The Doctors' Baby Miracle. Tina Beckett

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СКАЧАТЬ to figure out where she was supposed to sit. The crisply folded nameplates were facing the audience, so she had no idea who anyone was. There were still two empty seats up here. Which one was hers?

      She reached the first empty chair and leaned over it, tipping the paper name card so she could see it. Someone named Abe Williams. Okay, it wasn’t this one.

      The person sitting to the left turned slightly to look up—did a second take.

      Shock and horror snaked up her spine just as the lights from the huge overhead chandeliers faded and came back up. A signal that they were getting ready to start.

      A signal she ignored, her tummy muscles spasming in protest. She pressed a hand to it, gritting her teeth to keep the sudden slash of pain from exiting her throat.

      She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak...couldn’t move.

      Oh, God.

      All of a sudden, Grace’s face swam before her eyes in focus once again. Because she was the spitting image of this man, mirrored in those familiar features—that sharp nose, high cheekbones, those blue-gray eyes.

      Saliva pooled in her mouth. A quick swallow sent it rushing to join the acidic lagoon growing inside her.

      The lights winked again.

      “Hello, Kady. Small world.” The low, graveled tone that had once driven her wild with need was now tight. With anger? Hatred?

      If so, it wasn’t reflected in his eyes. They didn’t flicker away, just held hers with an impassivity that made her want to cry. The same impassivity he’d shown at the end of their marriage.

      It had been two years since their divorce...three years since their daughter’s death.

      Hurt made her draw a shaky breath, unsure what to do or say. The lights came back up a third time, and the moderator moved behind the podium. He gave them a pointed glance that sent her hurrying down the row without a word. She felt Tucker’s gaze follow her.

      It could be worse. She could be sitting right next to him.

      Worse?

      What could be worse than attending the same convention as a man who’d had a vasectomy just to make sure he never fathered another child with you?

      She’d pleaded with him. Had begged him to reconsider.

      Remembered humiliation quickened her steps.

      Never again. She would never rely on another man for her happiness. This time around she would be one in charge of her future. Of whether she had another child or not.

      She dropped into the padded metal seat and scooted it under the table, cringing as the legs made an awful squealing sound against the polished wooden floor. The man at the podium glanced her way again, a frown on his face. She mouthed, “Sorry,” then dug into her attaché for the notes she’d brought. How was she going to speak when it came her turn?

      The crowded room would have been nerve-racking enough, but to have someone who’d once known the most intimate details of her life sit there and weigh her every word?

      Her thumb scrubbed over the spot on her finger. Empty, but not forgotten. Neither had her muscle memory erased the habit of reaching for it whenever she was nervous.

      Or missing him.

      No, she didn’t miss him. Not anymore.

      The moderator gave a quick summary of the topic and then started down the line of presenters, reading from a sheet that evidently contained each person’s professional bio. She stared at her notes, willing the words to make sense. Willing herself to drown out the well-modulated voice from seconds earlier. Her thumb searched for that missing ring yet again.

      Stop it, Kady.

      She should have been counting people, so she could brace herself for the mention of her ex’s name, but since she didn’t remember how many seats there were, all she could do was sit there in dread.

      “Dr. Tucker Stevenson, pediatric surgeon specializing in fetal surgery at Wilson-Ross Memorial Hospital, New York City.”

      Her heart twisted. Even the best surgeon in the world couldn’t have prevented what had happened three years ago. And Tucker was one of the best.

      The moderator moved on to the next panelist, listing dry facts that barely scratched the surface of what made each person live and breathe...and grieve.

      “Dr. Kadeline McPherson, maternal-fetal medicine, at Wilson-Ross Memorial Hospital, Atlanta, Georgia.”

      No mention of anyone’s personal life, how many children, spouse’s name. Thank God. And she was even more thankful that she’d gone back to her maiden name. Kadeline Stevenson might have caused awkward questions that she’d rather not answer. She suspected Tucker would prefer that little tidbit to remain buried as well.

      She gulped.

      Buried.

      She hated that word. Avoided using it like the plague.

      Speech. Read your speech.

      Fiddling with her thin sheaf of papers that contained words she’d recited hundreds of times, she prayed for a clear head. The question-and-answer phase was the trickier part, trying to think up responses on the fly.

      With Tucker sitting in the same room.

      Forget about him, Kady.

      The table microphone inched its way down the line as each person finished.

      Tucker’s turn came, and his voice cut through her all over again. So much for forgetting about him.

      His words were sure and firm, with a confidence that came with being the top in his field.

      Kady closed her eyes and tried to drown him out with a bawdy mental rendition of “Ninety-nine Bottles of Beer on the Wall”, but it didn’t work. Especially since he’d sung that very song to her during her labor to take her mind off the pain.

      If only she’d known the real pain would come months after the baby’s actual birth.

      “Fetal surgical intervention is necessary in any number of cases. My most recent involved an obstructed urethra in an eight-month-old fetus. Surgery removed the blockage and mother and baby were both fine.”

      They were both fine. How many times did he say that in a day?

      Light applause followed his speech, just like it had everyone else’s. Kady realized she was the only one not clapping, but just as she went to join in, the sound died away, leaving her with her hands up, palms facing each other.

      Tucker chose that very moment to glance her way. One side of his mouth quirked up, a crease coming to life in his right cheek.

      Her breath caught as a spark of something dark arrowed through her abdomen. For a few awful seconds she couldn’t look away. He evidently didn’t have the same problem, giving his attention to the next speaker, who talked about controlling blood pressure in patients with preeclampsia.

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