“You don't know what you're asking,” Quentin said to his sister. The expression on his face spoke volumes, including, clearly, that he thought that his sister had lost her mind.
Liz let out the breath she'd been holding. She'd been insane to think for an instant that Quentin would jump at the chance to father her baby.
“I don't know what I'm asking?” Allison asked, surveying her brother's charcoal-gray suit and blue tie with clear disapproval. “It's Saturday, Quent—Memorial Day Weekend—and where have you been? Working as usual, it seems. And if I know you, you came in to the study looking to do more work. I'd say I know exactly what I'm saying.”
Liz stifled her rising panic. “Quentin, I want you to know I didn't ask Allison to bring this up.” She shook her head when Allison opened her mouth. “In fact, I told Allison that I'd be making an appointment with a sperm bank.”
Quentin swung to face her. “Have you both gone crazy?” He stuffed his hands in his front pants pockets. “I thought Allison's idea was a little off the wall, but—” he growled “—now I realize she's the more rational of the two of you.”
Liz felt heat rise into her face. “A sperm bank is a perfectly reasonable idea. Many women choose it.”
“You're not many women,” he retorted.
Since when had he become an expert on what type of woman she was or wasn't? As far as she could tell, he'd acted for years as if he didn't know she was a woman!
She rose from her seat. She'd always found Quentin a bit intimidating, but her temper was getting the best of her. “I'll be the judge of that. After all, it's my problem!”
“What have you got to say to that, huh, Quent?” Allison piped in.
Quentin threw his sister a warning look before zeroing in on Liz again. “Why don't you just get married? What's wrong with that? Just find yourself a nice guy, and go make babies.”
Liz sighed with exasperation. “Just like that, hmm?” She snapped her fingers. “And where do you suggest I find Mr. Nice?”
“Pick a guy,” he bit out. “We're all easy prey.”
“Oh, really? Well, perhaps that's the way you see it, but the view from over here is a lot different.” She started counting on her fingers. “Let's see. It'll take a few months to meet someone suitable. Then a couple of weeks for dating.”
She took a breath. “Third or fourth date, I let him have his wicked way with me.”
A muscle started to tick in Quentin's jaw.
“That's about right, wouldn't you say, Quentin? After all, you guys are always complaining about how long the chase is.”
“Elizabeth—” he said warningly.
She knew she was baiting him in a way she'd never dared do. It was reckless, but she didn't care. Maybe it was her medical diagnosis, but something had been unleashed within her. “Okay, now we're at about one month into the relationship. No time to waste, so I propose to him.”
She was on the verge of losing control, but all the despair she'd tried to keep carefully hidden was welling to the surface. “Let's say I'm lucky and the first man I propose to actually likes me enough to marry me. Well, we'll need a few weeks to plan a quickie ceremony in front of a judge.”
“Elizabeth—”
She held up her hand to stop him. “At this point, four or five months at least have gone by. But he's so taken with me, he agrees to have a baby right away! Well, that's going to take a few months of trying.”
She paused for breath. She was starting to sound hysterical. “So, I'd say, six to seven months if everything goes perfectly.”
Quentin's fists bunched and he looked tight-lipped and grim. She knew she'd pushed him, but she was beyond caring.
“Listen, Elizabeth, I don't know what Allison told you, but I'm not in the market for fatherhood. I'm sure my mother would love to become a grandmother, but she has three others who can help her there.”
Allison coughed, and they both turned to glare at her. “Oh, come on, Quentin. You know Mom and Dad have been pressuring you for ages. And it's not just because they want a grandkid. They're worried about you. Ever since—”
Quentin cut her off. “My private life is healthy enough, thanks for asking.”
Healthy? Well, that was one way to put it. Quentin's private life had been prime grist for the Boston papers for years. If past record was anything to judge by, he preferred statuesque and glamorous career women with sleek pageboy do's, and model-perfect size-eight figures.
She, on the other hand, was so far from being his “type” that it was laughable. Her unruly chestnut hair fell below her shoulders, the thick, curling locks tending to frizziness. And her figure…well, she'd made repeated vows to shed those stubborn five pounds, but they seemed to have found a permanent home on her hips.
“Look, this isn't just a matter of a sperm donation. I'd want to be a father, not just some stud, to my kid,” Quentin continued.
“Exactly.” Liz shot a quelling look at Allison. “That's why a sperm bank is such a good idea.”
“No!” Quentin and Allison shot out.
“Look, there's got to be another solution,” Quentin said in exasperation.
“Another solution for what?” Matthew Whittaker, the middle Whittaker brother, asked as he sauntered into the room from the doorway leading to the front hall.
His question was greeted with stony silence.
Matthew's gaze swung from a frowning Quentin to an excited Allison, before coming to rest on Liz. He held up his hands. “Hey, don't everybody answer at once!”
“Lizzie's got a problem,” Allison finally volunteered.
Matthew cocked a brow. “Oh, really? What sort of problem?”
“Yeah, what sort of problem?” Noah Whittaker, the third Whittaker brother, appeared in the doorway behind Matthew. He winked at Liz. “Hey, beautiful.”
“Lizzie needs to get pregnant fast or she may never have a baby.”
“Allison,” Liz said sternly.
“Damn.” Matthew shot Liz a sympathetic look. “What're the options?”
Allison gave her brother a level look. “Funny you should ask—”
“Well, if everyone in this family must know,” Liz jumped in before Allison had a chance to speak, “I was asking for advice about a reputable sperm bank.”
“Gonna go it alone, are you?”
Liz sighed in relief. Finally, an ally. “Yes.”
“Congratulations.”
“You'll make a great mama,” Noah added.