Beside her, a woman sobbed. Someone else blew her nose. Isy tuned them out and focused on the actors who, for the past two hours, had wrung more emotion out of her than anything or anyone had done in years.
She hadn't cried on the day her divorce had been finalized, or the next morning when she read the newspaper announcement heralding her ex-husband's upcoming nuptials. Yet the Brooklyn Community Theater Group had managed to make her weep uncontrollably.
The end of the story unfolded on stage, and Isy watched, barely able to breathe. The depth of feeling between the hero and heroine struck a chord deep in her soul. It ignited a blaze that stirred unfathomable longings she'd thought long buried. The plot was absurd, romanticized to the extreme, yet she couldn't help but crave the kind of love portrayed on stage.
Too bad she knew better. That kind of love between an older woman and a fertile man, with its weepy, happy ending, was a myth. It simply didn't—
couldn't
—exist in today's society. Not when the survival of the human race trumped everything else, including love.
No.
Especially
love.
Halfway through its opening night, the play had been shut down by outraged officials for undermining and demeaning society's morals, not to mention for encouraging illegal behavior. Only widespread outrage and a slew of complaints had caused it to reopen. Now, six months after that auspicious debut, it was the highest grossing play in the city. This morning's edition of the
City Times
reported the play would officially change venues in three weeks and open on Broadway.
A red velvet curtain collapsed from the ceiling, draping the front of the stage in voluminous folds that hid the actors. The house lights came on and Isy blinked, forcing herself to focus. The play had been a pleasant distraction, but she had work to do, and she needed to concentrate.
Applause stormed through the audience like booming thunder, deafening in its intensity. Isy dabbed her eyes, blew her nose, and stood. She elbowed her way past a group of women seated close to the aisle, then snuck out through one of the side doors leading backstage before anyone could notice.
She dug into her purse with one hand and pulled out a piece of paper. Unfolding it, she glanced at the ID-style picture of a young man. He could have been anyone. His features were handsome, with a boyish charm about them. The small cleft in his jutting chin added strength and character to an all-American face. Pale hair she assumed had to be blond hung low over his forehead and draped his shoulders, setting off his slanted cheekbones and full, sensual lips.
The image stared back at her. There was something about the picture ... something she couldn't put her finger on. It fascinated her and frightened her at once.
She leaned in, only to pull back with a start. It was his eyes, she realized. Even in black-and-white, she could make out the blazing willpower and tenacity so clearly etched in the man's gaze. Those pale eyes, wide and framed by impossibly long lashes, weren't those of a man who took orders from others.
A shiver of anticipation ran through her. Well, if that were the case, it would be too damn bad for Connor Flynn. She'd sought him out for a reason and she wasn't about to let herself be scared away by a striking pair of eyes.
Besides, he could have simply been in a bad mood when that shot was taken. Surely, the man wasn't violent. With any luck, he'd be reasonable and would comply with the court order she carried.
Only one way to find out.
She took a deep breath and rounded the corner into a narrow hallway. A gray carpet that had seen better days covered the floor. She walked past a row of beige doors, silently reading the names scribbled in messy handwriting on slivers of paper taped to the walls.
When she found the one marked with Connor's name, she gripped the handle, took one last look over her shoulder to ensure no one had followed her, and went in.
The room smelled like the ocean. The scent startled her, and she took longer to close the door behind her than was prudent. A quick scan of the small area confirmed the place was empty, just as she'd expected. Connor would be with the rest of the crew, basking in the adoration of his fans.
Well, that was fine with Isy. She'd wait.
The aroma of seawater and sun-blazed sand masked the musky odor that usually accompanied the interior of aged buildings like these in New York. Contemporary structures were expensive to erect, and resources were needed for scientific studies.
She stepped inside, looking for the source of the scent. She expected incense or an old-fashioned candle, but could see neither. The heels of her shoes sank into more frayed gray carpet, though this one appeared to have been recently vacuumed. In fact, the entire room was neat and orderly, much more so than she'd expected.
A desk had been placed against the left wall, taking up almost half of the space in the small room. A worn, butter-colored leather couch sat directly in front of it, where an office chair should have been.
Reams of paper, all arranged neatly by thickness, covered the surface of the desk. Pens gathered in a coffee mug in a corner, and a small lamp blazed close to the wall. Above it, a framed playbill announced the debut of
Dirty Love,
the “highly anticipated first play of up-and-coming playwright Connor Flynn."
Well, at least she hadn't walked into the wrong room.
Anxious jitters made their way through her system, causing her knees to wobble. She dropped onto the couch, which hugged her curves with more pliant bounce than she'd anticipated. She leaned back against the headrest and allowed herself to relax for a brief moment, preparing for the battle to come.
Connor Flynn had to be a reasonable man. He just
had
to. The future of her clinic—
her
future—depended on it.
"There's only one thing I like better than that couch ... and that's a beautiful naked woman on that couch."
Isabel jumped to her feet and whirled around. Connor Flynn stood in the center of the room, hands thrust in his pockets, a grin curving his lips.
And oh, God, what gorgeous lips. The picture hadn't done him justice. She saw now it had obviously been taken years earlier. The man standing in front of her resembled the image she'd studied, but there were marked differences as well. His hair had been cropped in a modern style and slicked back, though a couple of wavy locks escaped and spilled over his broad forehead. He sported a light tan, and the smile that captured her attention seemed fluid and genuine, making the corners of his eyes crinkle.
Gone was the obstinacy that had shocked her in the photograph. Now, his blue eyes sparkled with amusement and his gaze flittered over her from head to toe.
"You're not naked.” His lips turned down in feigned disappointment, but the humor didn't fade from his features. “We'll have to change that."
Isy's hand flew self-consciously to her chest. She'd worn a square-style blazer over her silk blouse, and matching brown slacks. She'd gone for a neat, professional appearance, but seeing herself through his eyes, she realized she probably only managed to look drab. And old.
The thought stung. She straightened her spine and narrowed her eyes. “Where did you come from?"
He moved with a smooth grace that contrasted with his powerful frame. The small room seemed to shrink in around her when he neared.
Placing both palms on the back of the couch, he leaned toward her. “I could ask you the same thing."
She pointed to the door, pleased when her hand didn't shake. “The hallway."
"Ah. Well, then. Me, too."
Isy had the distinct impression he was toying with her. The knowledge made an odd sensation stir in the pit of her stomach. She ignored it. “Look, Mr. Flynn, I'm here—"
His grin returned and deepened. “Connor, please. Any woman who's about to get naked for me should call me by my first name."
Isy's chest tightened. Arousal blossomed in an instant, unwanted and completely unprofessional. It arrowed straight between her legs, causing her pussy to flinch at the unexpected sensation. She fought to ignore that, too, and pasted her best woman-in-charge look on her face. “I'm not the one who's going to get naked here, Mr. Flynn. You are."
"Oh?” His gaze turned sultry. “That's fine by me, too."
"Mr. Flynn!” She struggled to filter as much outrage into her tone as she should have felt. But no righteous indignation flared inside of her. Rather, her body had responded to his words with quick and heated approval. Lust blazed a path through Isy's veins, awakening a frenzy of long-dormant sensations.
Oh, this wasn't good. In fact, this was very, very bad. She had to work with this man. Once he submitted to the court order's demand for testing, she had to examine him intimately. This improper attraction would make the job a hundred times more difficult.
Not that she could ever act on his flirtation. Even if he'd been attracted to her as well—which wasn't going to happen, no matter how much Isy deluded herself—consummating a relationship with a man who could potentially be fertile would land her in jail. Or worse.
Mild teasing was generally considered harmless, but nudging this relationship one step beyond good-natured verbal sparring could take her down a path that would prove ill-conceived, if not outright dangerous for both of them. That's assuming the Medical Board's suspicions about him proved correct, and Isy had every reason to believe a court order would not have been issued otherwise.
Connor had to know the risks as well as she did, so the sooner they put a stop to this absurd game, the better.
Avoiding his probing gaze, Isy dug into her purse and pulled out a small plastic container with a screw-on lid. She thrust it out at him. “For you."
He took it and glanced at it warily. “What is this?'
She locked her hands together in front of her to steel her nerves. “I have a court order for your semen, Mr. Flynn."
His head snapped up. “My ... what?"
"Your semen. You
do
produce semen, don't you?"
Even though she stood safely behind the couch, Isy could swear she felt the scorching heat in Connor's gaze as his eyes narrowed.
"You're accusing me of being fertile."
She reeled back as though she'd been slapped. “
Accusing
you? Being fertile is a gift. If you are able to produce semen, you have a moral obligation to—"
"Spare me. The only obligation I have is to myself.” The stubbornness she'd glimpsed in the photograph returned, frenzied and electrifying. Up close, it was even more menacing than she'd imagined. “Is that clear?"
Isy resisted the urge to grind her teeth. She tilted her chin a fraction of an inch. “You're either the most idiotic man in the entire world, or the most deluded. Do you have any idea what this means? If my tests come back positive, you can spend the rest of your life nestled between a woman's legs.” Her voice dropped an octave. Heat rushed into her cheeks. “Practically any woman you want, Mr. Flynn. As many women as you want. Unless ... you don't like women."
Shit
. She hadn't thought of that possibility until the words fled from her mouth. Homosexuality hadn't been banned in the United States. Infertile males could find their pleasure anywhere they chose. Fertile males, however, were a rare and precious commodity. Their ability to create life depended not only on their capacity to produce semen at the moment of climax, but also on their level of sexual arousal. Or at least, that was the accepted theory these days.
The more aroused the man, scientists agreed, the greater the chance of conception. It was a simple equation, but one that depended on heterosexual human behavior. The same explanation had been given to account for the reasons all attempts at artificial insemination had failed. Thorough analysis of each case showed that sperm needed to travel directly from one person to the other without intervention. Shortly after that discovery had been made, condoms were outlawed.
"Oh, I like women very much."
Connor's low, sultry voice vibrated through Isy, making her want to squeeze her thighs together. Her pussy lips turned achingly sensitive as they rubbed against the cotton of her panties. Deep inside, her cunt clenched with the need to find out just how much he meant that.
She cleared her throat. “Good. Then it's settled. You, Mr. Flynn, have come to the attention of the Medical Board as a healthy male with the potential for semen creation. Upon further investigation into your medical history, I discovered you've never been tested for fertility. The court order indicates you must return with me to my laboratory, where I will conduct the test and report my findings. If you are deemed to be a likely candidate for natural fertilization, you will be asked to submit to the Medical Board within a week's time to begin your conception activities."
She took a deep breath and held it. Her nails dug into her palms and her knuckles ached from being pressed together. She waited for his outburst, dreading having to report him if he didn't come of his own accord.
"I see.” He turned over the plastic container in his hand. When he glanced at her again, the fire in his eyes had gone cold. “And you have no issue with turning me into a stud? In the hands of the Medical Board, I'll be no better than a stallion tethered to a barn door. Told whom to service. When. How. I'll be watched. Examined like a fucking animal."
She flinched. “It's my job, Mr. Flynn. It's not my place to have an opinion. If you carry within you the seeds of life, then it's my responsibility to make sure those seeds aren't wasted."
For a moment, neither of them moved. A shimmering warmth played around Isy's breasts as Connor's gaze slid down to her nipples, which tented the fabric of her blazer.
"Ah. And you think I'd be ... wasting my seed if I made love with a woman of my choosing?"
"If the woman in question was of legal conception age, then no.” She opened her hands, pleading with him to be reasonable. “There are plenty of women under the age of forty who would be more than willing to be your ... your..."
"Whores,” he finished when she faltered.