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She'd quite nearly given up finding them.
Then, Candidate #67 had crossed her desk.
She remembered every detail of his application. He had an IQ of 176, and a propensity for chemistry and business. He was determined t
o use those talents to start his own company, build it from the ground up, and make it thrive. He planned to do that with the twenty thousand dollars he received, should he be selected as the donor. His passion was infectious. His charisma and self-assurance practically leaped off the pages. His age was ideal—a youthful twenty-two—and his health was perfect. His sperm count was also exceptionally high—a major plus since, given Gloria's age, she wanted to minimize the risk of failed attempts. All in all, his specs were outstanding. The only negative was his sketchy ancestry. He was a street kid, an orphan whose parents had been high-school lovers. They'd gotten through the pregnancy, then taken off in separate directions, dumping their kid in the process. On the positive side, from the information Gloria managed to dig up, there'd been no drugs or alcohol involved, and the baby was born in perfect health. So, okay, she couldn't trace his lineage back three generations. Given her own experiences, she wondered if that mattered. The truth was, she was far more impressed by ambition and potential than she was by pedigree.
The clincher was his photo. He was drop-dead gorgeous. And, yes, that damned well mattered. The world was such that, just or unjust, people judged others by their appearance. Cold, hard facts showed that being attractive opened doors both personally and professionally. If Gloria could give that advantage to her son or daughter, she'd be a fool not to.
So Candidate #67 got the nod of approval—and the twenty thousand dollars.
The procedure went flawlessly. Sabrina was the result.
And, Gloria suspected, so was Ruisseau.
Odd, how she and Carson Brooks had each gotten what they wanted. She got her precious daughter; he got the company he was burning to start.
Their lives should never again have touched.
But they had.
And now she had to see through what she'd started.
7:25 P.M.
Mt. Sinai Hospital
"Dylan?"
Hearing Carson's gravelly voice, Dylan snapped out of the doze he'd fallen into moments before.
"Hey. You're awake." He pulled the chair over to the bed, studying his friend. His breathing wasn't great, even though they'd put the chest tube back in. His color wasn't all that terrific, either. But his eyes were relatively clear, considering everything he was enduring, and the pain medication that was being pumped into his body.
"Is that a surprise?" Carson's voice was still hoarse and weak, and his speech was slow. "I've slept more these past few days... than I slept in fifty years combined."
Dylan's lips twisted into a grin. "I can't argue that But you look more like yourself."
"You look like shit."
"You sound more like yourself, too." Dylan felt a surge of relief he couldn't begin to define. "I see signs of the old Carson. Hell, you can insult me all you want."
A hint of a smile. "Sounds tempting... maybe later." The smile faded. "We have things to talk about."
"Yeah." Dylan had a pretty good idea what was coming. Carson wanted details, something he wasn't looking forward to supplying. But he'd never lied to Carson before, and he wasn't about to start now. "Sabrina first?"
A knowing look, as that sharp blue gaze bore through him. "Coward. That's the easy part of our talk."
"Cut me some slack. You've been out of commission since Monday. I'm off my game."
"I'll let you off the hook this time.... But only because I want to talk about my daughter." Carson said the word awkwardly, but with an awed expression Dylan had never seen before. "So, okay, yeah, Sabrina first." Raw pride took over. "She's incredible, isn't she?" He didn't wait for an answer. "Man, do I have amazing sperm."
"One amazing sperm," Dylan corrected wryly. "We can't vouch for the rest. Maybe it was just the luck of the draw."
"Maybe," Carson agreed, not bothered in the least by Dylan's ribbing. He held his friend's gaze. "Is she freaked out?"
"She's beat. Those detectives did a number on her before she left for the hotel. I guess they implied her mother might have been the one who shot you."
"Her mother?" Carson repeated in astonishment.
