“Will he be back today?”
“Most likely.” Leaning forward on his desktop, Slater laced his fingers together. Though he wasn’t a big man, his hands were large with fingers so long, he was probably capable of playing Rachmaninoff. “Do you have specific questions, Anya?”
“A few.” She rose from the leather chair facing his desk and went to the arched, second-story window overlooking the Legate grounds. The October grass had faded, and the live oak and elm had begun to turn. Though she couldn’t see the waters of the bay beyond the forested landscaping, moisture hung in the air, creating an idyllic mist.
Directly below the window was a hedge maze, and she spotted Charlie. Her small son dragged the woman who had been assigned to keep an eye on him through the twisting pathways toward a marble fountain in the center. Charlie paused for only a second at each turn, calculating the probabilities that led to the correct route. He made few mistakes and never once retraced an error.
A fond smile touched Anya’s lips, and her heart swelled with pride. Her son was exceptionally bright with an IQ at the genius level. Not that his high intelligence was a surprise. Jeremy had been brilliant. Anya’s mother had an M.D. and Ph.D., and her father was a physicist—as brilliant as he was irresponsible, having abandoned her and her mother before Anya’s third birthday.
Claudette fluttered up behind her. “Stop wasting time. You need to sign these documents.”
Stubbornly, Anya continued to stare through the window. This was an important decision, and she wouldn’t be rushed. “Please don’t think I’m ungrateful, Mr. Slater. Your offer is generous and, I’m sure, well-intentioned.”
“Not completely unselfish,” he admitted. “If Charlie is educated here, under the tutelage of Legate instructors, I believe your son will evolve into one of the finest minds of this century.”
“But will he have the chance to be a kid?”
Her mother scoffed. Claudette never put much stock in the everyday pleasures of childhood. “That’s such nonsense.”
“But important to me.” Anya turned away from the window to face her mother. “Kids need to be able to spend an afternoon lying in the grass and staring up at the clouds. Getting dirty. Playing baseball. Maybe even being a pole vaulter like his dad.”
“We have facilities for extracurricular activity,” Slater said. “You’ve already seen the stables and the swimming pool.”
“Right.”
“And if you want Charlie to spend time cloud-gazing, that’s fine. You’re in charge of his free time. You’re still his mother.”
“What about playtime with other children?” Anya asked.
“As you know,” Slater said, “we have five other children in the program.”
Anya knew that the five other kids ranged in age from four to seven. All had been carefully screened before being accepted into the Legate program. All had IQs at the genius level.
“I can’t imagine why you’re hesitating,” her mother said. “If you stayed in Denver, you’d likely have to go back to work, and Charlie would be wasting his time in a day-care center. Think of your son, Anya. My grandson. He deserves the chance to develop his full potential.”
But this arrangement seemed unnatural. Even though Anya would retain her guardianship of Charlie, Legate would take care of everything else. They’d educate him and provide a home for both of them. Anya would even be paid a stipend. For what? For being his mother? She hated that idea.
“What about my life?” she said. “What if I decide to get married again?”
“Didn’t you read the contract?” her mother asked. “You aren’t indentured. Any time you wish to withdraw from this arrangement, you simply repay Legate’s expenses and leave.”
“I know,” Anya said. She’d studied that clause and had checked it out with a lawyer who didn’t anticipate a problem. Anya’s payout from her husband’s life insurance policies had left her with a substantial savings account to pay off any debts incurred to Legate.
In contrast to her mother, Slater was gently persuasive. “Last night, you stayed at the cottage where you and Charlie will live. I’m sure you’ll agree that it’s large enough to accommodate a husband. In fact, Jeremy picked it out himself.”
It was obvious that Jeremy wanted this opportunity for their son. How could Anya say no?
Slater continued. “If you marry and have other children, we’ll make arrangements for a larger house.”
The likelihood of Anya reproducing again was slim. She never would have gotten pregnant without the experimental fertilization procedures developed by Legate.
Her mother was right. Why waste time worrying about an improbable future? The important thing—right now—was to provide the very best for Charlie.
She walked to the desk and picked up the pen. Her gaze scanned the tightly written pages. She’d read them so many times that the words were memorized. Why was she so reluctant to sign this contract?
“Perhaps,” Slater said, “you’re worried about how you’ll spend your time while Charlie is in school.”
The thought had crossed her mind. “I thought I might find a teaching position in the area.”
“Allow me to make you an offer,” he said with a wide, benevolent smile. “I’m familiar with your credentials in linguistics.”
Anya had conversational skills in dozens of dialects and had taught high school Spanish, French and Japanese as well as doing translations. “So you have a job for me?”
“Legate is an international operation. We have a regular need for translators. Full-time and part-time.”
“I accept.”
She’d have employment. Charlie would have playmates and a fantastic education. The facilities here were outstanding. The cottage was charming. It seemed too good to be true.
Anya lowered the pen to the paper and signed all three copies of the contract.
AT THE CIRCULAR DRIVEWAY in front of the Legate mansion, Roman guided his silver Mercedes-Benz into his parking space near the entrance. The drive from the airport had done nothing to lessen his frustration. He charged across the flagstones. It was no coincidence that a supposed emergency occurred in Los Angeles at the same moment Anya and Charlie arrived in San Francisco. Slater had manufactured that excuse; he meant to keep Roman away from Anya.
Had she signed the contract? There was no way Roman had been able to warn her of the dangers—not without blowing his cover and jeopardizing his investigation.
In the lavish foyer of the mansion, he approached the antique desk that was headquarters for Jane Coopersmith—possibly the only receptionist in the world with a photographic memory.
“Good afternoon, Jane.”
Peering up at him through goggle-size eyeglasses, she gave a curt nod. “Roman.”
She presented him with several little message notes, held between her thumb and forefinger. On top was one from Dr. Neville, head of the Legate psychiatric division, marked “Urgent” and underlined three times. Too bad. Neville would have to wait.
“Where can I find Mrs. Parrish and her son?”
Without consulting notes, she said, “Stables.”
Not a conversationalist, Jane observed and recorded information more efficiently than any computer. But Roman didn’t make the mistake of treating her like a machine. His smile was warm enough to melt butter. “You’ve always got the answer, Jane. What would this place be without you?”
“Chaos,” she said with