drab structure at the back of the grounds. As she marched, she noted each of the four clinic wings was connected in a similar manner. It seemed there was no need to leave the air-conditioned splendor for the summer heat. She also eyed the windowed walls to either side. The glass was thick, appeared bulletproof.
Then again, the clinic’s clientele were often celebrities or foreign dignitaries. Maybe the extra protection was necessary.
Still, a chill that had nothing to do with the air-conditioning swept through her. The space felt less protective than it was imprisoning.
They entered the next building, and Kat was taken to a small examination room, one of a long row of them in this wing. The orderly handed her a series of forms to fill out, secured on a clipboard.
“Fill everything out. Someone will be in to talk to you in a few minutes.”
He left, looking as bored as when he’d first collected her.
She began to fill out the forms when she heard a small click at the door. Stepping forward, she tested the handle.
Locked.
She frowned, fighting back a flicker of panic. Securing the door might be protocol, to maintain confidentiality. Either way, she was committed. She’d have to keep playing her hand-but something was definitely wrong about this place.
She hoped Lisa was faring better.
12:18 P.M.
“As you can see, we do all of our work in-house,” Dr. Paul Cranston said, stopping before a window that looked into a sealed in vitro fertilization lab.
Lisa studied the space with a critical eye. The room was state-of-the art, with enclosed workstations equipped with laser oocyte scanners and Narishige micromanipulators for egg fertilization. Nothing was substandard, from Makler counting chambers to automatic sperm-analyzers, advanced warming blocks, and cryogenic chambers.
Her guided tour had already included the surgical suite, used for both egg collection and embryo implantation. The clinic’s high-tech operating theater would put most hospitals to shame. Even the neighboring recovery rooms were private spaces that could have graced the pages of
Clearly this tour was meant to impress.
And it did.
“We are a one-stop shop,” Cranston finished, offering a beaming, self-effacing smile. “From sperm and egg collection, to fertilization and implantation. We do all of our own patient monitoring, but we’re certainly happy to work in collaboration with a primary care physician.”
Lisa nodded. “I’m sure some of my clients would prefer the anonymity of care outside the DC circles.”
“Understood.”
His eyes lingered a bit too long on her. Plainly, he desired to know more about whom she represented, but he knew better than to inquire directly. Lisa’s ironclad cover had been built to draw the personal interest of the clinic’s head, and obviously succeeded. She had been given the grand tour, along with the full-court sales press.
“Why don’t we return to my office? I can supply you with brochures detailing each level of service, including fact sheets containing our success rates, and, of course, I’ll be happy to answer any other questions.”
“That would be perfect.” She checked her watch in a move to urge him to hurry along. “I won’t take up much more of your time.”
His office was up a level from the workspaces. It was like walking into a mahogany library, with bookshelf-lined walls, trophies, and framed diplomas, including one from Harvard, his alma mater. Like the rest of the tour, the room was also designed to impress. Huge arched windows overlooked the parklike grounds with views to the other three buildings that made up the complex.
Cranston circled around his desk, where a prepared binder was already waiting for her atop his leather desk blotter. He handed it toward her, but she ignored it, focusing her attention out the window. She also kept a keen eye on his reactions. Besides a medical degree, she had earned a master’s in physiology. She understood bodily responses and could read them as accurately as most lie detectors-but unlike those detectors, she also knew how to manipulate those responses for a desired result.
Now to get to work.
“What happens in those other buildings?” she asked.
He lowered the binder and followed her gaze outside. “The wing directly behind this one is for donor evaluation and collection.”
Lisa eyed the three-story structure.
“The other two buildings are strictly for research,” he said. “We run reproductive studies for a dozen different universities, including as far away as the University of Tokyo and Oxford.”
She turned her back to the window. “I’m assuming that any biological specimens, eggs, or embryos from my patients wouldn’t be used for such purposes without their consent.”
“Of course not. We have a robust donor program that supplies such material. Let me assure you, Dr. Cummings, our research programs and patient services are completely separate. There is no crossover.”
“Very good.” Lisa returned to the chair in front of his wide desk and sank into the seat, shifting her purse into her lap. “Now let me be frank with you, Dr. Cranston.”
“Please call me Paul.”
She smiled, giving him that much. “Paul, I must be honest that I have been considering other facilities. It’s come down to here or a clinic outside of Philadelphia.”
“Of course.”
He kept an even demeanor, but she did not mistake the flicker of desire-to poach another client was even better than merely to win one. That was the bait.
“But I assure you,” he continued, “you’ll find no other facility with the level of technological advancement, the latest tools, and the professional staff to oversee each stage of the process.”
Cranston definitely wanted her imaginary high-profile client list-but how badly?
First to let some slack in the line, intended to unnerve him. “I understand and appreciate that, Paul, but Philadelphia is also much
He looked crestfallen. “I can’t argue with that.”
Now to dangle hope. “But your clinic has one distinct advantage. Beyond your stellar
“How so?”
“Amanda Gant-Bennett.”
The edges of his eyelids grew more strained at the mention of Amanda.
“Several of my patients are well acquainted with the First Family,” she continued. “They know of the delicate situation regarding the president’s daughter and how matters were handled at your clinic. In many ways, Washington is a small town.”
She offered him a modest smile.
He echoed it-the desired effect.
“One patient of mine in particular is faced with a similar situation: an infertile husband. She asked me to specifically inquire into your donor program. To put it bluntly, using my patient’s words: ‘If it’s good enough for the president’s daughter, it’s good enough for me.’”
She rolled her eyes, feigning amused disdain. “In certain Washingtonian circles-whether it’s the latest purse or the season’s designer fashions-name brands are all that matter. And this even extends to the choice of medical facility and, in this case, even the preference of donor.”
He gave her an understanding nod and steepled his fingers under his chin. “There is, of course, no way to divulge who was the male donor in this situation. But I can guarantee you that
