Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland
Chapter 2
Chantelle watched as the mouth-breathing cave-dweller stared at her, lost for words. She wondered briefly if she’d been right in selecting his sperm. On paper, he sounded like just what she desired: dark-haired, brown-eyed, healthy, athletic, college educated, artistic. Covered with tattoos down both arms. Okay, but that wasn’t a genetic trait. She was almost certain her baby would be born tattoo free.
Besides, the intricate design that peered out from his short-sleeved shirt, which to her untrained eye looked like an elaborate series of Celtic knots, only served to enhance and underscore the toned biceps and forearms.
So, at least her baby would be good looking and strong. The jury was still out on what he had going in the brains department.
“Miss,” said Dustin Spencer, sperm donor and future baby-daddy, “it’s been a long day and I have two more clients today. Do you think you can explain?”
Chantelle looked back at him. How did you explain the complicated mess she’d found herself in?
God, she hated this. Here she was, the CEO of a major banking conglomerate, a woman with thousands of people in her employ, and major shareholdings in several other international banking and insurance operations across Europe, Asia, the Caribbean and the Americas. A woman whose name was immediately recognizable within the financial community, and which was featured regularly in the business news. Reduced to having to track this man down, walk into his little tattoo parlor, and be stared at as if she was an unusual specimen, and beg.
Well, not beg. If there was one thing Chantelle Moreau–Clark never did, it was beg.
But her circumstances were unusual, to say the least. Here she was, thirty-three years old, having decided to take her reproduction into her hands and have a child on her own. Not unusual; lots of female executives were doing it. Chantelle had done the research for a reputable fertility clinic, perused the genetic characteristics of donors, made her choice, and had herself inseminated. She’d hit it on the first try. Just a couple of weeks ago a pregnancy test had come in positive, and her doctor had corroborated that fact.
She was having a baby—her baby and hers alone. No need to fuss and bother with men, relationships, disappointment and hurt. No chance of exposing herself to another disastrous relationship, another broken and humiliating engagement. Nada. This time, she would be in control; she would call the shots.
Her heart would remain intact.
And then, after barely having a week to celebrate, plan for her future and that of her baby, the family lawyer had called and dropped a bombshell. Her adoptive grandfather—a Croatian immigrant to the United States with conservative values till his dying day—had inserted a clause in his will just months before his death, stating that no illegitimate child would have any access whatsoever to the Clark family fortune.
And a fortune it was: billions in family holdings. Holdings which Chantelle as the adopted daughter of Simon Clark now managed as CEO. A fortune which her child—boy or girl, didn’t matter—would have no access to unless it was born within wedlock.
Which meant she had limited time to get hitched, and fulfill the terms of the will. And since Chantelle had been single for years—following two engagements that had both been as lucky as the Titanic’s maiden voyage—who better to use for said purpose than the very man from whose loins her baby had sprung?
She hadn’t been kidding when she’d said it was easy to get information when you were wealthy. One of her tech guys hired a hacker, penetrated the sperm bank’s admittedly secure system, and voilà. A name, a picture, social insurance number and address.
Dustin was waiting, and not very patiently. “Miss Moreau, the way I see it, you have two options. You can explain this bizarre proposal of yours, or you can say your goodbyes.”
He was right. She had to say something. “I had someone hack into the sperm bank’s system to find out who you were.”
“Not cool. But why would you want to marry me?”
She grunted in frustration. “Because the baby I’m carrying is yours. Try to keep up!”
He burst out, “How do you expect me to keep up with the weirdest idea I’ve ever heard? How do you know I’m even single?”
She shrugged off his outrage. She didn’t have time for it. “You’ve never been married… although at one point, you were engaged. That seemed to have ended abruptly about a year ago.”
At the mention of his engagement, he stiffened. Chantelle watched his skin darken, that wide mouth tighten, and those thick-lashed brown eyes narrow.
Maybe he was still aching from whatever had gone on between him and this woman. But that wasn’t her problem.
When you drew up your chair to the negotiation table, you did so armed with as much knowledge as you could get about your opponent’s strengths and weaknesses. She pressed home her advantage. “Currently, you aren’t seeing anyone—seriously, that is—and you live with your stepmother and half-siblings. That situation is quite… cozy.”
His face darkened even further, and she didn’t blame him. She wouldn’t have liked her own privacy being violated that way. But when shit got real…. “You graduated college with a fine arts degree, own the tattoo parlor but there’s two loans on it, and you are up to your hairline in debt.”
He looked as if he was struggling with the desire to curse a blue streak, but reining himself in. Instead, he asked, “And why would an obviously modern, well-off woman like yourself need to get married to have a baby? Are you a closet anti-feminist?”
That made her chuckle. “Hardly. For the record, I don’t think you need a man to have a family. Matter of fact, I plan to raise this baby myself. Suffice it to say that I need to be legally married at the time of my child’s birth in order to protect his or her birthright.”
“Which, by the looks of you, is substantial,” he said soberly.
“Yes,” she responded, unflinching.
“And that’s what you get out of this. But why the hell would I want to do such a thing?”
Chantelle eyed him carefully, wondering if this was the start of a shakedown, but he only seemed mildly curious. “Because, Dustin,” she responded without a hint of drama, “if you put a ring on my finger, and leave it there for a period determined by me, I will pay you one million dollars.”
There was a surprised bark of amusement, and then the man standing before her began to laugh so hard he had to bend over and rest on his knees to catch his breath.
She wondered if God would forgive her if she smacked this handsome jackass across the room. “Your debt will be cleared.” He sent her a cutting look. Chantelle was glad to see the amusement wiped from his countenance.
“You marry me, stay married until my baby is born, then get out of my life. And I pay you a million dollars.” To ward off any skepticism, she said tightly, “I can afford it. I can put the funds in escrow now, if you so desire.”
“I’m sure you could. But no thanks, darlin’.”
She did a double take. “No?” That wasn’t a word she heard often.
“No,” he repeated. Then he pulled his phone out of his pocket and checked the time. “And I have a client due in about ten minutes. If you don’t mind.”
Chantelle minded very much and she was outraged. Not only was he turning down her offer, but he was throwing her out? It was a struggle to maintain her equilibrium. Instead of going claws-out for his eyes, which her instincts were urging her to, she reached into her purse and withdrew a business card. When he didn’t take it, she laid it carefully on the table, face up. “Call me when you change your mind,” she said with control.
Then she let herself out.