by Cassie Miles
“The father.”
His quick response surprised her, though it shouldn’t have. The existence of a male sperm donor was, of course, necessary to create a viable embryo. But she had avoided thinking about that part of the equation.
If her child truly was second generation, the father had to be someone else in the initial study. They needed to know the identities of the original superbabies. “We need to see your father’s notes on the Prentice-Jantzen study.”
“Can’t,” he said. “That data was stolen in the robbery.”
Dr. Ray was murdered and his notes stolen. Surely, not a coincidence.
BY THE TIME THEY GOT BACK to Denver, sunset had colored the skies with fiery red and yellow. A few years ago in Kenya, Blake had seen the body of an elder burned on a funeral pyre in a solemn ceremony. The flames purified and released the soul from the body.
He had buried his father today. And yet, he felt no sense of closure.
Outside his father’s house, only a few extra cars were parked on the cul-de-sac. Apparently, most of the mourners had already paid their respects and gone home. “We’ll leave your suitcase in the car. It’s easier than explaining. I’m pretty sure that Aunt Jean won’t approve of you spending the night.”
“If you’re worried about your reputation,” she said coolly, “I’d be happy to tell your aunt that there’s no hankypanky going on.”
“Just don’t say anything.”
“Yes, sir.”
She snapped off a sarcastic salute. Oh, yeah, Eve was definitely an army brat. Also a math nerd and genetic genius. And pregnant. His dad had picked one hell of a difficult woman for him to protect.
When he opened the front door for her, he heard Rhapsody in Blue being played on the grand piano in the living room. He took two steps on the polished hardwood floor before the music stopped him like an invisible wall of sound. The gliding crescendos held bittersweet memories. “This is one of my dad’s favorites.”
“Dr. Ray had good taste.”
His mom had been the real musician in the family. Almost every day, she practiced at the piano, sometimes Mozart but more often Cole Porter tunes. His dad loved to sing along. Blake remembered the two of them sitting on the piano bench, humming and laughing.
When he was growing up, Mom had tried to include him in their music. First, by teaching him the basics, which he stumbled through. Then, she had learned songs she thought he’d like. He smiled at the memory of her playing Backstreet Boys and Busta Rhymes while she had rapped in her angelic soprano voice.
After she had died, his dad’s life had been greatly diminished. Blake should have made more of an effort to get home and spend time with him. Under his breath, he said, “I could have been a better son.”
“The down and dirty truth,” Eve murmured.
“Did he talk to you about me?”
“He loved you and was proud of you.” She tossed her head and her blond hair bounced. “But when you said that you could be better, that was true. Human behavior can always be improved upon.”
“Not like math, huh? Numbers are perfect.”
Her eyebrows lifted. “You really don’t want to get me started on this topic.”
The musical selection concluded, and they went into the front room. Seven people stood beside the gleaming rosewood instrument, applauding the pianist. Among the audience, Blake recognized General Stephen Walsh. His close-cropped white hair stood at attention. The array of medals and decorations—evidence of a long, heroic career—dated back to Vietnam when he was an enlisted man. Though General Walsh and his father hadn’t seen eye to eye on the treatment of post-traumatic stress disorder in veterans, they had remained friends and occasional golf partners. Walsh was a good man to have as an ally.
The pianist was David Vargas. Blake had only met David briefly but suspected that he might be another of the superbabies in the Prentice-Jantzen Study.
His aunt swooped toward him. “Where on earth have you been? Everyone has been asking about you.”
When he introduced Aunt Jean to Eve, his aunt eyed her casual black denim pants and loafers with disdain. “I saw you at the funeral. And you were at the house earlier.”
“I had to leave because I was feeling ill.” Eve pulled her black jacket to cover the Trekkie symbol on her T-shirt. “I changed clothes and I’m much better now. Looks like you could use some help putting away the food from the buffet table.”
“I certainly could.” Aunt Jean smoothed her soft brown hair into the bun at the nape of her long neck. “I’d like to pack most of this up and take it downtown to a mission my church runs. Is that all right with you, Blakey?”
“Sure.” He couldn’t remember if he’d eaten today. Must have. Aunt Jean had been pushing food at him since he got out of bed.
As the two women carried plates into the kitchen, Blake approached David Vargas, who stood beside the piano.
“You play well,” he said. “Professional musician?”
“Music is my hobby,” Vargas said. “A way to relax.”
He was a sharp dresser—smooth and classy without trying too hard. Though he appeared to be the same age as Blake, his black hair had a streak of white at the right temple. His eyes gleamed like silver dollars.
“How did you know my dad?” Blake asked.
“I was part of a study he did with Dr. Prentice.”
Blake’s first impression had been correct. “How much do you know about the study?”
“Quite a lot. In my teens, I had an illness that might have been genetic. When my parents consulted with Prentice, I discovered that we didn’t share the same DNA.”
Blake wondered how many of the others had known the truth about their conception. “Did you learn the identities of your biological parents?”
“Unfortunately, no. It turned out that my illness wasn’t serious and not caused by my DNA. There was no need to track them down.”
“Did you continue with the study?”
“I did. I’d like to say that I was motivated by intellectual curiosity, but your father pointed out an emotional reason. He said I have a need for belonging, family and heritage. Though I don’t share identical DNA with the other subjects, it felt like we’re related, like I have brothers and sisters.”
Blake hadn’t considered that perspective. Though an only child, he’d never lacked for companions, male and female. When he had joined the army and gone into Special Forces, the men in his platoon had become his brothers. “Did my dad give you any information about the others?”
“He was discreet,” Vargas said. “But I’m guessing that you and I share a similar birth history.”
“Correct.”
They exchanged an assessing gaze. Blake was a couple of inches taller and carried fifteen pounds more muscle. If it ever came to a physical fight between them, he had the clear advantage.
He wondered how Vargas had used his genetic gifts. His clothes were too expensive for an academic, so he probably hadn’t gone into teaching or research. Though he held himself with the confidence of a surgeon, he had the kind of charisma that came from working with other people.
“Finance,” Vargas said, answering his unspoken question. “I made my first million before I was twenty. Our current economy makes for some fascinating challenges.”
“But you’re doing okay.”
“More than okay.”
“Good for you.” He didn’t want to get competitive, but he also didn’t want to hear about a balance sheet that showed billions in profit.
Vargas glanced toward the buffet table where Eve was trying to carry three casserole dishes at the same time. “What about her? What’s her story?”
Blake watched Eve’s balancing act, which was definitely not an example of genius. She’d already smeared a glob of melted cheese on the front of her Trekkie T-shirt. “What makes you think she’s one of us?”
“Playing the odds. She’s the right age and must have had a relationship with your father. What does she do?”
<
br /> “Mathematician. She works at Sun Wave Labs in Boulder.”
“You came in together,” Vargas said. “Are you dating?”
“Me and Eve? No.” Hell, no.
He straightened his shirt collar. “I’d like to get to know her better. Do you mind?”
Hell, yes. Blake’s gut clenched. Back off, Finance Man. But he had no claim on Eve. “She’s all yours.”
As he watched, David Vargas moved in like a python coiling around its prey. No way in hell could Eve handle this super-rich, super-charming guy. He’d sweep her off her loafers.
Blake felt as if he should warn her, but Eve’s affections weren’t his problem. He took his cell phone from his pocket and placed a call to the homicide detective investigating his father’s murder. Might as well report the break-in at Eve’s house. The detective might get useful fingerprints.
He heard Eve giggle as she talked to Vargas. Blake had no right to feel possessive about her, but he was secretly glad that she’d be spending the night here at his house. Far away from Vargas.
Chapter Six
Eve stood under the light on the porch and watched as David Vargas pulled away from the curb. His hybrid SUV was packed with floral arrangements that he’d promised to drop off at local hospitals and nursing homes, but she really didn’t think he’d make those deliveries himself. Vargas presented himself as a very important guy—a legend in his own mind—who had battalions of assistants to take care of life’s pesky details.
When he had first started talking to her and helping her clear the buffet table, she’d been puzzled. Why would somebody like him—a rich and powerful mover and shaker—show interest in somebody like her? Guys like Vargas dated supermodels. Why would he waste his considerable charm on a mathematician in a Star Trek T-shirt?
Not being one for subtlety, she’d asked him point-blank. “Why?”
“The Prentice-Jantzen study,” he’d said without losing a glimmer of his suavity. “I believe we were both subjects.”
Did Blake know about this? She’d wanted to signal him, but he had been deep in conversation with the general. “How much have you found out about the study?”
“Enough to know that we’re genetically superior. You and I are unique.”
“Except for the others.”
“There were twenty-four subjects,” he had said. “Only two women.”
She’d filed away that bit of information for future reference. “Do you know any of the others?”
“Just you and Blake.” The overhead light had glistened on the streak of silver in his hair. “And I only figured that out today when I saw you both at the funeral. You’re the right age. You had a connection to Dr. Ray. And there’s something remarkable about you.”
“Me? I don’t think so.” There was nothing special about her, except for the pregnant virgin bit.
“I’d like to see you again, Eve.”
“Give me a call.”
“I will,” he had promised.
Apparently, her genetically engineered birth made her a hottie. Might be nice to have Vargas fawning over her. She could do a lot worse than dating a handsome, intelligent, wealthy, musically gifted man.
Aunt Jean bustled outside with her purse slung over her shoulder and her jacket tucked under her arm. “I need to get going before all this food turns bad. Will you be all right?”
“I’m fine.” Eve remembered that Blake hadn’t wanted his aunt to know she was spending the night. “I’ll get Blake to drive me home later.”
“I’m worried about him. Losing his father like this, well, it’s hard.” She made a tsk-tsk noise. “Our Blakey is so big and strong we sometimes forget that he has a sensitive streak. Like his mother.”
Though Eve hadn’t seen much evidence of sensitivity in Blake, she didn’t object. “It’s hard on you, too. Losing a brother.”
“Ray and I weren’t close. He was ten years older than me.” Her lips pinched together, and Eve had the impression that Aunt Jean would have had quite a bit to say if she’d been the sort of woman who spoke ill of the dead. “I’ll pray for my brother. And for Blakey. He’s the only family I’ve got left.”
He should have been out here on the porch, saying a proper goodbye to his aunt. “I wonder where he’s disappeared to.”
“He was always like that. Going off by himself.” She patted Eve on the arm. “See if you can get him to open up.”
Eve seriously doubted that was going to happen. Blake held himself like a closed fist.
After Jean left, she went back into the house and closed the door. With Dr. Ray gone, no one really lived here anymore. The house felt desolate. “Blake?”
If he wanted to slink off by himself, fine with her. But he was supposed to be her bodyguard. If somebody tried to break in, she was totally unprotected.
Her footfalls echoed on the hardwood floor as she went through the living room, turning on the lights that Jean had just extinguished. Where was he? She needed to talk to him, to get this investigation rolling.
On the granite countertop in the kitchen, she found the brown leather condolence book that guests had signed at the funeral service and at the reception. Several pages were filled with signatures and brief remembrances.
Tucked into the back of the book was a note from Aunt Jean. At the top, she’d written emphatically: “Blake, send thank-you cards.” Then came a list of names of those who had brought flowers or casseroles. Eve’s mother would have done exactly the same thing. It was protocol.
Eve had a different take on the condolence book. Some of the people who had signed could be suspects. She started at the top of the first page and scanned all the names, committing them to memory. Vargas had a strong, dramatic scrawl. General Walsh’s handwriting was shaky, causing her to wonder about the state of his health. Someone named Peter Gregory added an odd comment: “Rock on, Dr. Ray.” There was another Gregory. Peter’s father? Her eyes stopped on Dr. Trevor Latimer. She’d seen that name listed outside the clinic where Prentice had taken her for the supposed examination when he had implanted the embryo.
She knew the clinic address but not the phone number. When she’d arrived to meet Prentice, it had been after closing time. No one but Prentice and his assistant had been there. That clinic might be a good starting point for their investigation.
With the book in hand, she prowled down the hallway toward Dr. Ray’s office. No doubt, he had an address file in here. She could start researching these other names.
When she opened the door, she saw Blake sitting on the leather sofa. He was hunched over, elbows on knees, staring into a glass of amber liquid. He drained the dregs and poured more whiskey from an open bottle on the coffee table in front of him. “Are they gone?”
She could have given him a hard time for not treating his aunt with the proper respect, but she could see that he was already doing a fine job of beating himself up. “Everybody’s left.”
He glared at her with bloodshot eyes. “Even your boyfriend?”
“Who?”
“The financial whiz kid.” His upper lip curled in a sneer. “Vargas.”
“For your information, Vargas is one of us, one of the superbabies. And he seems to know about the study. Maybe he can help us investigate.”
“You and I aren’t investigating together. I’m doing this alone.”
She thought they’d already gotten around this barrier. “I don’t mind you being stubborn, but don’t be a jerk. I can’t help being involved. Men with guns broke into my house.”
“Stubborn, huh?”
“And a jerk.”
He rose to his feet, snatched the tumbler and took another aggressive gulp. “You didn’t tell Vargas my suspicions about the murder, did you?”
“Give me some credit.” She knew a thing or two about strategy. “I know better than to blab. Loose lips sink ships.”
“Well said, army brat.”
She’d seen her share of troops coming home from battle, struggling for control. Blake was on th
e edge. He’d buried his father today, and he was deeply troubled by the murder.
She needed for him to focus. Holding up the condolence book, she said, “I have a lead. I started going through the names of people who came to the funeral and—”
“Vargas is the kind of guy who needs to be in charge. He’s the boss man.”
Not unlike Blake. Both he and David Vargas were alpha males—intelligent and charismatic. Both were natural leaders. “Are you jealous?”
“Of him? No way. Well, maybe I’d like to know his tailor. Or his barber.” With his finger, Blake drew a line on his temple. “Maybe I should get myself a silver streak. Skunk hair.”
She slammed the condolence book down on the coffee table. The resulting thud was loud enough to compel Blake’s attention. Though she empathized with his need to mourn, they didn’t have time for self-pity.
Circling the coffee table, she stood before him. “You need to shape up. And we’ll start by pouring a gallon of coffee down your throat.”
“What if I don’t want coffee?” He leaned toward her. “Are you going to make me drink it?”
“Oh. Hell. Yes.”
His nose was six inches away from hers. She stared into his chocolate-brown eyes and saw a subtle shift. He was looking at her with a strange awareness, as if really seeing her for the first time, as if he liked what he saw.
He actually licked his lips. His right hand slipped around her waist. First Vargas. Now Blake. What was going on here? Was she exuding some kind of irresistible pheromone?
She could have moved away, could have resisted.
But when he pulled her close, she melted into his embrace.
Never before had she been kissed like this. Though she was a virgin, she had enough experience to know what it meant to be aroused. Her blood rushed. Her pulse rate accelerated. Goose bumps shivered up and down her arms and thighs.
Blake held her tight, tilting her so her back arched slightly. His hand cupped her bottom and merged her loins with his. When she rubbed against him, the friction generated waves of heat that spread like an atomic reaction and exploded, not with a bang but a whoosh, like a prolonged sigh.
