one dark eyebrow. An impressive title. Had she earned it? Or had she slept her way into it? He’d been in business long enough to know those things happened.
She looked at the camera. At him, his gut said, though he knew that was ridiculous.
“I’ll certainly try.”
Her voice was low-pitched, almost husky. He tried to concentrate on what she was saying but he was too busy just looking at her …
“… in other words, absolutely perfect for storing sperm.”
Tariq blinked. What had she just said?
“Can you explain that, please, Miss Whitney?”
Tariq sent a silent “thank you” to the moderator for asking the question. Surely the woman could not have said—
“I’ll be happy to,” the woman said calmly. “It’s true, as you pointed out, artificial insemination is not new, but the method FutureBorn’s developed to freeze sperm is not only new, it’s revolutionary.”
Tariq stared at the screen. What sort of talk was this from a woman?
“And the benefits are?”
“Well.” The woman ran the tip of her tongue over her lips. It had to have been an unconscious gesture but it turned his own mouth dry. “Well, one obvious benefit is that a man who has no wish to sire children at the present time can leave a specimen with us. A donation for the future, as it were, secure in the knowledge it will be available for his use years later.”
A donation, Tariq thought. An interesting choice of words.
“Or, if not for his use, then for use on his behalf.”
“In what way?” the moderator said.
“Well, for example, a man might wish to leave instructions as to how his sperm should be used after his death.” She smiled politely. “Frozen sperm, along with proper legal documentation regarding its use, could be a twenty-first century method of ensuring a wealthy man had an heir.
Or a crown prince had a successor.
Tariq frowned.
What if he left a—a—What had she called it? A donation. What if a test tube of his semen was set aside in case the unthinkable happened and fate intervened before he’d found a suitable wife?
Hell. Was he crazy?
Tariq aimed the remote at the screen. It went blank and he shot to his feet.
A real man did not make a “donation” to a test tube. He made it in the womb of a woman.
He had not looked hard enough, that was all. In this city of millions, surely there was a perfect candidate just waiting for him to find.
He’d been invited to a party tonight. His lawyer had bought a town house on the East Side and wanted to celebrate. Tariq, imagining all the long-legged women who’d undoubtedly be there, had at first thought it an excellent opportunity. Then he’d shuddered at the realization he’d reached the point at which he thought of such things as opportunities, and he’d sent his regrets.
Another mistake, he thought as he pulled on his suit jacket and strode toward the door. First, choosing celibacy that had clearly affected his concentration. Then, refusing an invitation to a place that might, indeed, provide excellent prospects for his search for a wife.
An old American expression danced into his mind. Three strikes and you’re out. It referred to baseball but it could just as readily refer to his quest. First, his search in Dubaac, then in the Nations.
Well, there wasn’t going to be a third strike. He hadn’t been looking hard enough, that was the problem.
And that was going to change, starting now.
“Okay, people. We’re off the air.”
Madison Whitney rose to her feet, unclipped the tiny black mike from the lapel of her suit and handed it to the waiting technician.
“Madison,” her boss said, “you did a fine job.”
“Thank you.”
“Excellent.” He laughed—ho, ho, ho, Madison thought, just like an actor doing a really bad interpretation of Santa—and leaned in close. “Suppose we have a drink and discuss things?”
Discuss what? she wanted to say. How you can figure out a way to get me into bed? But Mrs. Whitney had not raised a stupid daughter so Madison smiled brightly, just as she’d been doing ever since MicroTech had taken over FutureBorn and said oh, that would be lovely, but she had a previous engagement.
The phony smile of her very married employer turned positively feral.
“Now, Madison, it isn’t wise to say ‘no’ all the time.”
It isn’t wise to court a sexual harassment lawsuit, either, Madison thought, but she knew what he didn’t, that their uneasy alliance would soon be over.
It was enough to make another smile easy to produce.
“Some other time, Mr. Shields. As I say, I have a date.”
She felt his eyes on her as she walked away.
Twenty minutes later, she slid into a booth at a quiet bar on Lexington Avenue. Two things were waiting for her: a cold Cosmopolitan cocktail and her old college roommate, Barbara Dawson.
Madison sighed, lifted the drink and took a long, long sip.
“Bless you for ordering ahead. I really needed that.”
“I live to serve,” Barb said lightly. She smiled, and jerked her chin toward the TV screen above the bar. “I caught the show. Still hiding behind those tortoiseshells, huh?”
Madison grinned. “They make me look intellectual.”
“You mean, they make you look untouchable.”
“If only,” Madison said, and took another sip of her drink.
“Don’t tell me. The lecher’s still leching?”
“Uh-huh. Did you know you were my date for tonight?”
“Why, Maddie,” Barb purred, batting her lashes, “I never knew you felt that way.”
“Hey, there’s an idea. Maybe that’ll be my next excuse.” Madison shook her head. “He’s impossible but then, he’s a man.”
“Have you ever considered it’s time you stopped thinking every guy out there is a cheating, conniving jerk like your once-upon-a-time fiancé?”
“No,” Madison said firmly, “because they are. And that includes my own father, who only stopped being unfaithful to my mother because he died. Men are all the same. It’s a fact of life.”
“Wrong.”
“Right.
