Page 27 of Nine Months to Bear
“You make it sound so easy,” Taras says dryly. “But what happens to the doctor after you get what you want?”
I shoot him a warning look.
But before I can answer, my secretary’s voice comes through the intercom. “Visitor for you, Mr. Safonov. A Dr. Aster…?”
My pulse spikes even as I turn to Taras, a smug eyebrow arched. “Right on schedule.”
Taras stands and starts gathering his papers. “Yeah, yeah, yeah. Your prey approaches. Try not to look too pleased with yourself.”
“Make sure you get those accounts transferred before close of business,” I tell him as he heads for the door. “And put additional surveillance on the two other properties in Back Bay. If Iakov makes a move there, I want to know immediately.”
Taras nods and disappears just as the door opens again. Olivia marches in like she’s storming a castle, arms laden with folders. Her hair is pulled back in a severe bun that highlights the sharp angles of her face. She’s wearing a charcoal suit that somehowmanages to look both professional and fucking hot—the skirt just tight enough to show off the curve of her ass when she turns.
“Mr. Safonov.” She’s got her med school voice on, the one to impress professors, to convey,I’m on top of my shit, I assure you.“I hope you’re prepared to be reasonable today.”
I lean back in my chair, enjoying the view. “I’m always reasonable, Dr. Aster. Please, have a seat.”
She ignores the chair, instead spreading dozens of folders across my desk, taking the time to straighten each and every one until they are perfectly aligned. When she leans over them, her shoulder bumps mine.
She smells like those damn orchids.
“I’ve compiled profiles of our top surrogacy candidates,” she begins. “All have been fully vetted, medically screened, and will be psychologically evaluated upon your selection.”
This is a far cry from the last time I spoke to her. Then again, I knew she’d buckle. I knew she’d drop to her knees and give me exactly what I?—
I clear my throat again, shifting in my chair as I pretend to consider each file she opens. But I keep looking at her from the corner of my eye. This close, I can see the faint freckles across her nose that she tries to hide with makeup. The scar on the underside of her chin. I want to press my mouth to it.
“First candidate,” she begins, tapping a photo of a young blonde woman. “Twenty-eight, excellent fertility markers, regular menstrual cycle, no complications in her previous pregnancy.”
I flip through the medical charts. “Says here there’s a family history of addiction.”
“Third cousin, twice removed,” Olivia counters. “Statistically irrelevant for genetic predisposition.”
I close the file. “No. Next.”
A flash of frustration crosses her face before she opens another folder. “Candidate two. Thirty-two, perfect health, graduated cum laude from Columbia, currently working as a?—”
“It says she wants a relationship with the child,” I interrupt, reading from the notes section at the bottom of the page.
“An annual update and photograph,” Olivia clarifies. “Many surrogates request?—”
“Absolutely not.” I push the file away. “Next.”
She takes a controlled breath, nostrils flaring. I’m getting under her skin, and we both know it. She slides over a third folder, this one thicker than the others. “Olympic athlete. IQ of 142. Looks like a supermodel.”
She shoves the woman’s bikini-clad photo in my face.
I glance at the photo of a stunning brunette, then at Olivia’s tight expression. Is that jealousy? Interesting.
“Wouldn’t even consider it.”
“Why the hell not?!” The question bursts out of her, patience clearly fraying. “She meets every one of your impossible criteria!”
She’s right. And yet…
“Not quite.” I lean back, steeple my fingers, and look at her. “Next.”
“There is no ‘next’!” Olivia slams her palm on the desk, sending a pencil rolling toward the edge. I catch it before it falls and tuck it back precisely where it belongs. “You’ve rejected every qualified candidate I’ve presented. What exactly are you looking for?”
