Chapter Two
“I’m going to be sick.” I stared at Lydia’s office door and pressed a hand to my stomach, willing it to stop flopping.
Jessica, Lydia’s personal assistant, frowned at me. “Lydia said she’ll see you now,” she repeated.
No kidding. I heard her the first time. I knew it was part of her job description to keep Lydia’s schedule on track, but she didn’t have to rush me. I wanted to tell her to back off but I just smiled and said, “Thank you, Jessica.”
Clutching a manila folder, I took a deep breath and walked in.
Lydia glanced up from her laptop. “Sit down, Katherine. I’ll be right with you.” She continued typing the whole time.
“Thank you.” How did she keep her manicure from chipping? I looked down at my own short nails and wondered what they’d look like with a manicure.
I took a seat across from her. I ran my hands first on the leather of the chair and then the cool chrome of the armrest. Lovely. Rich. One day ...
I have an office too, but I suspect it was a janitorial closet until they needed the additional space. It barely fits my desk, has no windows, and has the lingering scent of Lysol no amount of air freshener will ever erase. Still, it was better than a cubicle.
Until I saw Lydia’s office. It’s bigger than my apartment, furnished in modern retro with leather, metal, and glass. It represented what I wanted: money—lots of it.
“Okay.” Lydia closed her laptop and sat back. “What do you have for me?”
My nerves flared as the impossibility of my assignment hit me again. I stifled the urge to tell her that there were 384 fertility clinics in operation in 2001—probably more now—that’d be able to help her better than I could.
“I made a questionnaire—here, I have a copy for you.” Somehow I managed to sound professional and cool despite the panic. I opened the manila folder and pushed the spreadsheet across the glass tabletop.
Lydia barely glanced at it, keeping her unnerving, cool gray gaze focused on me. “A questionnaire?”
I nodded. “I thought the most efficient way to interview the—uh—candidates would be to make a survey with all the criteria you requested.” I scooted to the edge of my seat and pointed out the list. “I’ve organized it in order of importance, according to the list you gave me yesterday.”
“Good.” She leaned back in her throne—uh, chair—and crossed her long, Wolford-clad legs. “And what progress have you made?”
Progress? I was good, but not that good. She gave me the assignment yesterday. What did she expect—that I had a sperm donor lined up in one evening? I cleared my throat. “Well, I did interview a few—uh—men last night—”
“Great.” Flicking her smooth blond hair over her shoulder, she tapped her foot on the hardwood floor. Her shoes made my Ferragamos look like Kmart blue light specials.
“—but, uh, none of them were promising.”
“I see.” Lydia said it blandly, but I could hear a world of meaning in those two tiny words.
“I think, though, since it’s been less than twenty-four hours since you gave me the assignment, that I’ve made adequate progress—”
“Katherine, do you know why I gave you this assignment?”
Because you wanted to make my life a living hell?
“No, actually.”
It did seem bizarre to trust an employee you barely knew with the task of finding a father for your baby. Why did someone as gorgeous and successful as Lydia need someone to find her a mate anyway? All she had to do was crook her finger and any man would prostrate himself on the altar of her love.
Fortunately, mind reading wasn’t one of her innumerable skills. “I’ve watched you for the seven years you’ve worked for me—”
Eight years in a month, but who’s counting?
“—and I’ve been impressed with your tenacity. You’ve steadily climbed up the ladder to director of research. Not a small feat.”
“Thank you.” I had to keep myself from puffing up with pride. It wouldn’t do to preen in front of the boss, even if she had just given an uncharacteristic compliment.
“Besides being the best researcher this company has seen since its inception, you get the job done, quietly and with a minimum of fuss. That alone made you the most logical candidate to take care of this job for me.”
I opened my mouth but had no idea what to say. I closed it again, hoping I resembled a competent employee rather than a fish.
Lydia leaned forward. I felt a wave of energy from her—intense and impatient. “I can’t stress the importance of this matter enough, Katherine. I’ve entrusted you with my dream.”
Uh-oh. Here it comes. This was why AshComm was so successful—the power of Lydia’s speeches. She made Joan of Arc look like a candidate for Toastmasters.
She came around her desk to pace in front of me. Her designer suit gently fell into place, not a wrinkle marring the expensive fabric. I bet the suit cost more than what I made in a month, and she had a closet full of them.
“I’ve built this company from scratch, paying for it with my own blood and sweat rather than using a penny of my father’s capital.”
Her dad was loaded. I would’ve used his money.
“To get to this point, I had to make a lot of sacrifices. Unfortunately, one of those sacrifices was having a family.” She leaned her beautifully encased derriére on the top of her desk. Even if I worked out three hours a day I’d still have a scrawny butt.
I couldn’t help interjecting at this point. “You’re hardly too old.”
“I’m thirty-eight,” she said flatly. “And, to tell you the truth, I don’t have the patience to go through the trouble of finding a husband. Men are needy and demanding, and my work doesn’t permit that kind of drain on my time. But then I realized I didn’t need a man to achieve my goal.”
It was hard to come by a penis that wasn’t attached to a man. But obviously she’d realized this because here I was, sitting in front of her.
I could understand the ticking biological clock, and that hers was set to self-destruct any second now, but I didn’t get one thing. “Forgive me for asking, but have you considered going to a sperm bank? Between January 2000 and August 2003, five hundred fifty-nine women conceived with donor sperm from the Sperm Bank of California.”
She cocked a perfect, blond eyebrow. “Of course I considered it; however, I wouldn’t have control over the choice. While they assure their records of donors are accurate, I feel more comfortable making my own selection.”
Right. She was ignoring the fact that
she
wasn’t going to be the one doing the selecting.
“That’s where you come in.” She picked a nonexistent fleck of lint off her skirt. “Your research is impeccable. I have utmost faith that you’ll be able to find me a handful of suitable donors.”
“Yes, but—”
“I know I don’t have to reiterate my urgency in getting this matter settled. I’d like to begin my family by my thirty-ninth birthday.”
I almost sighed in relief. She was giving me some time. I’d have to reconsider the heinous bitch comment. “And that is?”
“In three weeks.”
Three weeks?
She wanted me to find a father for her baby in three weeks?
Delusional.
Okay. I took a deep breath. There were more impossible things to accomplish in this world. At the moment, I was hard pressed to come up with one, but I knew they existed. Pointing out that she might have given me the time constraints yesterday, or perhaps assigned me this task five months ago, barely entered my mind.
Lydia continued like she was asking me to research the history of the Pez dispenser. “Like I said, I have faith in you, Katherine. And there will be adequate compensation—”
God, I hoped so. I’d deserve sainthood for getting this job done.
“—starting with a promotion. I know you’ve had your eye on the VP spot that’s recently opened.”
Forget sainthood. I wanted VP.
I gripped the armrests to keep from jumping up and screaming
Yes!
I tilted my head to one side—I’d seen Lydia do it and practiced in the mirror until I got just the right amount of coy—and said, “The thought had crossed my mind.”
Wow—what an understatement. For the last eight years, that was all I had existed for.
It wasn’t the actual job that jump-started my boat. It wasn’t the corner office or the fact that I’d have a lackey—excuse me, an executive assistant. Being VP of research meant I’d have a six-figure salary, which meant I’d be able to save more money, which meant I’d be able to realize my dream of owning a home that much sooner.
Lydia gave me a look that said she recognized I was about to burst with excitement despite my cool exterior. “The way I see it, Katherine, this assignment is the ultimate research project. Find me a viable candidate to father my child and the position is yours.”
My heart raced and sweat made my palms sticky. I forgot all my misgivings and fears. All I could taste was the sweetness of having my own home.
Surreptitiously, I wiped my hands on my skirt. “That certainly provides incentive.”
Lydia’s perfectly bowed lips turned up in a little smile. “Good.” She gracefully slinked back to her chair and lifted the top of her computer. “I expect daily progress reports as well as a list of potentials at the end of each week, this week excluded.”
The haziness of my dream faded abruptly into the reality of what I had to do. How was I going to find viable sperm donors for her when I practically hyperventilated each time I had to ask a stranger for directions? At least she gave me a reprieve this week. I could come up with something by next week. I hoped. Maybe.
I gulped and resisted stating that over fifteen hundred children had been born to the Sperm Bank of California.
Because Lydia started tapping away at her keys, I figured I was dismissed. I stood, collected my folder, and turned to leave.
“Katherine.”
I looked back.
Without lifting her gaze from the screen, Lydia said, “Failing isn’t an option. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you there are other qualified applicants for both the VP position as well as director of research.” She glanced up and the brief contact of her eyes reinforced the threat like nothing else could have.
I straightened my spine. “Failing never entered my mind.” Ha! Complete lie. Sometimes I thought the idea of failing had lived inside me forever. And now it was planning on expanding its territory.
“Good.” She went back to work.
I closed the door with a soft snick on my way out. Calmly, I walked to the elevator, took it down to my floor, and strode into my closet of an office. I shut the door and collapsed against it.
Oh God. I was in deep trouble.
By midafternoon I was in a state of sheer panic, so I did what I’ve always done when I’ve had a dilemma—at least for the last fifteen years. I went to Luc’s.
Lucas Fiorelli has been my best friend since the first day of ninth grade. We met in theology class at St. Margaret’s Catholic School. I was sitting in the back, trying not to throw up from nerves. Luc walked in after the bell rang, sat down next to me, and proceeded to whisper every knock-knock joke he’d ever heard. Annoying, but even in my freaked-out state I recognized it was deliberate—to set me at ease. When he asked me to have lunch with him I happily said okay.
If we hadn’t met at the very beginning of high school, I doubt we’d have become friends. We were as far apart on the high school spectrum as we could be. I was the geek no one knew existed; Luc was the golden boy everyone looked up to. I was there on an academic scholarship; Luc was there because his family had paid for the science wing.
That wasn’t to say he’s a dunce. Luc’s way smarter than me. You could bring up the most obscure topic and Luc would know everything there is to know about it. He just didn’t apply himself in school. I’ve always thought he could be a Nobel laureate if he got up the gumption.
I blame Luc’s father for his lack of motivation. Mr. Fiorelli makes Genghis Khan look like Mr. Rogers. If I had a father like that, I’d be a major slacker too.
Maybe I’m painting the wrong picture of Luc. I don’t mean to make it sound like he sits around all day eating bonbons. He doesn’t. He’s a massage therapist with a thriving practice. He’s in demand, but he’s not driven. He gets by well enough to afford a great loft south of Market (or SoMa as those of us who live in San Francisco like to call it) with an attached studio he uses to see his clients.
Anyway, I maintain he could easily become a mogul if he put his mind to it. It’s not often Luc really wants something, but when he gets it in his head, there’s no stopping him.
I let myself into his building with my key. I have a key to his loft too, but I always knock. It’s the polite thing to do. Luc rolls his eyes and says I should just come in, but I know the one time I do I’ll catch him browsing Internet porn or something.
I banged my fist on the door, hoping he wasn’t next door with a client. Muttering curses under my breath, I shook out my hand. His door is an original one from the warehouse—ergo, thick metal. It’s like knocking on the door of an industrial refrigerator.