Another Man's Child. Tara Quinn Taylor
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Table of Contents
“It’s our baby, Marcus. Yours as much as mine.”
No! his mind screamed. The child she was carrying had nothing to do with him. He couldn’t pretend otherwise.
He stared straight ahead, wishing she’d leave him to his numbness. He didn’t think he could hold on much longer. His wife was pregnant with another man’s baby. He felt sick.
And betrayed.
And jealous.
He stood up abruptly and headed for the door.
Jealous. What kind of man did that make him, that he was jealous of his own wife’s ability to conceive? Jealous because she was having the baby they’d always wanted—because she wouldn’t have to pretend that she, not someone else, had created their child.
Tara Taylor Quinn knew nothing about artificial insemination until she began the research for Another Man’s Child. On the other hand, she went through premature birth with a friend of hers, an RN, whose niece was born at five months. In fact, baby Stephanie’s picture—complete with wires, tubes, tape and a warning bed—was beside Tara the entire time she wrote this book. Readers will be glad to know that Stephanie is a healthy child now.
Tara loves to hear from her readers. You can reach her at P.O. Box 15065, Scottsdale, Arizona 85267-5065.
Another Man’s Child
Tara Taylor Quinn
For Michael Scott Gumser
It’s the ties that bind, and our knots are forever, little brother. I love you.
A very special thank-you to Cinci Davis and Stephanie Noel Alston
May the strength that brought you through your first two years be with you always, little Stephanie.
And may you always be surrounded by people who love you as much as your Aunt Cinci does.
Happy Birthday!
THE WOMAN HAD A BODY that practically begged a guy to come out and play, a glint in her eyes that dared him to win.
And she was looking at Marcus. There was enough money among the businessmen she was addressing to buy the eastern United States twice over, but it was Marcus with whom she made eye contact.
He shifted in the cushioned armchair he’d chosen midway around the table. He knew Julie Winters. Had always admired her genius. She had a helluva mind for numbers and for manipulating those numbers, making her one of the most successful forces on Wall Street.
“In summary,” she concluded, “independents are the businesses of the past. Diversify your assets. Scratch your own backs before someone else scratches it for you and leaves you bleeding.”
She caught Marcus’s eye. I’d like to scratch your back, but I’ll be gentle, her glance seemed to say.
He had a sudden vision of Lisa’s eyes when she’d looked up at him from the paper that morning. They’d had that sad, troubled, faraway quality he’d seen all too often in the past eighteen months.
The meeting was over. And Marcus had a question or two for Julie. She’d quoted some figures he hadn’t heard before, pertaining to the future of electronic advertising. Standing at the back of the room while he waited for her to finish, he admired the confidence with which she was dealing with one of his more overbearing peers.
That glint was back in her eyes when she finally approached him.
“Marcus! It’s good to see you again.” She placed a perfectly manicured hand on his forearm, her red nails glistening against his sleeve.
“You, too, Julie. Got a few minutes?