He was naked.
Now, here he was, standing over her.
Watching her.
He owned her.
Amber Pratt: She was a lonely secretary, an abused, heartbroken woman.
She was prey.
He knelt beside her, drawing his face near enough to drink in her breath, his aching to touch her as silent as the flicking of a snake’s tongue.
Do it now.
As he stood to take action, an inexplicable spear of doubt pierced him.
It felt so painful he wavered.
Suddenly Amber stirred, moaning and rolling over.
No, it was not right. Not yet.
He sank back into the darkness and disappeared into the night.
4
Los Angeles, California
As Claire Bowen sat at the wheel of her car on Wilshire Boulevard waiting for the light to change, she met the sweetest pair of eyes.
They belonged to the pigtailed little girl crossing the street with a woman who was pushing a stroller holding a sleeping baby. The woman must be the girl’s mother, Claire judged by the resemblance.
As the trio moved across the intersection in front of Claire, she guessed the girl to be about three. One of her tiny hands gripped the stroller. The other was clamped on the stuffed bunny tucked under her arm. Her pretty eyes were locked on Claire’s.
Claire gave her a small wave and a smile. The girl’s little fingers holding the bunny wiggle-waved back. The mother, who’d noticed, gazed down at her daughter with wearied joy.
Will I ever know that kind of love? Claire asked herself.
It was a bittersweet moment that hammered home the fact that time was running out for her.
All Dr. LaRoy’s office said was that he needed to see me this morning.
Claire knew that her chances of having a child decreased with each passing day. She was thirty-five and happily married to Robert Bowen, a pilot. She was a psychologist with a successful practice and a lot to be thankful for. But ever since she was confronted years ago with the probability that she would never have children, she felt something was slipping away. She had to hang on to the hope that things would work out.
She’d never give up.
Claire was a survivor.
A horn sounded behind her.
The light had turned green. As she continued driving, towering condo buildings rose before her. She had accepted that some things in this world were absolutes. We’re born, we die, and there is only so much in between that we can control. But she was unwilling to accept that she would never be a mother.
She had gotten pregnant three times, but in each instance she’d suffered a miscarriage. She had seen many doctors and had faced countless tests, examinations, procedures and treatments.
Nothing worked.
The specialists found complications linked to her failed pregnancies. But throughout her anguish she would not give up, even when the odds mounted against her.
Even when they’d nearly destroyed her.
Claire’s memory flashed to the frightening incident that had ended her first marriage a few years ago. She did not want to think about it now. One thing was certain: there was no telling what could’ve happened had Robert not been there that day, which had marked the beginning of her life with him. Unlike Cliff, her first husband, Robert never made her feel as if she was less of a woman or that her infertility was her fault.
“I’ll do whatever it takes,” Robert said when she told him about it. “We’re in this together, Claire.”
Robert went through everything with her in their three years together—tests for him, new workups for her. Robert’s count and motility were fine. And while they sought new doctors, new experts for Claire, the reality was sobering. Aside from Claire’s problems, she knew the chances of miscarrying increased for women thirty-five and older; along with the risk of late-pregnancy complications.
As a psychologist Claire counseled herself to prepare to accept that nothing was working, that her feelings of emptiness, anger, guilt and depression were normal reactions. She’d struggled not to let her infertility dominate the good life they had built together.
But it was so hard.
The problem manifested itself every day, every time she saw a pregnant woman, or a mother pushing a stroller, every time someone in her circle announced a pregnancy, a baby shower, a birth, it was there, underscoring her isolation.
She had devoted herself to helping troubled women, women who’d been abused. She guided them through the tragedies in their lives, helped them recognize lifelines, repair the damage and take control. Because she was contending with her own secret sorrow, it made her better at her job.
Above everything, she counseled her patients to never, ever, lose sight of the possibility that things could get better.
For Claire, her latest grasp at hope now stood before her at the edge of the Wilshire Corridor in the shape of a gleaming ten-story complex and the offices of Dr. Marlen LaRoy.
He was one of California’s leading fertility experts—a pioneer specializing in controversial treatments. Claire had been seeing him for the past few months. In that time she’d undergone a series of procedures and examinations to determine if she was a candidate for a radical experimental treatment.
Claire had been surprised, and mildly annoyed, when his office called her this morning to make a sudden, unscheduled appointment without giving her a hint as to what it was about.
She steered her Toyota into a parking space, then reached for her phone. Making this appointment meant she had had to juggle sessions with her patients, which was a concern.
She called her assistant.
“Doctor Bowen’s office.”
“Hi, Alice, it’s Claire. How is everybody doing?”
“So far so good. Except for Amber Pratt.”
“Amber? I don’t see her until next week.”
“She said she’s anxious, feels like she’s being watched. She wants to push up her next session.”
“Okay, see what we can do. Thanks. Gotta go.”
Claire took a deep breath, then headed into the lobby and stepped into the elevator, hoping she could get back to her practice by eleven.
“Ms. Bowen.” The receptionist stood to greet her. “Thank you for coming. Our apologies for such short notice, but Dr. LaRoy has to fly to a conference
