have forgotten.
The bell dinged behind her, and she heard the elevator doors shoosh open. She turned and walked into the mirrored elevator, conscious not so much of the thirty Melanies that seemed to step on with her, but the thirty tall, dark-haired, green-eyed strangers.
She reached out to press the eighth-floor button at the same time he did on the opposite side of the door. She glanced at him and said with a nervous little laugh, “Popular floor.”
He smiled. “Most of the offices are there. Patient rooms are on the other floors.”
“Oh.” She shrugged. “I’m not familiar with the building. This is my first time here.”
“Where are you headed?”
“To see Dr.—” She stopped, reflexively protecting her privacy. “A specialist.” She gave a dismissive smile and watched the numbers as the elevator climbed.
The man nodded politely and didn’t ask questions.
It occurred to her then that she wasn’t entirely sure which suite she was headed for. Glad for the chance to do something other than say inane things to a stranger, she opened her purse and began rooting for the appointment card they’d sent to her in England.
As the elevator lurched to a stop, she dropped her wallet at the man’s feet. She reached for it at the precise moment he did and they bumped heads just as the elevator doors opened.
“Sorry,” Melanie said, her embarrassment increasing with every moment.
He laughed and handed her the wallet, which had ended up in his hand like the big end of a wishbone. His fingertips brushed hers. “Nice bumping into you.” He gave an attractive grin.
She groaned at the pun as they both stepped off the elevator. Then she retrieved the appointment card from her wallet.
The stranger stopped, considered her for a moment, then asked, “Can I help you find an office at least?”
“That’s okay.” She pulled the card out and waved it triumphantly. “I’ve got it. But thanks.”
“All right. Good luck.” He nodded and waved and was off.
Melanie watched him go, vaguely hoping she might meet him again. Something about him was interesting, reassuring. She shrugged off the notion, and looked closely at Dr. Cross’s business card. Suite 818. Once the card was back in her bag, she followed the signs to her destination.
Five minutes later Melanie was sitting in the waiting room of Dr. Jared Cross’s office, trying to ignore the continuing radio coverage of Branson Hines’s escape. The announcer repeated warnings that citizens may be in danger, then returned to the Muzak program with an old Barry Manilow song.
Melanie tried to keep her thoughts on the fashion magazine she’d brought, but for some reason the Branson Hines story made her feel as if she, personally, were in danger. She’d only had premonitions a couple of times in her life; once before her parents died, and once when she was in college and she was sure she was going to fail a course. She’d been wrong about the latter, so she was probably wrong about this, too.
“Miss Tourbier?”
Melanie jumped, even though the voice was soft. “Yes?” she asked the petite red-haired secretary who had called her name.
“The doctor will see you now.” She gestured toward the door next to her desk.
Melanie gathered her things and gave a brief smile. “Thank you.”
“Say, did you know there’s a Tourbier champagne?” the secretary asked as Melanie walked past. “My husband and I had some just last night for our anniversary.”
“Well, happy anniversary,” Melanie said with a smile. Yes, she knew about Tourbier champagne. Her father had started the vineyard in Reims, France, thirty-three years ago.
“Thanks!” the woman answered with a shake of her flame-red curls. “Two years and counting.”
“That’s terrific.”
She passed the young woman and entered Dr. Cross’s office.
He was standing with his back to her, facing a wide shelf that was overflowing with books. She couldn’t tell much about him from behind except that he was very tall, and his hair was as black as a raven’s, or at least it seemed so in contrast to the generic white doctor coat he wore. His hair color and his physique suggested that he was much younger than she had expected.
“Dr. Cross?”
He turned quickly. “I’m sorry,” he said, flashing an apologetic smile.
It was the man from the elevator.
Her heart dropped into her stomach. “It’s you,” she heard herself say. “I had no idea…”
He looked equally surprised to see her. “Oh, hello again.”
“Hello.”
“What a coincidence.”
She swallowed. “Yes.” Things like this happened a lot in her life. She really shouldn’t continue to be so surprised by them.
He glanced at something on his desk and said, “I gather you must be Melanie Tourbier?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked at her for a moment, as cool as a cucumber. “Please,” he said, waving a hand at the chair in front of his desk. “Have a seat.”
She did, wondering if he was right now recalling her talking to herself before.
That would not bode well for her.
But if he was thinking that, he didn’t let on. He sat and took out a folder. “So you are Miss Tourbier,” he said, taking a few sheets of paper out of the folder.
“Please, call me Melanie.” A flirty thrill ran down her spine, and she quickly reminded herself that this was not the time or the place or the man for those kinds of thoughts.
He looked at her over the papers. “Okay, Melanie. And you can call me Jared.”
“All right, Jared.” Still, maybe this was going to go well, after all.
He frowned and checked his notes, shuffling through the papers. “And you’re here for fertility counseling, is that correct? Artificial insemination?”
“Yes, I am.”
He looked at her again, then hesitated noticeably before setting the papers down.
She thought she saw a piece of newspaper in the pile and wondered what it was.
“I haven’t had a lot of time to familiarize myself with your case,” he said. “I understand this has all happened rather quickly.”
She smiled. “Why wait around?”
“Hmm.” He
