Читать книгу Baby Fever - Susan Crosby, Susan Crosby - Страница 8

Six thousand dollars.

The words echoed in Jasmine LeClerc’s head as she pushed open the door and exited the quiet, sterile building. She descended a short flight of stairs, her legs trembling so much she had to prop herself against the discreet sign at the bottom step—Bay City Clinic, Specializing In Reproductive And Fertility Disorders.

She closed her eyes. The numbers seemed to flash in neon in front of her. Six thousand dollars.

Drawing a deep breath, she straightened, mentally tugging her dignity into place. She was stronger than this. Tougher. She had to be. Cost couldn’t defeat her purpose. Not now. Not after she had come so far and had so little time remaining on her accelerating biological clock. The only viable eggs she had left were probably in wheelchairs by now, waiting to slide down a fallopian tube and on into oblivion.

She could picture them lined up at the starting gate. “Been here long?” October’s egg would ask, and November’s would answer, “Oh, yeah. Long time. Nigh on forty years now.”

The image made her smile, her first of the day. She started walking, the mindless activity helping her focus on facts instead of emotion. The infertility counselor had said that each attempt to be artificially inseminated would cost six thousand dollars and had less than a thirty-three percent success rate.

Those weren’t the numbers she’d wanted to hear.

She did some mental calculations. Her savings account could handle a couple of tries, but giving up that much money to buy herself a pregnancy meant she’d have to go back to work right after the baby was born, and she wanted to share those first precious months with her child. Plus, she really hoped to work only one job instead of the two she’d been juggling for the past seven years.

Then again, none of that mattered if neither attempt was successful.

There was another solution to her problem, of course. Her stomach knotted at the thought. She tried to block the image, but reality insisted she look at it honestly—she had to find an oblivious human donor to father her child.

She used Lamaze techniques to combat her queasy stomach, focusing on breathing patterns to relax. She was known for her honesty—brutally honest, most people called her. What she was considering required more than simple deceit. It meant outright lies. Could she actually go through with it? Could she pretend something she didn’t feel? She wished she could talk to someone about it, but she didn’t dare take even her sister into her confidence.

Bonk.

Something hit the backs of her knees, making her stumble a couple of steps. She caught herself before she fell, then turned around.

“Jason Alexander O’Connor. How many times have I told you not to throw that ball at people?” a woman yelled, exasperation layering each word.

Jasmine picked up the offending big blue rubber ball and smiled at the little boy with the soulful brown eyes. His mother, pushing a stroller, swooped down on him.

“That’s the last time we take the ball with us.” She touched Jasmine’s arm. “I’m so sorry. Are you all right, ma’am?”

Jasmine winced. Ma’am. Another reminder of her middle age. “Yes, I’m fine. I was surprised, that’s all.” Crouching, she passed the ball to the boy, then shifted her glance to the stroller and the pink-bonneted baby who lay contentedly within, staring in fascination at her own tiny fists. “You have beautiful children.”

“Well, one’s for sale, cheap,” the harried young woman said, eyeing her son. The boy turned a brilliant smile on his mother, apparently accustomed to the threat, as her mouth twitched against an answering grin. “Put the ball in the stroller, Jason, and let’s go home.”

Jasmine watched them walk away, the strings of her heart stretching to their limits. She shoved all concerns about dishonesty aside.

The end would justify the means, she told herself, coming to a decision. She wanted—needed—a baby. But first, she needed a man.

He had to be in good health, of course, and intelligent. And fertile. It would be nice if he were attractive and kind—she hadn’t made love in seven years, so some tenderness and physical appeal would help settle her nerves. And he definitely had to be temporary. No dating, no relationship beyond the window of opportunity that ovulation affords…three days, tops.

And he could never, ever, know anything about her pregnancy. No one would ever steal a child from her again. No one.