My Babies and Me. Tara Quinn Taylor

      

      “I’m going to have a baby, Michael.” Letter to Reader Title Page Dedication CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN EPILOGUE Copyright

      “I’m going to have a baby, Michael.”

      “What did you say?”

      She lay there, gazing up at him, the oddest expression on her face. “I’m going to have a baby.”

      “You... are.” He couldn’t, for the moment, think of anything more intelligent to say.

      Still wearing that odd expression, Susan nodded.

      “Who is he? The baby’s father.”

      “I don’t know yet.”

      Whirling, he faced her. There’d been more than one man? “Well, when are you going to find out?”

      “I’m not sure.” She paused. “You’re angry, aren’t you?”

      “Okay, yeah, I’m angry. I’m angry as hell at the irresponsibility of whatever man did this to you.”

      She frowned. “Did what to me?”

      Michael swore, out of all patience. “Got you pregnant, of course.”

      Susan laughed. Shocking him. “In the first place, Michael, a man can’t get me pregnant all by himself. And in the second, I’m not pregnant—yet. And in the third place, I haven’t slept with anyone but you in my entire life.”

      Dear Reader,

      I’m delighted to bring you this BY THE YEAR 2000 story. Though I’m still in my thirties and have a thirteen-year-old daughter, I relate so much to Susan and her dilemma. A woman’s independence is a precious thing—something not easily won or sustained, yet essential to her becoming the person she was meant to be. The trick, of course, is to find the independence and then learn how to be interdependent without losing anything. Because just as never finding independence is only half living, living only with independence is not experiencing life to the fullest, either. Like many women, I teeter on this line often as I struggle to be a mother, a wife, a friend, a writer.

      But Susan showed me how it’s done. I believe in her. And, like Susan, I believe we can have it all if we’re determined enough, work hard enough—and remember not to take ourselves so seriously all the time.

      I wish every one of you a new century of happy lives and happy relationship.

      Tara Taylor Quinn

      P.S. I love to hear from readers. You can reach me at P.O.

      Box 15065, Scottsdale, Arizona 85267-5065 or on-line at

      http://www.inficad.com/~ttquinn.

      My Babies and Me

      Tara Taylor Quinn

       www.millsandboon.co.uk

      For Deanna Reames and David Reames.

      A woman couldn’t ask for better in-laws.

      CHAPTER ONE

      WILL YOU have my baby?

      No. Susan Kennedy shook her head, her layered shoulder-length hair tickling her neck and cheeks. That wasn’t quite the line she wanted.

      Can I have your baby?

      Nope. She dusted the buttons on the telephone with one long slim finger. Misleading. Her ability to have a baby wasn’t in question.

      So how about May I have your baby?

      She toyed with that one, actually dialed Chicago’s area code before disconnecting this time. Her goal wasn’t to ask his permission but to request his participation in the most monumental event of her life. At the same time she had to make it clear—abundantly, in-your-face clear—that she was asking nothing from him.

      Other than the initial ten-minute participation. Grinning, Susan amended that last thought. There was no way any physical shenanigans between her and Michael would take less than an hour. They did sex very well.

      Which probably meant she was asking for more like two hours of his time. Michael always claimed Susan had a way of making everything seem easier than it really was. Shorter than it was. Less expensive than it was. When she’d budgeted one thousand dollars for their trip to the Poconos, he’d counted on two.

      Damn thing was, she’d somehow managed to run through every dime of the two-thousand dollars, just as he’d predicted. And Michael, being Michael, had never said a word.

      Stupid, smug man.

      Stupid enough to father her child? In spite of the fact that they’d been divorced almost as long as they’d been married?

      He had to. Period. No other option was acceptable.

      So how did she convince him of that?

      How about Would you lend me a sperm? That didn’t sound like too much to ask. And “lend” seemed so harmless, so...not-permanent.

      But she wasn’t planning on giving it back.

      All the more reason to call him today. Because “lend” wasn’t what she wanted at all. She wanted him to give it to her, willingly and for keeps, and as Michael always gave her wonderful gifts for her birthday...

      January 21. Her birthday. She glanced at the office around her, the plaques on her walls, the windows overlooking the icy Ohio River, Cincinnati, Ohio and Louisville, Kentucky all at once. Sinking into the soft leather of the high-backed maroon chair, she sighed and hung up the phone. Gloomy suddenly, she reached down to pet the red setter snoring on the floor at her feet. She couldn’t believe she was actually thirty-nine years old. For a person who’d always loved birthdays, she was doing a damn good imitation of hating this one.

      Someone dropped a coffee cup in the hall. Hearing it break, Susan hoped it had been empty. Annie, the setter who made her way to Susan’s office every morning, didn’t even budge at the noise. The dog was getting old, too, nearly