Sun God Seeks…Surrogate?

  She released my wrist.

  Ever so slowly, my body sparked back to life. Terrified, I blinked several times before nodding no. She was insane. Truly. Unequivocally. Bonkers. And she apparently knew how to do that Vulcan grip thing. Not a good combo.

  “Well, their children were able to knit their own sweaters!” She chuckled loudly and slapped her knee.

  Then, for no apparent reason, her expression transformed into a void of human warmth. It sent shivers deep down into the pit of my stomach, which was now telling me to run. Run far, far away. I didn’t know if her offer to pay me one million dollars was genuine or the ramblings of a madwoman, but God save me, I didn’t want anything to do with her.

  “So, you in or out?” she asked, crossing her arms. “One million dollars, honey. It will solve all your problems: help your mother, pay for school…What’s one little egg and nine months of your life?”

  The insane woman continued staring as I realized I had full control of my body again.

  The words “My womb is not for rent!” exploded from my mouth, and the entire café fell silent. Everyone stared with gaping mouths.

  “Oh, sure. Now you’re all paying attention,” I mumbled.

  I turned my attention back to Ms. Nut Job and slowly stepped away, preparing to make a mad dash for my life. “I’m not interested.”

  “Great!” She popped up from her chair and flicked her hand in the air. “You’ll get half the money now—just for showing up to the party. I mean that figuratively, by the way—’cause you’re not invited to my actual party. Friends and family only. Plus a few people who won the raffle. And some clowns. And my unicorn—don’t ask.”

  I felt my face involuntarily contort. She wasn’t just disturbed, she was bat-shit crazy.

  “Come to my house tomorrow morning, 9:00 a.m. sharp.” She began digging in her purse again. “My lawyer slash Twister coach, Rochell, will have the papers ready along with a Welcome Handbook. I suggest you read it. There will be a pop quiz, and Rochell doesn’t mess around.”

  I stepped away from the table toward the door. “I don’t know who you are, but I said ‘no,’ and I meant it. Stay the hell away from me!”

  That something in my gut, which had told me to run, now screamed at the top of its lungs.

  I listened.

  I bolted onto the bustling street filled with evening holiday shoppers making their way down the snow-covered sidewalks. But when I glanced over my shoulder, back toward the corner café with its floor-to-ceiling windows, the madwoman wasn’t inside or on the street.

  I stopped in my tracks and shook my head.

  Had I dreamed the entire thing? Had some deranged woman dressed like pink cotton candy, using a scuba mask as a headband, just propositioned me to be the surrogate mother to her brother’s baby for one million dollars?

  Nooo.

  I seriously needed some sleep. Or therapy.

  CHAPTER 2

  For the record, I’ve never been one to look down on a hard day’s work. I come from a long line of hard workers despite my hoity-toity French last name. But truth be told, I couldn’t wait for the day I’d leave behind waiting tables in exchange for a real career. My dream was going to grad school to get my Master of Political Science. Eventually, I wanted a PhD and to teach. But that dream was far off, some untouchable horizon beyond the daily grind of my current life that consisted of taking care of my sick mother during the day and working two, back-to-back night shifts at Carmine’s Trattoria seven days a week.

  What about my dad? We didn’t talk about him much, but I knew he’d studied at the same university as my mother and hadn’t been ready for fatherhood. So that left us two girls and a few random cousins out West.

  Mind you, I didn’t complain about taking care of my mom because she was the sort of person worthy of any sacrifice—kind, generous, always finding the silver lining in everything—but that didn’t mean our situation wasn’t hard. Her condition was a medical mystery with only one real symptom: She suffered from a crippling exhaustion. She barely stayed awake long enough to get in one meal a day. And not one of the dozen or so specialists I made her see knew what caused it.

  Regardless, I wasn’t giving up. Even if the cards seemed stacked against us.

  Case in point, this morning I’d received a call from her doctor. I wanted to get her on a new European immune-boosting drug, but found out her insurance wouldn’t cover the eighty-thousand-dollar-per-year prescription. Now she’d been turned down as a candidate for FDA trials.

  “Miss? May I have some more water, please?”

  I glanced up from the polished cement floor I’d been staring at while deep in contemplation. Table nine.

  “Right away,” I replied, with an apologetic smile. I trotted back to the drink station and promptly returned to fill glasses and clear away empty plates. All the while, my mind wasn’t far from that one nagging question: What the hell was I going to do?

  You’ll figure this out, Penelope. You always do. You just need some sleep so you can think clearly.

  I squared my shoulders and made my rounds, remaining cheerful for my customers. After all, they weren’t at the famous Carmine’s spending their hard-earned money to watch me sulk. No, they deserved all the joy they could have. Life is short.

  I displayed a bottle of Chianti for uncorking to my regular at table five, and my mind drifted back to the bizarre incident at that café before my shift. Had it been real? Sure felt that way. Or maybe the sleep deprivation finally had me by the big toe.

  But what if it was real? You wouldn’t be the first woman on the planet to be a surrogate mother.

  Then an image of the crazy redhead popped into my mind. “My womb is not for rent! Okay?” I slapped my hand over my mouth. “Sorry, Mr. Z., I have a little brain baggage today.”

  Mr. Z., who, thankfully, dined alone, smiled graciously and nodded at the bottle. I reached into the pocket of my black slacks for my corkscrew, but instead of finding the slim, plastic covered tube, I felt paper.

  “Oh. Jeez. So sorry. I must’ve left my corkscrew in the kitchen.” I held up one finger. “Be right back.” I scurried toward the kitchen, distinctly remembering having put the corkscrew in my pocket.

  I smiled at the line of three chefs working their steaming skillets as I headed to my locker toward the back of the cramped kitchen. I popped opened the lock and then dug through my purse. Sure enough, there it was. This particular corkscrew with a large gripper was the only professional model that didn’t require me to place the bottle between my thighs. Funny to watch, yes. Professional, no. Not many diners wanted to see their wine wedged in my crotch.

  Picky, picky.

  I pulled the paper from my pocket to deposit it in my bag, but the moment my eyes registered what it was, my heart stopped.

  Paper clipped to a small business card was a cashier’s check for five hundred thousand dollars drawn by the Bank of New York.

  “Holy, crap,” I whispered, my hand trembling. The check seemed official enough—watermark, signature from the bank president.

  But…but…it was just a dream, wasn’t it? I stared at the card. It had the name Cimil and an address near Central Park written on the front. On the back, a handwritten note said, 9:00 a.m. sharp. Don’t be late. Have garage sales to hit.

  No. It most certainly hadn’t been a dream.

  Okay. So I get how in this situation, especially for someone with my particular set of challenges, the proper reaction might be to ignore how the check ended up in my pocket and then jump up and down in gleeful hysterics. One might even fall to his or her knees and thank the angels above for such a gift. Five hundred thousand frigging dollars. It would solve all my problems. I could go to the bank in the morning, cash the check, pay for my mother’s treatment, and go to school.

  But the fact was, an ugly cloud of bizarre hovered overhead along with an equally bizarre string attached to the money. And on the other end of that string was some crazy woman with a fetish for hot-pink.
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  A baby? She really wants me to have a baby with her brother? What I couldn’t figure out was why. Why would anyone believe I’d go for such an insane idea? And why would anyone think I’d make an ideal surrogate? Was it the four Big Gulp–sized cappuccinos every day? How about my addiction to ice cream mochi and sourdough bread with extra butter? Oh, I know. It must’ve been the four hours of sleep I got each night. Yes, I could see how anyone would want to rent my womb.

  My mind raced. I felt so damned cornered. Yes, I needed the money, but I didn’t want to have kids yet. Someday, yes. When I found the right man. But not now. Not like this.

  That’s when it hit me. Anger. How dare this strange woman…

  I glimpsed at the card. Cimil.

  How dare this…Cimil pop into my life and throw money at me. She obviously knew about my horrible situation and was taking advantage. And how did she know? Good frigging question! But I wasn’t going to stand for it! My eggs and body weren’t for sale! No way would I have a baby with some stranger and then give it away to a bunch of crazy, rich people. What sort of person would I be?

  “You’d be a bad bumper sticker waiting to happen.” I huffed loudly and shoved the check in my purse. After work, I would give Cimil a piece of my mind. I’d find some other way to get my mom her medicine. I could go to private organizations for funding. I’d also petition the Swedish company directly. I bet they gave away dozens of grants each year. It would take time, but with a little luck and lots of persistence, I’d find a way.

  You’ll figure this out, Penelope. You always do.

  ***

  Chock-full o’ determination and hell-bent on defending my honor, I stomped up the steps of the insanely gorgeous brownstone located in the exclusive Carnegie Hill neighborhood. Despite the late hour, salsa music and laughter poured outside through several cracked windows.

  What kind of people would want to party with a depraved woman like her? I wondered.

  I leaned over the side of the porch and tried to catch a peek inside through a tiny gap in the noxious-pink curtains, but could only make out the shapes of a few bodies.

  “Some seriously messed up people, that’s who,” I mumbled to no one.

  The door flew open. A very large, fierce-looking man with spiky, dark brown hair, wearing leather pants and biker boots, filled the doorway. He looked me over with a glare that could melt the half inch of snow right off my parka. Despite the death sneer, the fact he held a baby—dressed in a girly Santa-style outfit, chewing a cracker, and slung over his hip—sort of ruined the tough guy image he was going for.

  He frowned and waited for me to say something.

  “Oh. Um. Is Cimil here?” I asked.

  “Name?” He sounded like a soldier working a checkpoint.

  “Penelope. Penelope Trudeau.” I don’t know why I suddenly felt guilty, like I was trying to crash the party, so I offered, “I have an appointment with her in the morning, but it can’t wait.”

  He looked me over once more and then stepped aside to let me in.

  I brushed the snow from my shoulders and slid past him. The adorable, cherubic, blond baby with enormous green eyes cooed and then reached for me.

  “Oh, hi honey,” I said and shook her plump little hand. “I’m Penelope. What’s your name?”

  The baby opened her mouth and leaned forward. I could swear I saw a full set of gleaming, white teeth.

  The man swept my hand away and moved the baby to his other hip. “No, no, Matty,” he said lovingly. “No biting.”

  I gasped as I noticed little red puncture marks all over his hand.

  Yikes!

  He must have read my thoughts because he shrugged. “She’s teething.”

  I made an uncomfortable little laugh and refrained from cracking any Addams Family jokes. Instead, I unzipped my coat and wiped my damp feet once more on the thick snow-trap rug.

  “Wait here,” he said and then headed to the end of the opulent foyer, disappearing through a large doorway.

  I scanned the room quickly and noticed an ornate crystal chandelier overhead, decorated with streamers—pink, of course—hanging down in uneven strips. Two shimmering suits of armor were situated on each side of the entryway, and the high-polish white marble floor displayed weird little circular mats that ran down the middle of the floor like steppingstones. Each mat had a large word printed on it. “Just. Say. No. . .” I frowned. “To. Naked. Clowns?”

  Beyond a doubt, these were the worst holiday decorations I’d ever seen and this was one of the strangest women I’d ever met.

  I stood there for several minutes listening to cheers and the clinking of glasses coming from the other room. I was dying to see inside. Was her entire house pink, too? I moved a few steps closer to what I assumed was the living room doorway, wondering if the man had forgotten about me.

  I paced a few times before deciding how ridiculous I was behaving. I didn’t want to make a scene in front of her guests, but I wasn’t going to wait around all night. I wanted answers. Like, how she knew so much about me. Or how she’d managed to put a check in my pocket. And where she’d learned that Vulcan paralysis trick.

  I took a deep breath and approached the end of the foyer. The crowded room with gold-leafed moldings and vaulted ceilings was in fact decorated in pink, including a hot-pink Steinway in the corner next to the extra-large fireplace.

  And…clowns.

  Really, really unhappy looking clowns.

  Was it because Cimil had made them wear clothes?

  Then I noticed everyone else. They were dressed to the hilt in tuxes and ball gowns.

  Was this a party for the obscenely rich and gorgeous? I could swear every man measured at least seven feet tall and every woman had fallen out of the Victoria’s Secret catalog.

  With friends like these, why in the world would Cimil’s brother want me? Couldn’t he find a better surrogate within this gene pool?

  I suddenly felt like a skuzzy, little bug, the kind you might find living beneath your refrigerator stuck inside a cluster of dust bunnies. I’d come directly from work, so I still had on my white, button-down shirt (complete with spaghetti stains) and black slacks, with a giant black parka to complete my ensemble. My long, dark hair was pulled back into a tight bun at the nape of my neck. Though I didn’t consider myself a slight woman, at five foot six, I felt two feet tall in comparison to the stylish crowd.

  I started to back away from the room, thankful no one had taken notice of me. My fury and I would come back in the morning when all of the Greek gods were gone. I know—a totally spineless move.

  I was almost home free when a man, who stood with his back to me and was talking to a leggy blond, turned around. We locked eyes, and the air whooshed from my lungs. I’d never seen anyone like him. Pure male magnificence.

  Like the other men in the room, he wore a tux and was close to seven feet tall, but his eyes…they were a mesmerizing turquoise green. His skin was smooth and deeply tanned, like he’d just flown in from the Bahamas. And his shoulder-length hair resembled silky caramel ribbons streaked with rays of sunshine.

  Images suddenly flashed in my mind like an erotic slideshow of sweat-slicked skin, of steel-cut muscles intertwining with the soft limbs of my eager body, of flesh on flesh writhing in a primal rhythm under moonlit shadows. With one simple glance, he’d made me feel empty inside. Deprived. Hungry. And the look in his eyes promised salvation from the burning hole deep within my clenching stomach.

  I swallowed hard, feeling my mouth go dry while every other nook and cranny of my body turned into a hot syrupy mess.

  At first he studied me, narrowing his eyes, but then a quick smile flashed across his full, delicious lips.

  My knees began to wobble, and I was about to tip over when Cimil came from behind and spun me.

  “Penelope! What are doing you here?” she hissed.

  “I…I…um.” Why the hell was I there? I could no longer remember.

  “Dammit, girl! You’ll ruin everything
!” She yanked me in the opposite direction of the gawking crowd back through the foyer toward another doorway. She dragged me down a long hallway with blond hardwood floors and several life-sized portraits of…well, they looked like—Pirates holding small jars?—before she shoved me inside a room and slammed the door behind us.

  “Hell in a handwoven Easter basket!” she barked and began pacing in front of a large, mahogany—not pink—desk situated in the center of the room.

  Her study was filled with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves and a few leather armchairs. For all intents and purposes, it seemed like the study of a fairly normal person. I wondered if she just hadn’t gotten around to decorating this part of the house yet.

  She quickly plucked a thick leather-bound book from the shelf and slammed it down on the desk.

  Now? She chooses now to catch up on her reading?

  Cimil flipped through the pages and ran her pointy little finger over the text. “No! It was here when I checked last week. I know it was. You weren’t supposed to come until tomorrow morning. This is bad. Bad! Something changed! Why didn’t I recheck the book? I always recheck.” She shook her head and covered her face. “Damn you, Love Boat and your sinfully delightful marathons! I shall shun you for eternity!” She swiveled in my direction. “You have to go. Right now! I need to figure this out. Something’s gone wrong.” She ushered me back to the door. “Come tomorrow. I’ll have the answer then.”

  I had no clue why Cimil was in hysterics or why anyone would eternally shun the cheesy goodness of Love Boat—I mean, who could resist Gopher, Captain Stubing…Charo? Cuchi, cuchi, cuchi—but the insane didn’t need a reason.

  In any case, her sitcom issues weren’t my problem. I pulled the check from my pocket. “I’m not coming back. I’m not interested in your money or having a…”—I winced—“baby. And, to be honest, I have serious issues with you being around any child, let alone any of mine—not that I want one. Yet. But, seriously, have you spoken to anyone about your problems? I mean, has anyone told you that—”