Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 4

 

“Don’t look at me like that!” Chantelle said.

Minerva, her enormous tortoiseshell cat, turned a baleful yellow glare in Chantelle’s direction, and silently telegraphed the message, I will look at you any way I please. Which, Chantelle figured, is what cats did, especially one as spoiled and demanding as hers. She shoved the cat with an elbow. “At the very least, get off my financials. Can’t you see I’m working?”

Minerva smirked at her. Sure, you’re working. Earning money to keep me in cushy cat beds and caviar….

Chantelle turned her attention back to the pile of papers on her desk. She was going over the quarterly financial reports from one of her companies, and needed to focus, but the problem was she was feeling a little woozy. She guessed that was what pregnancy hormones did to you.

Ugh.

Furthermore, she couldn’t tamp down her frustration over her encounter with that stubborn jackass, Dustin Spencer. Didn’t have a lick of sense, that one. Wouldn’t recognize a good deal if it sucker-punched him in the gut. How damn hard was it to see that marrying a woman, no strings attached, and staying married to her for less than a year—in exchange for a million dollars—was the deal of a century?

What the hell was wrong with him?

And where would she find a reasonable replacement when she hadn’t considered any other man for the job?

She chewed irritably on her pen, knowing by the taste that she had cracked it somehow and that ink was oozing into her mouth. She didn’t care… and that was more than surprising. Normally, the idea of having even a hair out of place, a wrinkle in her skirt—much less a blob of ink on her lips—would have sent her immediately to her en-suite executive bathroom, where she would have hastened to rectify the situation. A woman in her position had no tolerance for untidiness, especially when it came to her appearance.

Which just went to show how Dustin Spencer—and his hardline dismissal of her offer—had gotten under her skin. Because she had to admit that part of what annoyed her wasn’t only the risk that her unborn baby would be denied an inheritance, but that simple fact that this man had turned her down.

It was as irritating as a split cuticle.

The door to her office was flung open, the doorknob banging against the wall. She looked up, startled. She wasn’t expecting anyone, and if she was, her assistant would have escorted them in. Which meant it could be only one person.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he asked.

“Tiptoeing through the tulips. What do you want, Dennis?”

Her stepbrother, older than her by a few years, glared at her. He was wearing a bespoke suit, as he always did, but Chantelle thought that the cut was too severe for him. He looked like a mortician. Leave all that black to the older generation, she thought. God, at least choose a pocket square with a touch of color!

Dennis was in no mood to play games. “And sucking on your pen again, like a five-year-old.”

She took the pen from her mouth and looked at it almost in surprise, as if she’d clean forgotten it was in her mouth. The pen-sucking was a clear sign that she was nervous; it was something she did whenever she was truly anxious. She hated the fact that her stepbrother knew about the habit. They were close once upon a time. Even when he’d never accepted her mother as his father’s wife, Dennis was kind to the twelve-year-old Chantelle who’d suddenly been shoved into his life. He was the one who taught her to drive when she was fifteen and him twenty and on summer break from college. Their relationship had changed when his father’s will had been read a year ago.

Next to her, Minerva was a puffball of hisses, ready to strike if she needed to come to her mistress’ defense. The cat never could stand him. Couldn’t stand any of the Clarks, for that matter.

“And once again, you have that filthy thing in your office. Great. Highly professional, Chantelle.” The feeling of disdain between man and beast was mutual.

“One, she’s not filthy; she’s groomed twice a month.” She counted off on her fingers. “And two, my damn cat and my damn office. Now, why are you here?”

“What is this I’m hearing about you opening up some damn charity for slackers, deadbeats, and whores?”

Chantelle didn’t gape often, but she was gaping now. The crudeness of his question was staggering. “Once again, I need to correct you, because obviously you are misinformed. I am not opening a charity. I am setting up a special fund to offer low-interest, flexible loans. And not to slackers and whores—which by the way is rude—but to single moms, and low-income women of color in this country.”

Dennis scoffed. “Like I said, a charity. Because these women will make up whatever sob story they think you want to hear, then wring all the money they can out of you. And when they’ve sucked your little bleeding-heart dry, they’re going to walk and leave you holding the bag. Which means that this company—a company in which I and our brother are major shareholders—will suffer.”

Chantelle didn’t have time for this bullshit. She came around the desk, taking Minerva into her arms as she did so, to prevent the cat from having a full-on I-hate-Dennis meltdown. “Maybe if you read up on the latest financial data, you’d know that women of color are least likely to default on their payments, once they have the opportunity to earn income. And these women will be investing their money into small businesses and education. And to get out of dangerous neighborhoods that only pose harm and stress to them and their children. Which, to my mind, is the best investment I can make in the future of this country.”

She cuddled the cat, who was gradually calming down. “I have already made up my mind, and already set the plan in motion. Also, might I remind you, dear brother—”

“Step-brother,” he reminded her.

“Whatever. May I remind you that I have done what I have done, and have full power to do so. Seeing how I’m the CEO and—”

“And there’s the real problem,” he sneered. “The fact that you hold this position leaves my brother and me, in the unenviable position of watching you run this company into the ground with your lack of grit. To the detriment of all our shareholders—”

“In the year since I took control,” she reminded him, “our shareholders have been very happy with their dividends. If you two think it’s time to plan another coup d’état, let me warn you: You’ve failed before, and you will fail again.”

As she said those words, she felt her face and eyes sting with the memory of having to raise every legal defense, mount every strategy she could think of to prevent her brothers from ousting her and claiming the throne for themselves based on their claims that she wasn’t a Clark through blood. But the judge had deemed her adoption by Simon Clark as legal and binding. She was legally a Clark and nobody could undermine that. She’d fought them off before, and she would fight them off again.

His pale skin became mottled with fury. He guessed he was embarrassed because she’d known exactly what he had been thinking. He glanced from her to the cat and back again. “You look like a Bond villain!” Like a little boy attacking the person rather than the issue.

“Meow,” she said. Channeling Eartha Kitt like a boss.

Which didn’t help matters. He decided to get even uglier. “The only reason you’re CEO and not me is that your mother took advantage of my father while he grieved for the love of his life. She threw that curvy ass of hers so relentlessly at my father that he could barely see straight, much less make a decent business decision.”

Chantelle clasped the cat closer to her chest, merely to give her something to hold on to, as she was assailed by the image of herself weaponizing the animal, who was growling dangerously, and launching her at his face like a fanged rocket. Because something told her Minerva was itching for the chance. Although she wasn’t crazy happy with her mother at the moment, she wouldn’t allow her to be disrespected. “I advise you to remove my mother’s name from your mouth.”

Dennis went on bitterly, “My mother wasn’t in her grave for a good thirty days before he married that bit—”

“Watch your mouth,” she warned, very softly.

“He didn’t have to marry that woman or adopt her brat!”

“Dennis—”

“And knowing how much there was at stake for your bottom line, and your ability to wrap my father around your finger from day one, it begs the question if you didn’t even—”

The crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed in the large office, and Chantelle watched in disembodied surprise as four parallel stripes, created by her fingers, bloomed red on his cheek. The cat was on the floor, having struggled free the moment she’d drawn her hand back, and darted behind her legs.

Dennis’s hand rose to touch his cheek, and then he looked down at his open palm as if he expected to see blood.

Chantelle’s fingers stung from the slap, and she was glad; if her fingers hurt, his face hurt worse. “Don’t ever say anything that filthy to me again; not about me, and not about my mother. Are we clear?”

He looked a little ashamed, as if he’d shocked even himself with what he’d said. He couldn’t even meet her eye. She wondered if she should just throw him out of her office now, or get security to come do it for her.

Before she could give him the option, the door burst open and her assistant, Sienna, stepped inside. Sienna was a recent hire; young, beautiful, with smooth dark skin and thick hair that spent the day in a professional updo only to be released by night, curling around her shoulders like a wild thing.

Today she looked agitated, and Chantelle could understand why. Sienna rarely, if ever, barged into her office like this, especially when she knew she had a visitor.

Even if it was her filthy-mouthed, filthy-minded step-brother.

“I’m sorry, Chantelle. You know I normally wouldn’t, but….” She glanced awkwardly at Dennis, who had turned his back to Sienna, and was studiously looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass panes of her penthouse office.

Chantelle knew he would rather die than allow an underling to see him in an uncomfortable position. She also rather suspected that Sienna had sussed that the conversation had taken an unpleasant turn and had decided to rush in and rescue her.

She didn’t need rescuing, not from this petulant, whiny little shadow of a man, but full marks for trying. “What is it, Sienna?” she asked coolly.

Minerva sauntered out from behind Chantelle’s legs, throwing dirty looks at Dennis all the way, and placed herself before Sienna, demanding upsies in a loud voice. Sienna picked her up, cooing. Then she answered Chantelle’s question. “There’s a caller on the line… It’s the call you’ve been expecting….”

Sienna let those words hang in the air. Weighty. Significant.

It couldn’t be. “And did this person happen to mention the nature of his call?”

Awkwardly, Sienna peered past Minerva’s enormous bulk at Dennis, who was making no secret of listening in.

“He said it was personal… and urgent.”

Spencer, Chantelle thought. It had to be. She tried to read Sienna’s eyes, and the answer she sought was there.

The only person who knew of her current mission was Sienna. Although her assistant hadn’t been with her long, Chantelle held deep conviction that this was a woman in whom she could put all her trust. Not only had Sienna been instrumental in arranging for her insemination at the clinic, but she had been the one who had suggested that, given the bind she was in, the sperm donor would be the perfect person to aid her. After all, the man had given up his sperm, which was a clear indication he had no attachments to it. He would not fight for custody or make her life more complicated than it needed to be.

“Dennis, get out. Sienna, patch him through.” Not even lingering to see if her commands were being obeyed, she strode over to her desk and waited by the phone. She heard Dennis slink by, and out of the corner of her eye watched him flatten himself to ooze past Sienna and Minerva, who were both standing in the doorway, both equally prepared to do him grievous harm.

Knowing that two loyal guardians had her back made her smile.

But when the call beeped through and Sienna let herself out with an encouraging nod, Chantelle stopped smiling. When you’d done as much business as she had, you know what once you had a fish on your hook, you bided your time until you know he was caught and caught good.

And then you reeled him in.

“Hello?” she asked coolly.

“Miss Moreau,” came the voice on the other end. Deep, melodious, tense.

“I think we’re way past the ‘Miss’ and ‘Mister’ stage now, Dustin.” She hoped her coolness made him squirm. She waited.

There was silence.

“You called me for a reason,” she prompted him.

“Yes. I was wondering if we could meet,” he ventured.

“It depends. I’m a busy woman. I don’t make time to meet unless there’s something in it for me.”

Dustin sighed deeply, sounding so full of cares and worries she felt a twinge of guilt. She knew she had him over a barrel. According to her investigator, the Spencer family was in financial trouble because Dustin’s sister, a teenager called Arabella, was in kidney failure. Chantelle knew how much they owed the hospital already, and knew it would skyrocket following surgical costs when—if—they were able to get her a viable kidney.

There was no need to feel bad about what she was doing. Chantelle repeated to herself. It wasn’t her fault his kid sister was sick, or that her medical bills were astronomical. If anything, she was now the closest thing that girl had to a fairy godmother. Just a wave of Chantelle’s exuberant cash wand and voilà, money for all medical needs and debt.

Chantelle listened, congratulating herself on her powers of negotiation, as he said, “I’ve reconsidered your proposition. Is it possible that we could meet this evening?”

Though tempted to toy with him a little longer - make him sweat until tomorrow - there was also such a thing as dragging a game out too long. “I can meet you in half an hour,” she responded, giving the name of an upscale restaurant a few blocks over; an overpriced and pretentious place, but she was accustomed to meeting clients there, and she felt comfortable. It was practically home turf.

He said instead, “Doesn’t sound like that would suit me. What about The Mudhole, in forty-five minutes?”

She couldn’t hide her shock. “You eat at a place called The Mudhole?”

She could practically hear him shrug. “They make a mean mudslide. I hear it’s got some sort of salted caramel brownie at the bottom. You should try it.”

She’d rather face plant into a swimming pool of tepid chocolate pudding. “I’ll stick with my usual vodka tonic—” Then she stopped. You’re pregnant, girl. “You know what, I think I’ll just have a ginger ale.”

She didn’t need to clarify: he seemed to understand. “I’ll have one waiting for you when you get there. Forty-five minutes. I’ll text you the location.” He ended the call before she even had the chance to say yea or nay.

It was as though a sliver of her power and command had dripped from her fingertips, and she didn’t like it one bit.

Asshole.