Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland
Chapter 1
“Are you Dustin Spencer?” a hint of an accent there. Slurred consonants, rolling vowels. Not Hispanic. Maybe a bit French. Canadian?
The woman had entered his tattoo parlor a few minutes ago, and spent some time looking around, taking in everything from the heaps of tattoo magazines on the coffee tables to the designs on the walls. Almost as if she was appraising the place.
By that alone, he had strongly suspected she wasn’t here for a tattoo, and he sure as hell didn’t have a woman on his client list for the rest of the day. Just two regulars, and both of them were guys. Consequently, he just let her be, focusing instead on the one or two clients who’d popped in and out since her arrival, to make appointments or consult him on designs.
“Yes, I am. Who’s asking?”
“My name is Chantelle Moreau. Mr. Spencer—Dustin. May I call you Dustin?”
Dustin shrugged in reply and Chantelle continued. “Dustin, there’s a matter of great importance I would like to discuss with you,” she paused and looked around his shop, “somewhere more private.” The voice was low but firm. Assertive came to mind with a husky edge that tickled the ear.
“What matter would that be?” he asked, his interest piqued, even though he was still sure that whatever she was about to say, she was probably directing toward the wrong person.
A young woman with multiple facial piercings stepped up to the counter, paid for the gold navel ring she had selected from a rack, and exited. That left nobody but Squeak, another tattoo artist who rented a chair from him, and his client, a young college kid who was making the dangerous mistake of having his current girlfriend’s face tattooed on his bicep. A move like that could only lead to grief, Dustin figured. But to each his own.
Even Squeak and his client had stopped what they were doing, both staring at the unfolding drama as if it was the most exciting thing to happen to them all day.
Which it probably was.
“The matter is too delicate, to discuss in public.”
She was standing at the counter, hands clasped together, probably refraining from touching his counter. Staring at him as if she wanted to sketch his features.
Dustin stared back impudently. She was in his space, after all. Assessing this stranger as openly as she was assessing him. From across the counter, he began his slow examination from the feet up, which was probably unusual for most people who would start from the top. But he was a leg man, and adored pretty feet. Instinctively, his gaze swooped downwards.
The first thing he noticed was that her high heels looked expensive. Not just put-‘em-on-layaway expensive, but out-of-your-league expensive. This meant one of two things. One, this chick knew where to find decent designer knockoffs, or two, she was loaded enough to buy herself the real thing.
The next thing he noticed was that her exposed toenails were painted black, with an exquisite silver design. This presented an additional choice between two options: one, that this chick knew where to get fancy stick-on fake toenails, or two, she was wealthy enough to afford a damn talented pedicurist.
He let his slow regard travel upwards, up along curvaceous calves, to knees and thighs that were covered by an off-white linen skirt, goddammit. Never mind, he consoled himself. There’s lots to see yet. Up, past shapely hips and a neat waist, to a cranberry-colored silk blouse that didn’t even pretend to try to hide the fact that she wasn’t wearing a bra.
Nor did she need to. The silky blouse cuddled a perfect pair of apple-sized breasts as if they were sculpted in marble, and covered up for the great unveiling.
Chocolate-colored hair past her shoulders, almost straight with the slightest wave, hanging loose. Toasted almond skin, high cheekbones, a long, shapely nose, and a mouth that gave him dirty thoughts. And those eyes… Eyes that stopped him dead, halted any further examination, because they froze him in place with their icy glare. A light hazel that tended towards green in this light.
Shaken, Dustin looked away, as if suddenly afraid he’d get sucked into the draw of her magnetic, disturbing energy. He didn’t know what a woman like her could possibly have to discuss with him. Except unless she was sent by the hospital to collect the payment for all the money he owed. He fiddled with his equipment.
He took his own sweet time carefully loading his tattoo equipment onto the autoclave trays. They’d already been washed and run through the ultrasonic cleaner, and packaged for sterilization. He was between clients, but that didn’t mean he had nothing to do. He liked to make sure his tattoo parlor was spotless, sanitary, and ready for the next client.
“Did you hear me?” the woman asked impatiently.
“I don’t think there’s anything for us to discuss. I don’t know you.”
The woman glared at them. “You’d be surprised by how closely we’re—joined. Now, is there someplace we could talk?” she asked again impatiently. “In private?”
He was about to say no, when Squeak gave him a silent, horrified look that he interpreted to mean, You’re ignoring a woman who looks like that? Are you insane?
The man had a point, with a shrug, Dustin raised the hinged countertop, unlatched the half door, and allowed her through. Squeak gave him a gleeful look of approval that caused the woman to flush. Dustin figured he’d smack him later.
He immediately discovered that retribution on his part wasn’t necessary, because she immediately gathered her dignity around her like a cloak and sailed past them with a look that had Squeak and his client immediately become very interested in their own business.
The satisfied look on her face said, Yeah, that’s what I thought.
It was clear to Dustin that this woman wasn’t one to be trifled with.
They stepped into the small back office which wasn’t much; just a place to store his art books, archived documents, and computer. He shoved some papers off the one good swivel chair and gestured for her to sit, but she shook her head.
Shrugging, Dustin reached down and withdrew two small bottles of water from the mini fridge against the wall. “Here,” he offered. He held a bottle out to her, opened his, and took a long sip.
She accepted it but didn’t open it. “Thank you. Now that we finally have some privacy. I have a proposition for you.”
“What would that be?” He asked noncommittally, though he was hyper curious.
“Mr. Spencer—Dustin, I want you to marry me.”
He almost burst out into laughter, but held back his mirth. If it had come from someone else, someone who seemed unhinged, tipsy, or grossly mistaken, it wouldn’t have freaked him out. But the woman who spoke these words looked and sounded nowhere near crazy.
“Why don’t you drink some the water.”
“What good would that do? Besides, I prefer flavored water.”
“Nothing. Except buy me about three minutes to assess whether you’re dangerously insane.” He knew he was being provocative, and after having witnessed the way she’d handled the rude stares back there, he was well aware that goading her would be like poking a bear.
As expected, she looked affronted, her full lips parting just a little to reveal gritted white teeth. “Why would I be insane?”
“Walking into someone’s place of business and announcing you want them to marry you doesn’t exactly sound like something a sane person does.”
“Oh,” she sneered. “So apart from being a tattoo artist, you’re also a psychiatrist?”
She said ‘tattoo artist,’ in the same tone that she could have said ‘goat rustler.’ Not cool. He answered calmly, “No, but you don’t have to be a professional to know that proposing to strangers isn’t the kind of thing sane people do.”
Her look of outrage made her eyes sparkle. Well worth it, he thought.
“I promise you I am perfectly sane, and completely serious. If you put on your listening ears for the next five minutes, maybe we can have a mature conversation. Like adults.”
She placed her purse—leather, probably hand tooled—on the desk. Cracked open the bottle and took a sip.
Dustin spent those precious seconds unabashedly staring at the way her lips wrapped around the mouth of the bottle. The sight led him down dangerous a path. He dragged his mind back.
When she was done drinking, she put the bottle down. He could see the clear imprint of her lipstick around the mouth of the bottle and there he went again, dreaming uncomfortable daydreams.
Down, boy.
The elegant, almond-skinned beauty visibly centered herself and said with renewed calm. “I apologize for being rude. I’m afraid I might have been too direct in my approach.”
“It’s fine.” But by now, his curiosity was beginning to take hold. He was willing to hear whatever bizarre idea she had in mind. Even if it was only to bring some interest into a mundane day’s work.
“Let me start again. My name is Chantelle Moreau.” She held out her hand in greeting, and in bewilderment, he shook it. “I’ve come to you with a business proposal, the terms of which I think would be advantageous to you. I’m looking for someone to marry, for personal reasons—none of which need concern you. It is to be a strictly legal arrangement, with clear terms and a fixed period for its dissolution. For this, I am willing to pay handsomely for your cooperation.”
“Marry? Dissolution? Pay?” He knew he probably had an idiotic expression on his face, but it wasn’t every day you heard something so odd.
“That’s what I said.” She looked impatient, as if she had put everything out there and he simply wasn’t getting it.
“Why would you need to pay for a husband? And what does it have to do with me?”
“I’m pregnant.”
Okay. He was not expecting that. “Congrats?”
She shrugged off his platitude as if it meant nothing. “It’s yours.”
“Excuse me?”
“This baby.” She pointed at her perfectly flat belly, speaking slowly, as if he was mildly touched in the head. “Is. Yours.”
He couldn’t help himself as he guffawed. He hadn’t been with a woman in almost a year, ever since his last relationship—which had lasted three whole years, and in which he’d been faithful—ended. This beautiful, obviously pampered woman was crazy.
He told her so.
“Mr. Spencer, I would prefer if you refrained from questioning my sanity.” Her lips were pursed tightly now, and she was positively shimmering with irritation.
He finished his own water, capped the bottle and tossed it overarm into the recycle bin. “Miss, is this a prank?”
It was her turn to say, “Excuse me?”
“Is Punk’d back on the air? Are cameras rolling? Because, sweetheart, there is no way on God’s green Earth that you could be having my—”
“Paradisio Falls Cryos Center.”
Thud thud thud. Her words fell like toppling bricks. He was glad he was done drinking the water. Dustin was sure he would have choked otherwise. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?” he faltered.
“It’s a fertility clinic,” she prodded.
“I know it’s a sperm bank. I’m just asking—” He paused again, and then gasped. “Oh, good God!” Took him long enough, but finally he understood. A couple of years ago, he’d made a deposit at the sperm bank. All because he’d lost a stupid Superbowl bet he’d been too drunk to remember making. A couple of days later, once he was sober enough to be embarrassed about what was required of him, enough to be kicking himself for his rash foolishness, he was as good as his word and done the deed, emerging to his screeching, howling jackass friends pounding him on the back and making jokes about him single-handedly lowering the global IQ if any woman was stupid enough to choose his sperm.
He took his ribbing in stride, but later felt bad about it, because it didn’t feel right that life from his body should begin because he’d backed a stupid team in a stupid game and lost. It had been a one-off deal. And he had planned on calling them to have it disposed of, but his dad had passed away and he’d forgotten all about it.
“Are you telling me that—” He couldn’t even finish the thought.
She was smiling, a mixture of triumph and who’s crazy now? written all over her face.
“You’re pregnant with my—” he pointed downward past his belt, in the vague direction of Little Dustin. (Well, Not-So-Little Dustin.)
“With your sperm, yes.”
Of all the things he’d imagined would happen to him today, this wasn’t one of them. He was so confused, he found himself stuttering. “But how do you know it’s mine? That information is confidential. The sperm bank is supposed to keep my identity a secret unless I give consent. Aren’t they?”
“I suppose.”
“I can’t remember giving my consent. How do you know it’s mine?”
She twinkled at him, face lighting up, even more beautiful in mocking triumph. “When you can afford to pay well for the information you want.” She tossed her hair, confident now that she had the upper hand. Now that she had used her revelation like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, leaving him winded.
“Now, Dustin, may I call you Dustin?” She barely waited for his nod before going on. “What’s it going to take to get you to marry me?”