But if she’d known his mother the way Trent did, it wouldn’t. Not that he’d been the perfect parental figure, either, but he’d done his best with the younger ones when he was growing up, when his father had spent all his time at work and his mother had spent all of hers doing as little as possible for her children. Trent would do his best with the child Rebecca was carrying, too.
He followed her to a deserted corner of the playroom and waited until they’d both settled into facing, cushioned chairs. Then he broached the subject that had been weighing on him for the last forty-two, almost forty-three, hours. “What are your thoughts on my offer?”
She froze. “Your offer?”
“From the other night?”
“From the other night?”
There was either an echo in the room or she was stalling. “Rebecca—”
“Why was your sperm at Children’s Connection?”
The question caught him by surprise. “Morgan Davis didn’t tell you?” He’d figured the clinic’s director had spilled the whole story.
She shook her head. “Only that it wasn’t donated for artificial insemination purposes.”
Which led him to another question of his own. “Why did you go that route, by the way? You’re what—twenty-five?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Why didn’t you wait until you found the right guy? Do it the old-fashioned way?”
“The old-fashioned way was out of the question. The ‘right guy’ divorced me two years ago.”
From the cool expression on her face, Mr. Right Guy had put her right off romance. Well, it wasn’t as if Trent held any faith about matches being made in heaven, either. His parents’ marriage and his own had both ended with unhappiness. He ran a hand through his hair, then stared down at the blue casts binding Vince’s short legs. “You sound as if you’re as soured on the whole love and marriage thing as I am.”
“Are you soured?”
He shrugged, then released a dry laugh. “Yeah. You asked why my sperm was at the clinic. My ex—my wife at the time, of course—was going to be inseminated. We thought it would increase the chances of her becoming pregnant. But when the big day came, she did the big back-out. Of my entire life.”
Rebecca released a little sigh. “I’ve come to the conclusion that while there are some good marriages built on real love, those are the exception. I’m not holding out hope that a fluke will happen to me.”
“Okay, so you’re not looking for a man. But why a baby? Haven’t you got plenty of them to occupy your time at the hospital?”
As if to emphasize his remark, Vince chose that moment to launch himself toward Rebecca. Trent passed the child over, again struck by the sweet, automatic caress she gave the baby as he settled against her. He could watch her stroke her cheek against a baby’s downy head a dozen times, he thought, and never grow tired of it.
“I’m very good at my job, you know,” Rebecca said.
A non sequitur? Something about the way she said the words made it clear it was not. He tilted his head. “Okay. So you’re good at your job…?”
Her gaze on the baby’s face, she rocked him side-to-side as he snuggled against her shoulder. “There’s a need for people who can do what I do.”
“I’m certain you’re right, but—”
“It takes a lot out of me.” Her gaze came up to meet his, and it was both direct and vulnerable. “Sick children, all day, every day.” Her voice lowered to a whisper. “Sick children, hurt children, suffering children. Dying children, Trent.”
His eyes jumped to Vince, now sound asleep against Rebecca’s flamingo smock. He couldn’t ask what was wrong with the baby. He didn’t want to know.
He couldn’t imagine how Rebecca could come to work every day.
“Why?” he asked.
She seemed to understand his question. “Because I can help many, many of them get well. Because I can comfort all of them. Because…because I can.”
For a second he felt ashamed that all he did was run a multimillion-dollar company. Then he cleared his throat. “But another child, Rebecca?”
Her gaze dropped from his. She lifted Vince’s tiny hand and set it on top of hers, then stroked the baby’s soft skin with her forefinger. “I need my own child, my own family to fill my well, Trent. To be my light, to be the strength I need to do a job that can tear me up inside. I need my own child to come home to, someone to repair the heart that gets broken a little bit every day. I need someone of my own to love.”
He tried to tell himself she’d made the speech with calculation, for maximum effect. With the sound of violins playing in her imagination.
“That brings us to my offer, I suppose,” he finally said.
“Your offer.” She blinked at him a couple of times, her face paling. “I thought…I was so tired, I thought I dreamed it. I couldn’t believe—”
“That I’d make such a proposition?” Trent heard the flat tone in his voice. “But I did. Half a million for the baby you’re carrying. And after what you just said, I’m ready to up the ante to a full seven figures.”
Three
R ebecca stared at the man across from her. He didn’t look like a nightmare—no, he looked like a dream—but she should be screaming all the same. “You’d give me a million dollars for my baby?”
“Our baby. And yes, I would give you a million, but you wouldn’t accept it, would you?”
In relief, her heart tripped up, tangling her tongue, too. “I— You…” She sagged against the back of the chair, swallowed.
One of the kids at the other end of the room let out a screech, drawing Trent’s attention. When he turned back to her, he said, “We need to schedule another talk. More private.”
“All right.” She croaked out the words, her voice still rough from surprise.
“I have something this evening I can’t get out of.” He rose, towering over her. “But how about tomorrow night?”
She rose, too, with Vince cradled against her in one arm. “Okay.” Her mind was catching up to events. Trent had come here perfectly serious about wanting to buy her baby! But he was leaving now, and seemingly convinced that he couldn’t, that she wouldn’t agree. But did that mean he was going to relinquish his rights? That was what she wanted. That’s what she needed him to agree upon.
Her free hand crept over her belly. What should I do, Eisenhower?
As she walked Trent toward the playroom’s exit, her gaze landed on the poster taped to both sides of the glass door. “The fair,” she said aloud.
“What?” He paused and looked at her.
If he saw her with kids again, if he got to know her a little better, he would see she’d make a good mother and that she didn’t need or want anything from him. He continued to look down at her, waiting.
“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” she said. “If you don’t have something else going on, would you…like to come help me out at the children’s fair? I’m sort of half in charge and we could use an extra set of hands.”
“A children’s fair?” He said the words as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
Probably because the big, bad businessman usually concerned himself with big, bad business and not something as mundane as hot dogs and pony rides. She smiled