, Alison couldn’t keep herself from laughing—though it sounded more like a sob.

In less than a minute Logan Kavanaugh was back, holding an ice cube wrapped in a piece of gauze against his lip. He stopped a full pace from the examining table. “What have you eaten today?”

Alison closed her eyes. “A light and early lunch. So if you think, Doctor, that this is nothing more than indigestion—”

“No, and I’m sure it’s not hunger pains, either. I think it’s the.hottest appendix I’ve seen in years. I’ve already called a surgeon, but we may as well get the basics out of the way while we wait. Are you allergic to any medications?”

Alison shook her head wearily.

Kit said, “But is it safe to wait, Logan? Couldn’t you—”

“What? You want me to voluntarily spend an hour in the same room with her and a scalpel? She’s dangerous enough with only her head as a weapon.” His voice was full of lazy humor, but Alison bristled anyway. “It won’t take long for the surgeon to get here,” he went on, more seriously. “By the time we’ve done the workup—”

“It’s not appendicitis,” Alison said.

A silence as clear and hard as crystal fell over the room.. From the hall came the sound of footsteps and lowered voices, but inside the examining room the only sound was the nagging hum of the clock above the door.

“I beg your pardon, Doctor,” Logan Kavanaugh said. His imitation of the ironic note in Alison’s voice was precise. “And just what is your diagnosis?”

Susannah said hastily, “She’s not herself. Really, Dr. Kavanaugh. She’s practically out of her mind with pain.”

“Ali.” Kit sounded tired. “You haven’t been reading medical books, have you?”

“What an incredibly idiotic question,” Susannah said. “The research queen of metropolitan Chicago? Of course she has—she probably keeps Gray’s Anatomy on her bedside table right next to her Dun and Bradstreet ”

The door opened, and a white-coated woman with short red hair and a sprinkling of freckles appeared, her hand already outstretched for the clipboard Logan Kavanaugh held. “Thanks a bunch, Kavanaugh,” she said absently as her gaze dropped to the chart. “You know I have a date tonight. At least, I used to have.”

Logan Kavanaugh shrugged. “You shouldn’t be hanging around with that guy anyway, Sara.”

She ignored him and smiled at Alison. “I’m Sara Williams, and I’m a staff surgeon here. If I can just take a look...”

Logan’s ice cube had melted and the piece of gauze had been thrown away, but his index finger went as if by instinct to the swollen bump on his lip. “You might want to be careful doing that,” he said under his breath.

“Go away, Logan,” Dr. Williams said briskly.

He didn’t, exactly; Alison was dimly aware that he stopped in the doorway to talk to Kit. But she wasn’t paying attention to the low-voiced conversation; a moment later one of the nurses returned to give her a shot, and within a couple of minutes her tongue wouldn’t work right and nothing seemed to matter anymore.

Alison remembered only snatches of the hours that followed. The pain wasn’t gone, but it was different—no longer knife-sharp, but a sort of dull burn that haunted her whenever she broke through to consciousness. She tried to hang on to wakefulness, because the physical ache was better than the anesthesia-induced dreams; she didn’t remember them exactly, only the feelings they left behind, and that was bad enough. But despite her efforts, she kept sinking back into the twilight like a swimmer caught in an undertow.

Finally, though, she opened her eyes to see dim lights, the standard equipment of a regular hospital room, and Susannah bending over her, talking soothing nonsense.

“What are you doing here?” Alison managed to say. “It has to be the middle of the night.”

“Just about.” Susannah sounded cheerful. “I am the night shift, standing guard.”

Alison closed her eyes, but this time she didn’t sink like a rock into unconsciousness. “Why?”

“Because Kit and I were afraid you’d try your hand at nursing—and if you’re as bad at that as you are at diagnosis, you’d be gangrenous by morning.”

“Then...” Alison swallowed hard. “It was appendicitis?”

“Of course it was. Why were you so sure it wasn’t?”

“The pain was in the wrong place. And there were a whole lot of other reasons, too.” The knot inside her stomach—the leaden lump which had settled there the day she’d first looked up her symptoms in her layman’s medical guide—slowty loosened, and once more she sank into the depths. But this time her sleep was more natural, and she wasn’t haunted by the dreams.

By morning the whole thing felt like a nightmare, except for the lingering effects of anesthesia and the fact that she could barely shuffle across the room, even if she held on to an aide with one hand and the stand which held her intravenous drip with the other. But Alison gritted her teeth and refused to quit.

At midafternoon, she paused to take a rest in the marginally-comfortable chair in her hospital room, her back propped with pillows so she could get up by herself when she was ready for her next walk down the hall. From her window she could see little but a dusty courtyard surrounded by plain brick walls, but Alison wasn’t interested in the view. She was retracing her state of mind over the last few weeks, remembering how each occurrence of pain had increased her fear and each release had allowed her to pretend it couldn’t happen again.

For an intelligent woman, she told herself, you certainly have been acting like a fool.

She didn’t even look around when she heard the knock on her half-open door, just called, “Come in.”

A moment later Logan Kavanaugh pulled a straight chair up beside her. Today the green scrubs had given way to easy-fitting charcoal trousers and a white shirt with faint gray pinstripes. “I just stopped in to see how you’re doing.”

“I’d rather be at the football game.”

He grinned, and his dark green eyes sparkled. “Wouldn’t we all?”

Alison looked at him a little more closely. Under the humor in his face, she could see the marks of tiredness; there were lines around his mouth and faint shadows under his eyes. And, she noted with a tinge of guilt, there was not only still a tiny bump on his lip, but she could see the half-inch-long red line of the cut. “I suppose you’ve been delivering a baby?”

“Now and then,” he said. “I think the count stands at seventeen since my last day off—but it’s possible I’ve forgotten a couple. It’s been a very long week.”

“You’re on duty all the time?”

“In theory, no. But—for instance—a few months from now, when Kit goes into labor, can you imagine what she’d say if she called to tell me and I said, ‘Good luck, I’m sure you’ll like the guy who’s on call, and I’ll stop in tomorrow to check on you’?”

“Point taken.”

He leaned forward, elbows on knees and hands tented together. “I also came in to apologize for my unprofessional behavior yesterday.”

Alison frowned. “I don’t quite—”

“For one thing, making that crack about not wanting to be alone in a room with you and a scalpel. Though I was only your doctor for about three minutes, and I’d technically turned you over to Sara by then, I shouldn’t have said that.”

“You had reason to be provoked. I’m really sorry about your lip.” Alison took a deep breath. “Look, thanks for seeing me yesterday. You’re obviously very busy, and I know I wasn’t exactly an ideal patient.”

“You mean because you wanted to argue about the diagnosis? Just out of curiosity—what did you think it was?”

She looked out the window. “I’d eliminated everything except ovarian torsion.”

“Oh, that’s interesting. It’s not at all common for an ovary to twist, you know, and it’s just about as dangerous as an acute appendix.”

- “I know,” she said, and drew a deep breath so she could go on.

A hint of laughter crept into his voice. “That must be an extremely detailed medical guide you’ve got—or has the popular press made torsion the disease of the week?”

Alison was furious. “I am not a hypochondriac, Dr. Kavanaugh,” she said tightly. “I didn’t cast around for an interesting disease, I simply looked up my symptoms, and that’s what I found. I’m an - intelligent and informed woman—”

“—Who doesn’t know the difference between an appendix and an ovary, but thinks she’s an expert anyway.”

“What was it you were saying just now about unprofessional behavior?” Her voice dripped sweetness.

He ignored the interruption. “Do you have any idea how close you came to—” He shook his head, rubbed his hand across the back of his- neck, and stood up. “Never mind. I’ll let Sara jump on you about the risk you took by not seeing a doctor till it was almost too late. She’s getting paid to yell at you about taking proper care of yourself. I’m not. Goodbye.”

Forgetting her incision, Alison tried to leap up from her chair, and fell back, eyes wide, too startled even to swear. She sagged back against the pillows and tried deep breathing to ward off the stab of pain.

Logan had left the door standing wide open, so Kit didn’t knock. She burst in, dumped an overnight bag beside the bed, and leaned over Alison to give her a gentle hug. “Now this is more like it. You’ve even got some color back, I see. I met Logan in the hallway, but he seemed to be in a hurry. You didn’t slug him again, did you?”

“I didn’t slug him last time, either,” Alison pointed out. “It was an accident.” She eyed the overnight case—the last time she’d noticed, it had been on the top shelf of her bedroom closet—and raised an eyebrow at Kit.

“Your purse was still in Susannah’s car, so I stole your keys,” Kit said blithely. “I figured the cats needed feeding—”

Alison winced. “I can’t believe I forgot about my cats.”

“I not only fed them, I played with them—which is why I’m so late. And I picked up some clothes for when you’re ready to go home.” Kit perched on the edge of the bed. “I brought your medical guide, too. I thought you’d probably want to read it again, in light of the new developments. If you like, I could try to catch Logan so he can show you where you went wrong.”

Alison rolled her eyes. “No. thank you. That man is incredibly egotistical.”

A voice from the doorway corrected her. “That man is incredibly good.” Sara Williams strolled across the room, chart in hand. “Feeling better? The nurses tell me you’re doing quite well, so there’s no reason you can’t go home. There are a few restrictions, of course—the discharge nurse will give you a list. Do you live alone?”

Alison started to nod, but Kit intervened. “I’m taking her home with me for a few days.”

The doctor nodded approval, and hardly a moment later she was gone. Kit shook her head. “And I’ve always thought Susannah was a whirlwind,” she muttered.

“I can manage on my own, Kit. You don’t have to baby-sit.”

Kit had stooped to pick up the overnight bag. Very deliberately, she set it on the end of the bed and turned to Alison. “Sometimes, Alison, you don’t seem to need anybody at all.”

The somber note in Kit’s voice brought tears to Alison’s eyes. She tried to blink them away, furious at herself. Surely she wasn’t going to turn into a wet sponge, dripping all over the place at the least provocation! Quietly, she said, “Thanks, Kitty. I don’t want to go home alone.”

As they drove across Chicago to Kit’s lakeside high-rise, Alison wasn’t listening to her friend’s chatter. She was still hearing the unusual soberness in Kit’s voice as she said, Sometimes you don’t seem to need anybody.

But I do, Alison thought. I need somebody to love.

From the guest room of Kit’s condo, Alison stared down at the enormous expanse of Lake Michigan. The water was clear and blue under the morning sun; a light wind whipped up gentle frothy waves and bulged the bright sails of the armada of boats—at least a hundred of them. Alison could count so many not only because the condo was so high and the air so clear she could see almost all the way across the lake, but because the effort of taking a shower had worn her out so thoroughly that all she could do was drop into the armchair by the window and rest.

Eventually, however, she pushed herself up from the chair, put on a set of soft knit exercise clothes, and walked down the hall to the kitchen.

Kit looked up from the chopping block where she was dicing green onions and ham. “Good morning, Ali. How about an omelette?”

“You don’t need to pamper me.” Alison dropped into a chair beside the breakfast bar. “Surely you’ve got enough to do with your brunch to prepare.”

“You’re certain you don’t mind? I can still cancel it, you know.”

“No, you can’t. When you invite ten people for brunch, you can’t change your mind two hours beforehand.”

“They’d understand.” But Kit sounded a little less than convinced.

“Well, I wouldn’t. You’ve had this planned for weeks. Cancel and I’ll really feel like I’m imposing on you.”

Kit shrugged. “You already know better, so there’s no point arguing about it. Shall I set a place for you? You’re looking much better this morning.”

“And make your numbers odd? Now that would be a disaster,” Alison teased. “I’ll spend a couple of hours lying in one of those canvas chairs on the terrace, hiding behind a ficus tree and reading a book. So party on—you won’t disturb me a bit, and your guests won’t even know I’m here.”

The terrace was beautiful; it stretched the length of the Websters’s spacious condo and looked out over the lake. Alison chose a chair on the comer just outside the guest room, as far as possible from the elegant living room. If Kit’s brunch guests spilled out onto the terrace, she’d have plenty of warning, and she’d just slip quietly back into her bedroom.

She tried to read, but the light novel she’d found on the guest room shelves didn’t have the power to draw her in. Instead she found herself gazing at the waves, forming and breaking in a hypnotic rhythm, rolling toward the horizon as they always had and as they would, for eternity.

Eternity. She’d come a littte closer to it yesterday than she wanted to think about, and of course there wasn’t any need to dwell on that, now. The danger was over, and she’d been very, very lucky.

However, the reason she’d put off seeing a doctor—the reason she’d hidden behind denial instead of taking care of herself—was just as real now as it had been a few weeks ago when she’d picked up her medical guide, looked up her symptoms, and realized the threat which hung over her head.

The threat that she would no longer be able to have a child.

Alison would never forget the sick horror of that instant. She’d always known, of course, that she wanted a child—at least one, maybe several—but she hadn’t realized till then exactly how desperate that longing had become.

When she stopped to think about it, however, the timing made perfect sense. Her two best friends were focused on family right now; with Kit celebrating her first pregnancy and Susannah newly married and starting to think about children, the subject resounded throughout Tryad at the drop of a paper clip.

With all that going on, it was no wonder Alison’s biological clock had started to tick. The oldest of the trio by a couple of years, she was getting uncomfortably close to thirty. If she was going to have a child at all, the time was soon. It was no wonder she’d been so frightened when her medical guide suggested that she’d already put it off too long.

But fortunately her fears hadn’t been real. Once her recovery from the surgery was complete, she’d be in her normal excellent health. There was no reason she couldn’t have a child.

Of course, there was one minor problem. She was unmarried, and there were no prospects in sight. Which wasn’t to say there weren’t plenty of men in her life—but that was a different matter.

She got up from her chair and went to lean on the waist-high wrought-iron terrace rail, thirty-five stories above the lake. Kit will have a hard time child-proofing this place, she thought idly. It would be far easier to make her own row house safe...

Absorbed in her daydreams, she didn’t hear footsteps coming slowly across the terrace.

A deep, soft voice was the first warning that she wasn’t alone. “Not thinking of climbing over that fence, are you?”

Startled, Alison twisted to face him, forgetting her incision.

Logan Kavanaugh crossed the intervening distance in a couple of steps and slipped an arm around her.

He’d actually put on a jacket and tie for Kit’s brunch party, Alison noted, even as she said irritably, “You don’t have to restrain me. I’m not suicidal.”

“That’s good. Sara told me she took particular care to leave you a scar that’ll look cute with a bikini, and I’d hate to see her work wasted.”

Alison rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet.”

He hadn’t let go of her, she realized. His arm was still around her shoulders. She could feel the rough tweed of his sleeve even through the lightweight knit of her exercise suit. And was it a sudden warm lake breeze which stirred the hair at her temple, or his breath? He seemed to have forgotten how close he was standing.

Well, that problem was easy to fix. She’d give him her best glare and say something cutting...

She looked up at him, and in the split second before she opened her mouth she saw the answer to her problems.

“Dr. Kavanaugh,” she said abruptly. “Will you help me have a baby?”

CHAPTER TWO

ALISON was absolutely certain of one thing; no amount of sarcasm could have made him let go of her any more quickly than that simple statement did.

Logan’s arm dropped as if he’d suddenly realized her shoulders were coated with acid, and he backed away till he was leaning against the terrace rail, a safe distance from her. A casual observer would no doubt think his .professional control was undisturbed, for his face was calm. Alison knew better; she could see the incredulity in those brilliant green eyes.

“For heaven’s sake,” she said testily. “You’re a doctor who specializes in women. You must know how—” For the first time, she realized that there. was an entirely different interpretation to her question than the one she had meant.

He obviously saw the double meaning hit her, for a sparkle of humor appeared in his eyes. “If you’re asking whether I know where babies come from, I am familiar with the basics.”

“I’m sure that’s quite a comfort to your patients.” Alison’s voice was chilly. “Let’s get this straight, however. Don’t flatter yourself that I had you in mind as a potential father.”

“And that,” he murmured, “is quite a comfort to me. Do I understand that you want to use a medical procedure usually reserved for infertile couples in order to have a child?”

Alison relaxed just a little. “That’s it, yes.”

“Well, excuse me if this is a stupid question—but why not just go about it in the old-fashioned way?”

“I don’t see any need to explain. Will you help me or not?”

He looked thoughtful. “Without an idea of what’s going on inside your head? I’d sooner bodysurf across Lake Michigan on a stormy day.”

“And if I explain?”

“Depends on the explanation. To be perfectly honest, I’d still put the odds at about seven to three against, but I’m willing to listen.” He folded his arms across his chest and settled his hip against the terrace rail as if he was prepared to stay there all day.

Alison drew a long breath, hesitated, wet her lips. It shouldn’t be so difficult to say the words, she told herself. Her reasons made perfect sense; any intelligent person could surely understand why she’d come to this conclusion. But her tongue felt numb and three times its normal size.

Partly, she realized, her paralysis was because of the way he was studying her. The last time he’d looked her over, in the emergency room, he’d been watching for symptoms. Now he wasn’t—unless of course he suspected she was a mental case—and though his gaze was no more personal, it was an entirely different kind of survey.

And she was entirely different, too. She wasn’t twisted with pain, flat on her back, her hair mussed and sweaty and her face stark white. She wondered what he thought of the difference.

He shifted slightly against the wrought iron. “If you’re going to tell me that there isn’t even one man in your life, forget it. I don’t buy it.” Another man might have give the line a suggestive twist, or turned it into a compliment. Logan made it sound like the stock report.

Annoyed, Alison said, “Of course there are men in my life. In fact, that’s part of the problem—there are too many men.”

His eyebrows soared. “Oh, this ought to be good,” he muttered. “No, let me guess. They’d all be hurt if you chose one of the others, so to keep things in balance you’re looking for an anonymous donor. Of course, this makes perfect sense.”

Alison glared at him. “I have an incredible number of male friends,” she began. “The key word being friends. I’d like them all to still be friends when this is over. If I had even a short-term affair with one of them, the whole situation would change.”

“Well, now that you mention it—”

“Once there’s a more intimate relationship, it’s impossible to return to real, ordinary friendship.”

“And there’s not a single one of your friends you’d sacrifice for the cause?” Logan murmured.

“There’s also the problem that whichever man I chose would know he was the father of my child, and that could create all sorts of difficulties.”

Logan snapped his fingers. “I have it. If you expand this short-term affair to include all of them, everybody would still be on equal terms with you, and none of them would know who—”

Alison raised her voice. “This is hardly the sort of professional discussion I was looking for, Dr. Kavanaugh.”

“Not even you would know. It’s the perfect—” Logan broke off. “Of course, I suppose they could all line up for DNA tests... Sorry. You’re right, of course. I’ll try to stay focused. Do go on.”

“The father of a child has certain rights.”

“To say nothing of responsibilities,” Logan murmured.

“That doesn’t concern me. Financially, I can support a child easily. I could even take a baby to work with me. And I have no doubt that I’ll be a good parent.”

“Singular. Have you considered that maybe the kid would like to have a father, too?”

“Wouldn’t they all? The fact is, some kids are better off with only one parent. In a good many cases it isn’t having a single parent that’s the problem, it’s being torn apart by the conflict between mother and father.”

Logan didn’t seem to disagree; at least, he stayed silent.

“And I’d be better at the job than most. If you’re worried about who will teach my little boy to pitch a baseball—I will. And I can do anything else that comes along, too.”

He began to applaud. “Brava, brava!”

“I just want a child,” Alison said mulishly. “I don’t want to give some man the right to interfere in my life—and my child’s—for the next eighteen years. I don’t want to mess around with every-other-weekend visitations and arguments about when the kid needs a haircut. Is that so unreasonable?”

“Obviously you’re going to tell me why it isn’t.” he murmured.

“I’d gladly agree never to ask for financial support in return for a promise not to seek parental rights.”

“Now you’re talking. I suspect a lot of men would think that kind of a deal was pretty inviting—they could have all the fun and none of the responsibility.”

“But that’s just it. I know my promise is good, but how could I know he meant what he said? And even if he felt that way now, how could I be certain it would continue?”

“Make him sign something,” Logan suggested.

“Do you honestly think that would do any good? If he came back in a year or two or five and wanted to mess up my child, what’s going to stop him from suing me? All you have to do is read the front pages to know it’s a lot harder for the courts to terminate a father’s rights than it used to be. Even adoption isn’t always final these days.”

“Alison, this is a charming argument, but—”

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me, but I haven’t suggested you use my first name. Or do your patients call you Logan?”

“Quite a number of them do. In any -case, it’s a moot point, since you’re not my patient and you’re not going to be.”

Disappointment trickled through her. “You won’t help me?”

“Even after hearing all your so-called reasons, I still don’t see why you need medical intervention to carry out the most natural process on the face of the globe. Besides, I’ve decided just now that as a patient you’re more than I want to handle. I’ll give you my card, and you can talk to my nurse for the names of some other doctors who might be more inclined to cooperate.”

He moved away from the terrace rail, reached for his wallet, and extracted a business card. But he-didn’t hand it to her; to Alison’s utter astonishment he picked up her hand and raised it to his lips. “I must thank you, however, for taking me into your confidence. It’s been—”

If he said entertaining, Alison thought, she’d kick him in the kneecap.

“Truly memorable,” Logan murmured. He put the business card in her palm, folded her fingers, over it, smiled down at her, and was gone.

The walk from her row house to work had taken longer than she’d expected, so Alison was later than usual when she climbed the front steps of the brownstone which housed the offices of Tryad Public Relations. And though she wouldn’t have admitted it even under torture, she was far shakier than she’d expected to be. It was taking longer to snap back after her surgery than she’d thought it would.

From the porch next door, the twin to Tryad’s, Alison heard a soft scuttling sound as Mrs. Holcomb retreated into her house. Though Tryad’s offices had been next door, sharing a common wall, for three years now, Mrs. Holcomb still obviously considered Alison a stranger. And though the woman was no longer the textbook example of a recluse—in fact, she’d loosened up quite remarkably since the days when no one ever saw her outside at all—she still scampered for cover if surprised. But at least she’d speak to Kit and Susannah from time to time.

The idea that the old lady might actually be a bit afraid of her piqued Alison. “I’m just as nice as Kitty and Sue,” she muttered. “You’d think she’d give me a chance, at least.” She smiled at her own self-pity—why should she expect Mrs. Holcomb to be the one who made the first move?—and pulled open Tryad’s front door.

It felt like a year since she’d been there, though it was scarcely more than a week. Alison stopped just inside the door to get her breath and bask in the quiet atmosphere she loved so well. Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass panel above the front door and lavishly spread a rainbow of colors across the beige carpet on the stairs and the golden oak floor of the hall. Upstairs, from the front office, she heard Kit’s laugh. The aroma of fresh coffee wafted up from the ground-floor kitchen and mixed with the scent of photocopies still warm from the machine near the receptionist’s desk.

As Alison came into the front office which had once been the brownstone’s living room, the secretary jumped up, almost knocking over a vase of flowers. “You’re back!”

Alison fielded the vase and sniffed a half-open red rose. “Very nice, Rita,” she said. “I hope the flowers are a romantic gesture, though, because if someone’s sending bribes and trying to hire you away from us we’ll have to do something drastic.”

Rita colored gently; her pink cheeks made her hair look even more silvery than usual. “My son sent them for my birthday,” she said. “I thought you were going to be gone another week.”

Alison shrugged. “I was very bored, and every time I tried to follow doctor’s orders and rest, one or the other of the cats decided to jump up on my lap. Given the choice of sitting at a desk or having a Persian napping atop my incision, I decided I might as well come back to work.”

“Well, you look as if you’re about to drop,” Rita said critically.

“Will it make you happier if I sit down to read my messages?” Alison took a thin sheaf of pink notes from the basket marked with her name. “There aren’t many, for a whole week. And here I thought I was indispensable to the firm. ,.

“Those are just the personal ones, people who called here when they couldn’t get you at home.”

Alison wasn’t really listening. Most of the messages were short, just friends and clients offering a few words of encouragement and the wish that she’d be back in top form soon. But her friend Jake had called with a doctor-patient joke which Rita had patiently transcribed, right down to a punch line which made Alison groan.

And Rob Morrow had phoned to ask her to the opera. When he’d heard why she was out of the office, he’d left a tongue-in-cheek message that he’d heard some fancy excuses in his day but having surgery to avoid sitting through Rigoletto was the best one yet.

She smiled and put the sheaf of messages down. Just reading them had left her feeling warm and comforted. Her friends were special, indeed.

And there’s not a single one of them you’d sacrifice for the cause? Logan had asked.

He’d sounded just short of sarcastic, but Alison was even more convinced that she’d been right not to turn to her male friends. She was genuinely fond of each of them, or they would no longer be in her life—and she wasn’t willing to take any risks with those relationships.

Few mates, she had found, were able to comprehend the simple concept that men and women could be friends without sexual feelings getting in the way. She didn’t for a minute suppose that Logan Kavanaugh understood that, or he wouldn’t have asked such an idiotic question.

But even among men who accepted the general principle, it was difficult to find one who could wholeheartedly translate that philosophy into his personal life. That was why she hadn’t seriously considered talking to any of her men friends about her desire for a child. She suspected that, despite their good intentions, most of them would conclude that her request implied a whole lot more than a simple favor. And a good many of the rest would feel just a bit threatened since they hadn’t been asked...

Alison realized belatedly that Rita was talking, her soft voice rhythmic and soothing. “Kit and Susannah have been splitting your business calls. Kit’s taken everything to do with the video, Susannah’s handling the singles group and...”

A low, warm voice from the hallway said, “Did I hear my name?” A moment later Kit was standing over Alison’s chair, arms folded and one foot tapping ominously on the hardwood floor.

“What are you doing here? You aren’t supposed to be driving yet.”

“Who said I drove?”

“Then please tell me you took a cab. Because if you walked all the way over here—”

“Dr. Williams told me to get gentle exercise.”

“I think she meant to start with a little less than half-mile hikes. Why didn’t you call and ask for a ride?”

“Because you’d have told me to stay home.” Alison smiled at the look of defeat in Kit’s eyes. “Anyway, I’m here now, so I might as well do some work.”

She was extra careful on the stairs which led down to her office on the ground floor, since going down steps was still one of the more difficult things physically, and the last thing she wanted to do was take a pratfall with Kit standing by to say I told you so.

Susannah and Kit had offices on the upper floor, in what had once been bedrooms. But when they’d first toured the building, in the days when it was still a home, Alison had taken one look at the ground-floor study, with its thick walls and high windows and built-in bookshelves, and fallen in love.

She had never regretted her choice. Since it was half underground, the room was always warm and quiet, and being as far as possible from the confusion of the top floor production room was worth the effort of climbing all the way up now and then.

The surface of her black lacquer desk was exactly as she’d left it, bare except for her red leather blotter and a whimsical Chinese vase that doubled as a pen holder. Her projects were laid away neatly in the file drawer below, and she pulled out the most pressing of them. The promotional video she’d been working on for months, intended to draw industry to Chicago, was in the hands of the tape editors, but there was plenty to be done in the next couple of weeks while they finished the final cut.

And then there was the singles club. The outgrowth of a casual brainstorm of Susannah’s months ago, the project had landed on Alison’s desk only because Susannah hadn’t found a sponsor until the week before her wedding. And how would it look to her new husband, she’d asked Alison earnestly, if she started spending a couple of evenings a month in a singles group?

So Alison had inherited the club—a project she still thought was Susannah’s craziest idea yet. But one of Chicago’s finest restaurants had agreed to host and sponsor the club, and now there was no backing out; Tryad’s reputation was on the line, and Chicago Singles would succeed, or else.

She opened the folder, and within minutes she was buried in her work. Even if her heart wasn’t entirely in the project, Alison had to admit that the more deeply she became involved in the singles club, the more possibilities there were.

She didn’t realize how long she’d been working till she stood up to get a notepad from the storage closet out in the hallway and had to grab the corner of her desk to keep from falling. She was light-headed, and there was a nagging ache in her lower back and a sharper one near the half healed incision.

“So much for the idea that you don’t need rest breaks any more,” she told herself dryly as she evicted Tryad’s calico cat from her comfortable nest at one end of the white wicker love seat. The cat glared and stalked off, tail high, and Alison lay down, wriggling around until she found a comfortable position.

The love seat was hardly conducive to naps—but then she didn’t intend to sleep, only to rest for a few minutes. Kit had installed a chaise longue in her office, and Susannah had selected an overstuffed couch, but Alison had deliberately chosen the wicker love seat and matching chair because—white they were cozy and inviting with their feminine, frilly cushions—they were not so comfortable that visitors sat around just to chat.

Her brain kept on ticking, rattling off promotional possibilities for the Chicago Singles. She loved her work, so much that it didn’t feel like a job at all most of the time. And she was comfortable with her life. Of course she wanted a child, and she’d continue to explore her options—but she must have been nuts to have gone off the deep end, that day on Kit’s terrace. She must have still been in shock from her surgery—and from her fear of never having a baby—to have reacted so idiotically.

She hoped Susannah never heard about the incident. She was the one who specialized in crackpot ideas and who seldom thought them through to the obvious consequences. She’d have a good laugh about Alison—practical logical Alison—asking a doctor to help her have a child... and asking on the spur of the moment, without even a thought for the outcome.

Her eyelids drooped, and her mind began to spin.

She didn’t know what sort of a party it was at first. She couldn’t hear anything, and everything seemed to be in black and white. Like an old home movie, that was it.

Slowly the picture cleared, like a projector coming into focus. Now she could see people, party hats perched on their heads, their mouths moving but making no sound. They seemed to be watching her, she glanced down and realized she was carrying a cake, balancing it carefully in both hands. A birthday cake from the looks of things, since there was a fat candle glowing in the center...

A single candle. She looked up eagerly, her eyes searching for the child the birthday cake must belong to. But the crowd of party-goers was dense. Suddenly, however, the group shifted, and people stepped aside to make room for her. At the end of the aisle they’d formed was a high chair, and in it sat a small child, romper-clad and wide-eyed, with a tuft of dark hair sticking straight up. Alison smiled and stepped forward, tripped over her own feet and went sprawling. The candle snuffed out an instant before Alison’s face smashed the thick white icing...

She jerked awake and lay back against the cushions, breathing hard. “Talk about Freudian,” she muttered finally, and pushed herself into a sitting position.

Yes, she’d been acting bizarre that day on Kit’s terrace. It had been little short of insane to blurt out her wishes that way, and particularly to Logan Kavanaugh. When the only experience the man had of her was a sick, argumentative woman who’d left him with a sore and bleeding lip—well, it was no wonder he hadn’t been eager to cooperate. She must have been deranged not to see that before she’d so thoroughly embarrassed herself.

But the fact she’d been crazy to bring it up to him didn’t mean it was a crazy idea. Granted, she’d have been better off to think it all the way through first and do a little more research before choosing a doctor. But the longing was real; she still wanted a child. And the facts hadn’t changed; all her arguments made just as much sense now as they had in the first burst of enthusiasm.

She’d been tempted to rip up his card, but common sense had made her hesitate. Why start from scratch if she could get a referral? And she wouldn’t have to talk to Logan himself; he’d said himself that his office nurse could help...

She’d just dialed the last digit when Susannah’s blond head appeared around the edge of Alison’s half-closed of fice door. “Rita said you were asking about—Oh, sorry. Want me to come back later?”

Susannah’s timing, Alison thought testily, couldn’t possibly have been worse. She started to put the phone down.

Before she could break the connection, however, the line clicked and a low-pitched Southern drawl said, “Obstetrics and Gynecology Associates.”

What a tongue twister. Somebody ought to have-had better sense. Hastily Alison put the phone back to her ear. “I’m sorry. Wrong number.” She hung up without waiting for a response. “I’m finished, Sue. Have a seat.”

Susannah flopped down in the big wicker chair. “I kept a list of the calls I took for you and what I did about them—or mostly, what I didn’t do.” She handed a sheet of yellow paper to Alison. “The majority said their business could wait till you were back in shape.”

Alison ran her eyes down the list. No big problems jumped out at her. “Thanks, Sue.”

Susannah swung around and draped her legs over the chair’s arm. “My pleasure. I also wondered.... You know the painting that was vandalized at the Dearborn Museum?”

Alison frowned. She remembered only vaguely—but her foggy recall made sense; Susannah had mentioned it at Flanagan’s when Alison’s pain was at its worst. “What about it?”

“The artist is coming to town to inspect the damage, and of course as the museum’s official public relations person I’ll have to be there. I wondered, if you don’t have another obligation, if you’d go with me.”

“Why? I’ve never been part of the Dearborn campaigns.”

“Moral support,” Susannah said firmly.

“Nobody can possibly think it’s your fault, can they?”

“Of course they can. I’m the one who suggested that instead of a guest book they hang a plain white canvas and let visitors write their comments with markers. So when the board starts looking for a scapegoat, and remembers that I encouraged the patrons to write on things—”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“Since when did that prevent clients from yelling? A week from Saturday, five in the afternoon. Can you go?”

“I think so.” Alison reached for her calendar. “That night’s the first Chicago Singles meeting, so I’d have to go directly from the museum to Coq Au Vin. But maybe I can talk to the museum director about hosting an event for the stupid singles club.”

“Better quit calling it that,” Susannah advised, “or you’ll slip one of these days. I can see it now, on some morning interview show on television... Are you going to have gift certificates for membership?”

“Hadn’t thought of it.”

“If you do, I might get one for our painter friend.”

“He’d think it was a personal apology for the additions to his canvas.”

“You’re probably right.” Susannah yawned. “Kit tells me you and Logan Kavanaugh not only connected—pardon the pun—at the hospital but you spent a whole hour tête-à-tête on her terrace.”

“Did she?” Alison buried her face in a folderful of blank paper and did her best to sound entirely uninterested.

“So what’s going on there?”

“Absolutely nothing.”

“Come on, Ali. Don’t tell me you’re just going to add him to your string of male pals.”

“Not on your life.”

Susannah sat up with the grace of a ballerina, grinning broadly. “Aha! Now we’re getting somewhere. If you don’t want to be friends with the man, it must mean you’re seriously attracted to him.”

Alison put the folder down with a snap and looked levelly at Susannah. “You know, Sue, my life was a whole lot less complicated before both you and Kit went nuts and fell in love.”

“Mine, too, but it was much less fun. So when are you going to see him again?”

“I’m not.”

“Really?” Susannah rose slowly. “Then why were you calling him at the office just now? I heard the receptionist answer. That’s a terrible name for a medical practice, don’t you think?”

Alison choked.

“And why, instead of admitting it, did you hang up on the poor woman when I came in? What, I wonder, didn’t you want me to overhear?” Then Susannah smiled like an angel and walked out without waiting for an answer.

The thinness of the stack of messages waiting for her on Rita’s desk had been a mirage; the fact was that every client Alison possessed—including some she hadn’t heard from in a year—called in the next week. Caught between too much work and the lingering effects of her surgery, Alison even considered installing an air mattress in her office. The main reason she didn’t was that she couldn’t find time to call the store and arrange a delivery.

She yawned as she climbed the steps to the main floor, carrying the final draft of yet another letter to be personalized and sent out to a mailing list of hundreds. She’d leave it on Rita’s desk to be taken care of in the morning, and then she was going home.

Used to the bright lights in her office, Alison was startled by the dimness on the main floor. She’d known it was late, of course—she’d drawn the curtains over her office windows hours ago, and the stillness of the entire brownstone had told her everyone but she and the calico cat. had departed. Still, she’d expected the last bit of twilight to still be trickling through the windows at the head of the stairs. Instead, there was only the yellow light which spilled from the entrance porch through the beveled glass panels around. the front door.

She flipped the hall lights on and crossed toward Rita’s office. A shadow moved on the steps outside, and Alison’s heart jolted. Tryad’s hours were clearly posted on the door; why would anybody be lurking outside now? A public relations office wasn’t even the sort of business she’d expect to draw the attention of any self-respecting burglar...

But if she was wrong about that...there she stood, spotlighted in the hallway.

She dived for the switch to kill the lights. Her eyes were slow to readjust to the dimness, and she’d managed to convince herself that she’d been startled by the movement of a tree branch in the breeze when a face pressed against the glass. The bevels distorted the image, so it wasn’t her eyes so much as the way her stomach tightened which told Alison who was outside. She unlocked the door, pulled it open, and looked up at Logan Kavanaugh.

“So you are here,” he said. “I saw lights on in the basement and then that sudden flash up here, and I suspected it would be you.”

“Congratulations. Does finding me make you eligible for a prize?” She didn’t move aside.

“Are you going to invite me in?”

“Any reason I should? Business hours are—”

“Looks to me like your business hours are about like mine—whatever it takes to get the job done.”

He did look tired, she thought. There was a network of fine lines around his eyes. She stepped back from the door. “Would you like a cup of coffee?”

“If it’s already made.”

“It won’t take a minute. Believe me, you don’t want to drink the tar that’s left in the pot.”

Logan shrugged. “I’ve no doubt had worse.” He followed her down the stairs and into the big kitchen next to her office.

Alison dumped the glass carafe, rinsed it, and started a fresh pot brewing. “So what brings you here?” She didn’t look at him. “No, don’t tell me. I bet you’re so shaken at being done with work at this hour—my goodness, it’s only eight o’clock!—that you’ve decided to take me on as a patient after all.”

“This was supposed to be my afternoon off,” he said gloomily. “If I was out beating the bushes for anything, it’d be a doctor—we’re short one just now.” He shook his head at the sugar bowl she held up. “I thought perhaps you’d decided on another approach to your problem, since you haven’t called for a referral.”

Alison set a steaming cup in front of him. “I’m amazed, with all those rafts of patients to see, that you’d bother to keep track of me.”

He grinned, and the tired lines around his eyes crinkled with humor. “Purely in self-defense, I assure you. Though as a matter of fact, I didn’t know till today that you hadn’t called.”

Alison poured her own coffee and sat down across from him. “So what was special about today?”

“This came in the mail.” He reached into the inside breast pocket of his jacket and pulled out an envelope. “I don’t suppose you know anything about it.”

His tone, Alison thought, said that he’d already convinced himself differently.

She looked warily at the envelope. The return address was Tryad’s, the envelope identical to the ones they had printed by the thousands. Logan’s name and office address had been neatly typed. She turned it over, looked up at him, and shook her head. “I can’t imagine why you think I’d be sending—”

“Go ahead, open it.”

“The cloak-and-dagger way you’re acting, I’m not sure I want to leave my fingerprints,” she muttered, but she slid the contents out. She recognized the long, narrow card immediately; it was one of the elegant gift certificates she’d produced, good for one year’s membership in the Chicago Singles.

She tried without much success to choke back a laugh. Susannah, she thought, the little matchmaker! The whole notion of gift certificates had been Susannah’s; Alison should have seen this coming. “And you thought I’d enrolled you? No, I can’t take credit for that. Lucky you. It’s a pretty pricey gift, you know.”

“Can’t take credit? Or won’t?”

“I had nothing to do with it. I have to admit I have my suspicions about who’s responsible, but—”

“It’s your signature, Alison.”

“Of course it is. I signed a whole stack of blanks, but they’re not valid till Rita numbers and registers them. She no doubt has a record of who paid the bill. If you like, I’ll ask her tomorrow. I can also—”

“It’s a shame, you know. I was so certain it was you I brought you a gift in return.” From the other inside breast pocket, he took a small, flat white box and set it down on the table beside his cup.

“Very thoughtful,” Alison said dryly. “But I still don’t quite understand why you’d think that I—”

“Because the whole idea sounds like one of your fruitcake plans—and when I found out you hadn’t pursued the medical alternative, it all fit with your twisted logic. What better way to meet a transient population of males than to set up your very own singles club?”

Alison shook her head in confusion. “So I can look over the selection and choose one to father my baby? Oh, please. Even if I was crazy enough to do that, why would I let you in on it?”

“In the hope that I’d feel so bad about the risks you’d be taking that I’d volunteer to help after all.”

“You’d be more likely to issue a general warning in the name of protecting your fellow men.” She tapped the heavy vellum gift certificate on her palm. “I’ll give this back to Rita tomorrow and have her issue you a refund check.”

“Didn’t your mother ever tell you it isn’t polite to return a gift for the money?”

“As a matter of fact,” Alison said dryly, “no, she didn’t.”

Logan extracted the gift certificate from her hand and put it gently back into his breast pocket. “Besides, someone obviously thought I’d find this fun—and who knows? They might just be right. And the least I can do is stand by to give—what did you call it? A general warning to protect my fellow men, wasn’t that it? Thanks for the coffee.” With a theatrical sweep, he bowed and was gone, leaving Alison sitting with cup in hand staring at nothingness.

Finally she shook her head a little and smiled. Let the man have his joke. He wouldn’t show up within miles of the Chicago Singles; he just wanted her to think he might.

She stood up and started to clear the table. Only when she picked up his cup did she realize that he’d gone off without the small, flat box.

I was so certain it was you I brought you a gift in return, he’d said.

If the box had been seated or wrapped, she wouldn’t have opened it. But it was neither, and it would have taken a lot more willpower than Alison possessed to keep from lifting the lid and peeking inside. She wasn’t hurting anything, after all. He’d never even know she’d looked.

On a bed of white cotton lay a silver pin just a couple of inches tall, in the shape of a musician with a flute raised to his lips. The workmanship was delicate, the most beautiful Alison had ever seen. And what instinct had told him that the flute was the instrument she’d always wanted to play?

Her fingertip went out hesitantly. The silver warmed instantly to her touch, and—almost frightened by the pleasure which swelled her heart—she snapped the lid back on the box and put it in the drawer of her desk, where it would be safe till she could send it back to him.

CHAPTER THREE

ALISON ticked items off the list in her head as she laid them out on her desk. Membership booklets to hand out at the Chicago Singles meeting, application forms for those who hadn’t already formally signed up, receipts in case anyone wanted to pay dues, notes for her brief introductory talk...

She reached for her soft leather briefcase and began to pack it. The back door banged and heels clicked on the bare wooden steps from the main floor down to Alison’s office.

“Nice little black dress,” Susannah said as she came in.

“Thanks. It’s not what I’d normally wear to the art museum on a Saturday afternoon, but I won’t have time to change before the Singles meeting.”

“I’m glad you’re not still calling it the Stupid Singles.” Susannah flung herself down on the wicker couch. “You know, I surmise you’re going to enjoy this club a whole lot more than you expect to.”

I’ll just bet you think so, Alison thought, because you don’t realize that I know about Logan’s gift certificate! The comment was the final confirmation of her suspicions that Susannah had been the source of that gift; she sounded entirely too innocent.

“Don’t get me started,” Alison said. “Sorry I’m not ready, by the way. It took longer to get everything together than I’d planned. I could have met you at the museum—there was no need for you to go out of your way to pick me up here.” .

“Oh, no. I asked you to provide moral support, and I’m going to squeeze out every drop of it I can—which includes having you walk into the Dearborn with me.”

Alison put the last of her papers in place and picked up the flat white box which contained the tiny flute player. Though she didn’t for a minute expect that Logan would show up at the meeting tonight, she might as well be prepared; she’d drop the box into the side pocket of her briefcase just in case.

The lid slipped, and the pin tumbled from its bed of white cotton onto the slick surface of Alison’s desk. Susannah swung around. “What a luscious pin! You’re going to wear it, aren’t you? It was made for that dress.”

“Don’t you think it’s a bit much for the museum?” The excuse was feeble, Alison knew, but it was all she could think of.

Susannah’s eyebrows rose. “Obviously you haven’t been there for a while, or you’d know that anything goes. It’s perfect. Want me to help you put it on?”

Great, Alison thought. Now I have to start explaining how it’s not really mine, it’s sort of a gift from Logan, but I’m giving it back...and won’t Susannah have a field day with that?

There wasn’t much choice except to explain—and Susannah wouldn’t be easily put off with less than the full story. Unless...she could just wear the thing. What would be the harm? The pin certainly wouldn’t be injured, and if she took it off the minute she was out of Susannah’s sight, Logan would never know it had been out of the box.

Coward, she told herself. But she handed Susannah the small silver figure and stood very still while it was fastened to the shoulder of her dress.

It was apparent the moment they stepped into the Dearborn Museum of Art that everyone knew the famous artist would be inspecting the damage to his work that afternoon, for the museum was as busy as Alison had ever seen it. Most of the crowd was gathered in the main gallery where the damaged painting was, to Alison’s surprise, still hanging. Few of them were looking seriously at the art, and when Susannah and Alison came in, the noise level dropped and all eyes focused on them.

On Susannah, rather. Alison knew very well that no one was paying any particular attention to her. Still, as they walked up the wide ramp into the main gallery, she felt as if every gaze in the museum was directed at the small silver flute player on her shoulder.

Guilt, she told herself, is a powerful thing.

“Perfect timing,” Susannah murmured, and just as Alison started to ask what she meant, the double doors at the back of the gallery opened and two men—the museum’s director and a Bohemian figure who could only be the famous artist—strolled in and straight across the gray-carpeted floor to the painting in question.

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