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  “Okay. Ask away. Would you like a drink?” he added, trying to make her comfortable.

  “No. No, thank you.” She cleared her throat gently and launched into the interview. “Your age, please?”

  “Thirty-six,” he stated.

  Meghan was writing feverishly on the clipboard and didn’t look up when she asked, “Your general health?”

  “Healthy,” he replied. He watched as she continued to write. “Is it taking you all that time to put down thirty-six and healthy?”

  “No. Oh, no,” she stammered. “I’m also writing down your general physical description.”

  “Why?”

  He was the first man to ask her a question, and Meghan was not prepared. She suddenly became more anxious. She touched her forehead and glanced at her fingertips to see if the paint was still wet on her “phony” sign.

  “I don’t know,” she said as frankly as she could, not understanding why herself. She wasn’t likely to forget him. “Do you mind?”

  “No, I don’t mind, if you’ll read your description to me.”

  Meghan had written “gorgeous hunk of man, tall, wonderful big gray eyes, long black lashes, dark wavy hair.”

  Truly flustered now, she responded, “I … I wrote tall, large frame, dark coloring, gray eyes. … Is that okay?”

  “Will you relax? I’m not going to attack you, I promise.” He chuckled at her in a friendly manner. “It’s fine. Ask your next question.”

  “How tall are you, and what is your weight?” she went on, giving him a brief smile.

  “Six-four. Two hundred and forty-five, usually,” he retorted briefly. “How about you?”

  “How about me what?” she asked, her green eyes round in startlement. Michael watched as even, white teeth nipped at her lower lip. It was a very inviting gesture.

  “How tall are you?” he restated, his admiring gaze roving over the top half of her body.

  “Five-eleven,” she said, watching him look at her, increasingly aware of her own femininity. Her heart rate accelerated and her flushed cheeks began to burn with a sensation she hesitated to identify.

  However, his glance was not a leer, she noted. It was merely admiring. His eyes were friendly, and he had intended the look to be a compliment, not a lecherous advance.

  Nervously, she cleared her throat once more and spoke before he could ask her anything else.

  “Do you have a family or personal history of diabetes?”

  “No.”

  “Allergies?”

  “No.”

  “Mental illness?”

  “Mental illness?” he repeated.

  Meghan nodded, giving him the innocent look that had always worked on her father, except when she’d been caught red-handed.

  “No,” he stated with a perplexed frown, as he motioned for the waitress to bring him another drink. “Are you sure you won’t join me?”

  “No, thank you. Do you happen to know your I.Q?” she asked, beginning to feel a little more at ease with him. He was really a very nice man; she could feel it in her bones.

  “No, I don’t. Sorry,” he apologized.

  “That’s okay,” she said casually, before asking, “Do you take illegal drugs?”

  He eyed her suspiciously now. “Does that have something to do with my IQ?”

  “I’m not sure. I suppose it could, but it’s just one of the questions,” she informed him with a shrug.

  “No, I don’t take illegal drugs,” he answered, still frowning. He was about to take a sip of scotch from his glass when she dropped her first bomb.

  “Do you have a social disease?”

  Michael coughed and sputtered after having gasped and inhaled part of his drink. A worried Meghan was instantly at his side, giving his back several well-intended blows. Gulping air to return the oxygen to his brain so he could think again, he scrutinized her with sharp eyes.

  “Did I hear you correctly?” he asked, dumbfounded, pushing his drink to the side of the table.

  “It is one of the questions, but if you’d rather not answer …” Her best attorney’s voice was interrupted.

  “Hell, no, I don’t have a social disease,” he almost yelled at her. “What …”

  This time she interrupted him before she lost her nerve.

  “Would you happen to know whether or not you’re sterile?” she threw at him, putting on a totally guileless expression.

  “Who are you?” he asked, stunned and a little angry.

  “Well, these questionnaires are usually totally anonymous. I don’t think that they include my name either. I’m just someone asking someone else a question.” She squirmed in her chair, hoping he’d find his sense of humor soon, before she had to cross him off the top of her list.

  For several minutes he just sat still, his head cocked to one side, considering her. As the silence became uncomfortable, Meghan became flustered again. It wasn’t going right. She didn’t want to offend him, but there were certain things she needed to know. Trying to calm herself, she attempted a new approach.

  “Look, mister, this is just a survey for a sociology thesis. I don’t want to pry into your life or offend you. Let’s just call it quits,” she bluffed, starting to rise from her chair.

  He reached out and put a hand on her clipboard. “Sit … please,” he said, his thick Texas drawl gentle. “You are prying into my life, but in answer to your question, to my knowledge, it’s yet to be confirmed.”

  The woman was a Chinese puzzle to Michael. How could she look like a wallflower one minute, and then without batting an eye, ask him intimate questions the next. Maybe he’d misjudged her. Maybe she was just extremely wily. He began to visualize how she’d look without the glasses, with her hair down. …

  “Would you describe your education,” she requested, breaking into his reverie.

  “I have degrees in American Literature and Journalism, and an MBA,” he rattled off, his mind on far more interesting things.

  “And you teach physics?” Meghan asked, frowning in confusion.

  He thought he must have missed part of the conversation. “I don’t teach physics,” he said simply.

  “What do you mean, you don’t teach physics?” she questioned, panic rising in her voice.

  “I mean, I don’t teach physics. I’m a publisher,” he clarified. As she sat gawking at him as though he had suddenly grown horns on his head, he tried to be helpful. “You know—books, magazines, newspapers.”

  “Where?” she uttered.

  “Where what?”

  “Where do you publish?” she asked testily.

  “Texas and California at the moment.”

  She sighed audibly, visibly calmed by his answer.

  “So you don’t live in New York?” she said, wanting it made perfectly clear.

  “I live in Dallas,” he said thoughtfully, then added, “You know, this is the strangest survey I’ve ever heard … or answered. What’s this thesis about, anyway?”

  “The Ramification of the Out-of-Town Convention Upon the Professional Male of the Species,” she said, grinning at him.

  A deep chuckle rose from inside him. His eyes twinkled as he shared her enjoyment of the title.

  “That sounds dry enough to put any sociologist to sleep,” he observed in his deep, fatigue-slurred voice.

  Meghan laughed aloud as he nearly quoted her remark to Lucy that morning. “I didn’t dream up the title,” she confessed honestly, “I’m just asking the questions.”

  “Well, I answered your questions, but I’m not attending a convention,” he pointed out to her.

  She looked around, doing an excellent impression of a CIA agent, then leaned forward and curled her index finger at him. He looked from side to side, joining in the game, and came face to face with her across the table. His breath was warm on her face. They grinned at one another, their gazes locked. In the few seconds before Meghan spoke, they seemed to have exchanged something with their eyes. A secret? A promise? A sensation? A bond of
some kind? She didn’t know what it was, but she knew they both were aware of it. She knew that if they parted in the next minute, they each would remember having shared something indefinable for a few brief seconds in the dim lounge of the Essex House Hotel.

  “You know that. And now I know it,” she whispered. “But do you think anyone reading the thesis will?”

  “Nope.” His grin widened. The amused twinkle in his eyes was intoxicating. Meghan willingly could have drowned in them. Why couldn’t he live in New York after all, she thought. She could forget this whole thing and do it the right way … with him.

  “To tell you the truth,” she continued to whisper conspiratorially, “asking these questions of strange men is terribly embarrassing and not a lot of fun for me. So if you don’t mind being mixed in with a few physics professors, I’m just going to shuffle your answers in with theirs and call it a night.”

  “You mean you’ve finished?” he asked, his brows raising with interest.

  “Yes. Thank heavens,” she said, leaning back in her chair again, oddly breathless.

  “Will you join me for a drink then?” he asked, also returning to a relaxed position, aware that he was hoping very hard she would stay. Sometime during the last few minutes she had lost that shy, uncertain air. Her eyes had taken on a look of self-assuredness, and she was smiling in a shrewd, knowing manner. Michael was intrigued.

  “Again, thank you, but I really can’t.” She paused briefly and gave him a very special smile. “I do thank you for answering those awkward questions though,” she said as she gathered her things and prepared to leave. The last question on her list that she had not asked was whether or not, as a conventioneer, he would have a brief fling if the opportunity arose. It was a superfluous question at this point. She already knew that she was going to do all in her power to have him.

  “Are you a sociologist then?” Michael asked, ignoring her readiness to leave, wanting to know more about her.

  “No,” she admitted, “but I’m in a related field, and the subject of the individual human being in society has always interested me,” and felt good at being truthful with him.

  “You enjoy your work. That’s good. So many people don’t,” he said, for no real purpose other than to keep her talking about herself.

  Meghan studied him thoughtfully. He looked tired. Lines of fatigue etched his face, and his eyelids drooped over blood-shot eyes, even as said orbs danced with friendliness and interest.

  “Life is too short to do something you don’t like, just as it’s too short not to fill it with all the things you want to do, or have, or be,” she said sincerely.

  “I agree,” Michael solidly confirmed. His eyes narrowed slightly as he sat across from her, each of them measuring, speculating, forming opinions of the other. So what if she didn’t dress to do her beauty justice; she was thoughtful and intelligent … and not at all shy, he determined as he watched her boldly assess his own features. This woman was different. She didn’t seem to be at all aware of her good looks, or if she was, it didn’t matter to her. She gave the impression of someone who enjoyed living and fulfilling her life to her own satisfaction, as opposed to someone who simply floated through her existence, dreaming but never achieving. This woman achieved.

  “You’re not a native New Yorker,” he stated more than questioned.

  “No,” she said, and grinned. “I developed my twang in Boston, but I’ve lived in New York for so long, people hardly notice it anymore. Strange the way people adapt to their surroundings,” she speculated. “Even their voices change. However, I do think that drawl of yours would be very hard to alter, even after living in New York,” she added with a warm-hearted laugh.

  “Again, I agree with you,” he said with a nod of his head and a good-natured laugh. “But then, we Texans tend to hold on to things once we got ’em,” Michael informed Meghan in a thicker-than-thick stage drawl.

  “Well, that’s good, because I like it,” she confessed, still smiling happily as she made her move to leave him. “I really have to go, but thanks again for being such a good sport about the questionnaire. I enjoyed talking with you,” she said, holding out her hand in a friendly gesture.

  Neither was prepared for the small flash of sparks that flew when Michael took Meghan’s hand. Their arms tingled in the aftermath of the shock; their eyes registered their wonderment. They were silent for several seconds.

  “There’s no way I could talk you into staying a little longer?” he asked hopefully.

  Meghan gave a regretful shrug. “I’m sorry. But maybe we’ll run into each other again sometime.” It was more of a promise than a prophecy.

  “I’d like that. And I wish you luck on your project,” Michael said, knowing he’d kick himself later for letting her get away.

  “Thank you,” she replied sincerely, standing to leave. “It will make me very happy if it turns out the way I’m hoping it will.”

  A short time later the waitress approached Michael.

  “Would you like another?” she asked politely, cataloging his good looks with interest.

  He considered having another drink. He felt restless, disconcerted, and strangely exasperated. It was that woman, that redhead. He didn’t even know her name. The Red-Headed Woman With No Name. It sounded like the title of a B movie. He kept picturing her walking toward him with that alluring sway of her hips. In the next sequence, her glasses were gone, and her glorious red hair hung in waves to the middle of her back. Subsequently, she sauntered toward him in nothing but a black teddy. At this point his heart would race and he’d feel definite signs of quickening in his body. Then the film would begin again in his mind.

  He glanced up and realized the waitress was waiting for his answer. Maybe another drink would destroy the haunting memory. … Then again, he was so tired and the two drinks he’d already had had relaxed him considerably. If he drank any more, the Red-Headed Woman would come riding in on a pink elephant.

  “No. Thanks. I’ll just finish this one,” he said morosely.

  In the ladies’ room just outside the cocktail lounge, Meghan had removed her glasses and jacket, changed shoes and was unbraiding her hair in front of the large mirror.

  Second, third, and fourth thoughts of carrying out her self-imposed assignment riddled her conscience. The man was perfect. Wonderful genes. A stranger from out of town. He fit the bill exactly. Going to bed with him wouldn’t be too painful, either, Meghan thought wryly. As a bonus, he was dead on his feet with exhaustion. He would probably pass out immediately afterward and there wouldn’t be any uncomfortable scenes.

  “Have you thought about a man’s right to know about his own children?” came Lucy’s voice, honest and frank.

  “Damn,” Meghan said aloud, pulling a brush from her bag and dragging it through her tight waves of hair.

  A sleazy character had been out of the question from the beginning. She had pictured a decent looking, egotistical but essentially harmless womanizer. A faceless, walking, talking spermmobile of sorts. But this nice, honorable man?

  He had probably never slain a dragon or settled a violent labor dispute single-handedly. He may never have been an Eagle Scout or given a quarter to a stranger for a phone call, but Meghan felt he wouldn’t hesitate to do so. He had integrity. It showed in his face and the way he carried himself. He was a good man. Wasn’t he?

  Guilt and uncertainty warred with her own wants and needs and rights. Childishly, she pouted that it didn’t seem fair that the man played such a large part in the creation of a baby when it was the woman who did all the work. She fortified herself, thinking that one little spark in a man’s eye could bloat a woman’s body, cause her the untold pain of delivery, and give her a lifetime of moral, physical, mental, and emotional responsibilities.

  Calmly, she asked herself, “Do you really want a baby?” “Yes,” she answered. “So when will a more perfect subject come along again?” Meghan could tell her muse was all for going ahead with the plan. And she was right. Th
e chances of the right man and the right time coming together again at a convenient place were almost nil.

  In two and a half hours or less she’d be home and in her own bed. He’d wake up in the morning, get on a plane, and never look back. He’d never even know what hit him. She had no intentions of hurting the man in any way. What he didn’t know, couldn’t hurt him. But what she didn’t know about him, could hurt her, came her hundredth thought. Under normal circumstances, she’d trust her first instincts about a person without question. But this was far from a normal situation even for Meghan on one of her more outlandish days, of which there had been several in years gone by. Was she so desperate to have a baby that she’d delude herself into going to bed with a gorgeous murderer? Could she trust her nearly faultless instincts in a case such as this?

  Loath though she was to admit it, there was a way for her to be certain. Daphne Alexander. Meghan rolled her eyes in dread and dismay. It was better to be safe than sorry.

  Finishing her transformation, she hurriedly found a quarter. For authenticity and to avert suspicion, she used the pay phone rather than the house phone to call the main desk.

  She chewed on her lower lip anxiously while she prayed Daphne was still in the Essex and able to hear the page.

  “Hello,” rang Daphne’s sugar-sweet voice over the line moments later.

  “Ms. Alexander,” Meghan started enthusiastically, “This is Meghan Shay. I understand you called.”

  “I did?” Daphne asked, her tone vague.

  “That’s the message I got from my secretary,” she said simply, inferring her secretary had better things to do than make up false messages.

  “Well, I did call once, at your office,” the society darling admitted, still confused, “but that was about two months ago.”

  “How may I help you?” Meghan said, as if a two month waiting period were customary, glad she hadn’t returned Daphne’s call earlier. It was strange the way things always had a way of working themselves out, Meghan decided philosophically.

  “How did you know where to reach me at this time of night?” the not-so-stupid debutante asked.