Everywhere he looked, Ian Martin saw babies. Around the plush hospital lobby, giant photos of babies hung on the walls. Between the designer couches, life-size dolls beamed from their carriages at the throng of local press and small-town dignitaries. Now, if a few Uzi-toting toddlers in camouflage pj's would burst in, that might be interesting.

As if he weren't already on infant overload, Ian noticed two women in advanced stages of pregnancy posing for photographs. Presumably they'd both conceived with the high-tech help of the doctors here at Safe Harbor Medical Center, whose six stories of state-of-the-art equipment were detailed on a large wall chart.

Honestly. Didn't these people have anything better to do? He certainly did.

Although Ian had covered wars from Africa to Afghanistan, his editor seemed to think he had a gift for human-interest stories. So, as he was already in Southern California with a free Friday evening, he'd been dispatched to cover the official reopening of this updated, expanded maternity hospital. He'd much rather be digging into the investigation of a federal judge accused of taking bribes, or even poking into the Hollywood divorce scandal that was his secondary reason for descending on the area.

Across the room, he exchanged wry glances with cameraman Pierre Fabray, a coworker from the L.A. bureau of Flash News/Global. With a shrug, Pierre returned his attention to a mom-to-be who, judging by the size of her, must be pregnant with triplets.

Idly, Ian dropped a couple of entry tickets into the raffle box in front of a display of expensive baby furnishings. He'd parted with twenty bucks for them, since the raffle raised money for needy families, the kind that could never otherwise afford these luxurious surroundings. If he won—and Ian had remarkable luck—he planned to donate the gear to charity.

That task accomplished, he gazed around for power players he might be able to prod into saying something provocative. There had to be a story here somewhere. If Ian couldn't find it, he'd stir one up by asking questions somebody didn't want to answer.

First obvious player: hospital administrator Mark Rayburn, a father-knows-best-type obstetrician in his late thirties. Second possibility: a lady from the corporation that owned the hospital. From her spiked heels to her mask of makeup, she looked like she breakfasted on nails and spat them out machine-gun-style at anyone who crossed her.

Neither of them was likely to yield more than an irritable quote or two. Better to locate the inevitable gadfly. There must be a doctor who'd worked at the facility prior to its transformation from a community hospital and who was less than thrilled to see it turned into a haven for the moneyed.

Ian didn't see anyone fitting that description hanging around, shooting his mouth off. He needed assistance, and from what he'd seen of the public relations director, talking to her wouldn't be painful at all.

He located Jennifer Serra outside the auditorium. Dark hair tumbled appealingly from a knot atop her head, and the exotic tilt to her dark eyes intrigued him, as did a hint of sadness that made him wonder what secrets she harbored. But although he was known as much for digging into personalities as for rooting out facts, Ms. Serra wasn't his target tonight. Too bad.

"Mr. Martin!" Her full mouth perked into a smile. "We're almost ready to start the press conference."

"Actually, I'd like to talk to someone first."

"Who?"

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

Her chin came up. "Anything I can do to help, I'd be glad to."

She shouldn't make tempting offers like that, Ian reflected. On the other hand, being helpful was her job. "Who's the most ticked-off doctor at this hospital?"

"I'm sorry?" Her expression turned wary.

"The one who makes trouble." Kind of like I do.

She swallowed. He'd made a direct hit, Ian could tell. "We're a team here," she responded gamely.

"And it's your duty to say so. But we both know better." He stretched out an arm and leaned against the wall, deliberately fencing her in. She'd either have to retreat or duck beneath his arm to escape. "A giant corporation buys a community hospital and turns it into a moneymaking machine. That's got to rub somebody the wrong way."

His peripheral vision caught Pierre's approach. Jennifer's face tightened at the sight of the camera, but with what must have been considerable effort, she relaxed into another smile. "If anyone's unhappy, you can hardly expect her to show up at an event like this."

"Her?" So there was someone.

Jennifer adjusted the short, fitted jacket she wore over a figure-skimming dress. Ian assumed that bought her a moment to regain control and find the appropriate glib answer. Sure enough, here it came: "Mr. Martin, this is a wonderful facility that brings hope to couples struggling to start a family."

"Of course it does." He filed a mental note to sniff out the disgruntled doctor later, but tonight he needed another angle. "Do you have children?"

"No, not yet." There it was again, that trace of sadness.

"If you ran into trouble having them, could you afford a place like this? Wait—I'm sure you have great insurance. But what about the ordinary infertile woman in Safe Harbor, California? Where is she supposed to go?" While Ian didn't relish making such a pretty lady squirm, the corporation presumably paid her well to cross swords with rascals like him.

Annoyance flared in her eyes. "We're always happy to work out payment plans, and we accept MediCal clients. Plus, we don't just provide fertility treatments. We offer a multitude of services, from routine preventive care to early-stage cancer treatment."

Pierre was angling around, capturing all this for the video service Flash News/Global provided to its clients, along with still-photo images and stories. Personally, Ian wasn't crazy about appearing on video. Digging beneath the surface of the news required an ability to blend into a scene, impossible to do if you became a celebrity. Nevertheless, this was a part of the job, like it or not.

"Is this live?" Jennifer asked Pierre.

"It is now." He turned the camera on Ian. "Go!"

Deep breath. "This is Ian Martin for Flash News/Global, reporting from Safe Harbor, California. We're at a newly remodeled fertility hospital, talking with public relations director Jennifer Serra. We were discussing how this place positively reeks of luxury."

She narrowed her eyes at him in annoyance. Then, as Pierre swung toward her, she said brightly, "Safe Harbor Medical Center offers a full spectrum of services for women and their babies at all economic levels. We specialize in fertility care and high-risk pregnancies, with an emphasis on cutting-edge technology and techniques."

Back to Ian. He seized his chance. "This place may be called Safe Harbor, but just imagine a frightened young woman trying to relinquish her baby under the safe harbor law. If she dared to show up here, I'll bet she'd be whisked out the back door."

That was the advantage video had over writing. You could throw out preposterous ideas and see what kind of reaction you got.

Jennifer took the bait. "We don't whisk anyone out the back door," she snapped. "And that's the safe haven law, not safe harbor. It protects desperate mothers from being charged with abandonment. We want them to bring their newborns to a safe place."

"Safe haven, safe harbor," Ian tossed off. "Are you saying scared young moms can drop off their babies at Safe Harbor Medical Center? Will they be placed in wealthy homes?"

"They'll be placed in loving homes." A muscle tightened in her neck as Dr. Rayburn and the lady in the power suit came into view.

He decided to push a little harder. "Would you take in a surrendered baby?"

"Me personally?"

"Sure. Why not?"

"I love babies." Jennifer swallowed hard. "Every day I walk past our nursery and wish I could hold them all in my arms. But that doesn't mean I could…"

Ignoring a twinge of guilt, Ian persisted. "So if a young mother walked in here right now…"

"I'd do anything I could to help her." Tears sparkled in her eyes. "So would any decent person."

In her face, he read a yearning so profound it twisted his gut. Damn, what wound had he reopened here? They'd gone beyond the usual game between reporter and publicist. Gone straight into her soul.

Live on the Internet.

Ian found his voice again. "Thank you, Jennifer Serra." He squared off with the camera. "This is Ian Martin, reporting from Safe Harbor Medical Center."

Nodding his approval, Pierre killed the feed. Dr. Rayburn and the executive, who'd apparently caught only the last few words, looked pleased.

"Shall we start the conference?" the administrator asked.

"Absolutely." Casting a final glare at Ian, Jennifer headed toward the lobby to corral the rest of the crowd.

Too bad he'd just burned his bridges. It might have been fun getting to know her during the week or so he expected to stay in the L.A. area.

Anyway, she wanted kids, and at her age, which he guessed to be late twenties, was no doubt seeking a guy to nest with. At thirty-four, Ian was strictly a here-today-and-gone-tomorrow kind of guy, and preferred ladies who felt the same.

Yet something about Jennifer haunted him. Perhaps it was the irony that such a beautiful woman seemed so bereft.

Joining the crowd, he wandered into a wood-paneled auditorium with richly upholstered seats, raked flooring and, up front, an impressive display of electronic equipment. Other attendees were still nibbling miniature quiches and bacon-wrapped shrimp hors d'oeuvres, Ian noticed. He wished he'd grabbed a plateful while he'd had the chance.

The auditorium darkened and a slide show began, detailing the facility's remodeling and its shining mission of mercy. There were scenes of beaming parents and earnest doctors in white coats bending over test tubes.

Hold on. Ian straightened at the sight of one slide, which showed a doctor wearing an out-of-place skeptical expression. "The head of our pediatrics department, Dr. Samantha Forrest, works closely with new parents," enthused the narrator. Well, Dr. Forrest, a capable-looking blonde, might care about the couple shown with her, but she clearly didn't enjoy being on camera. What else did she dislike?

Ian trusted his hunches, and he decided to call on Dr. Forrest soon. Maybe he'd discovered his disaffected troublemaker.

The slide show ended and the lights came up on the TV-star-handsome Dr. Rayburn. Perfectly at ease in front of a microphone, the administrator detailed the new programs, some already in place, others just opening. The emphasis was on the latest medical developments, which, no doubt, were accompanied by breathtakingly high charges.

"Twenty years ago, the success rate for pregnancies with in vitro fertilization was ten to twelve percent," he concluded. "Today, in younger women, we can expect to achieve a sixty to seventy percent rate. With older women, the rates are also much higher than they used to be, and this is just the beginning of the adventure. Now I'm happy to take questions."

Ian didn't bother to make notes as other reporters threw out inquiries.

"Delivering a baby is the most wonderful feeling in the world." Dr. Rayburn responded to one question with passionate commitment. Where had the corporation discovered this guy—Hollywood central casting?

Ian flipped through the press kit an assistant had handed him earlier. In Dr. Rayburn's bio, he saw no mention of a wife or children. If delivering a baby was so fabulous, why hadn't the great doctor produced any of his own?

That seemed too personal to ask in front of a crowd, though. Instead, Ian chose the ever-popular topic of multiple births. "Is there a limit on how many embryos you implant in a woman?" he demanded without waiting to be called out.

"We implant two or three embryos at most," the administrator responded. "We try to avoid multiple births that can endanger the health of mothers and babies. Now, let's hear from Medical Center Management vice president Chandra Yashimoto."

The lady exec stepped forward to contribute a few words about the pride her company, based in Louisville, Kentucky, took in this new facility. The press kit listed neither an M.D. nor an R.N. after her name.

Ms. Yashimoto yielded the microphone to Jennifer.

"I hope you'll all stick around and enjoy the refreshments," she said, her voice pleasingly husky. "Also, we'll be announcing the winner of our baby bonanza raffle shortly. Furniture, clothes, all the gear you need for a great start."

After a breath, she plunged into an obviously prepared wrap-up. "Although the hospital has remained open during remodeling, our staff endured a lot of disruption over the summer. We were aiming for a September opening, and here we are, right on track. I now officially declare our doors open. Thank you all for joining us."

A smattering of applause followed. As the audience got to its feet, Ian tried to figure out his next move. Technically, he'd done his job, providing Pierre with video and amassing enough material to write an article. A routine one, but Flash News/Global would move it out, since weekends tended to be slow for news without courts and legislatures in session.

All the same, Ian hated writing forgettable pieces. He craved an angle.

A sudden stir caught his attention. Willa Lightner, the middle-aged PR assistant who'd been distributing press kits earlier, had entered from the hall and was excusing her way up the center aisle toward Jennifer. The two met, conferred and hurried out together.

Something was up. Might be nothing more than a knocked-over punch bowl, but, his curiosity aroused, Ian strode in their wake.

He trailed them around a bend and into an alcove where half a dozen people had gathered. It took a moment to identify the object of their interest.

A young woman stood with her back against the wall, her arms encircling a blanket-wrapped bundle. Loose brown hair cascaded around a face in which determination warred with fear. In contrast to the moms-to-be Ian had seen earlier, she wore a threadbare smock and flip-flops. Definitely not part of the hospital's show and tell program.

He took out his notebook and looked around. Pierre was headed his way. Excellent.

In front of him, Jennifer parted the small group of onlookers. "Hi. I'm the public relations director. Can I help you?"

The young woman thrust the bundle into her arms. "I know who you are, Mrs. Serra. I just saw you on the Internet." Her voice trembled. "You said you love babies and you'd give them a home. Well, I want you to adopt mine."

For a thunderstruck moment, nobody moved. Except Ian, who made quick notes on his pad.

He'd found his story at last.