Her Inconvenient Groom by Niomie Roland

Chapter 5

 

“Dustin, baby,” the waitress bubbled as she set down the two drinks he had ordered. “How did you know I’m a sucker for ginger ale? Four years sober, ya know? But I don’t get off until eleven. The ice will melt.”

Dustin grinned at the 50-ish, bleached-blonde woman with a tattoo of a Celtic cross on the back of her hand… one he himself had put there more than a year ago. He knew Bea quite well. As senior waitress, she often put a good word in with management to help him pick up a few bartending shifts at The Mudhole on weekends.

“Right. Because I’m not scared that big man of yours wouldn’t rip off both my arms and use them as drumsticks.”

Bea leaned low and whispered into his ear, “Otis is on the road this week. Load of agricultural equipment up to Minnesota. Therefore, it’s you, me, and a motel key.” She wriggled her ample hips at him and swiveled away, cackling.

It was an old, familiar routine between them, and this evening, he was glad for a good joke to put his spirits at ease. Because what he had in mind was outrageous. Twice since he’d sat down at the bar, he’d fought back the urge to get the hell out of there. Not even calling Moreau to cancel. Just leave.

Because this was madness.

But he reminded himself that this was about Arabella, not him. She needed him, needed him desperately, and he was about to do what all brothers are supposed to do: step up.

He smelled her before he saw her. Surprised to discover that he remembered the faint floral scent of her expensive perfume lingering at the tattoo parlor for the rest of the day. It smelled like leaves falling to the earth.

He looked up to see her stand at his side, appearing like a wraith out of the mist, and immediately leaped to his feet, pulling out the high bar stool next to him. She nodded and sat, spotting the frosty ginger ale neatly placed in front of her seat, and took a long sip before saying anything.

That cloud of frost that surrounded her was almost tangible. The same air of untouchability that hit him that day when she walked into his shop. It made him shiver… but not in a bad way.

She turned to look at him. Her gaze cool and assessing, her voice modulated. “So?”

Clearly, she was tossing the ball into his court. Waiting to see what he would say or do. Fine. If she wanted to hand the reins over, he’d take them. He tilted his head in the direction of the lounge. “I booked a table. You hungry?”

She confirmed she was and got down from the bar stool with the grace of a long-legged lynx down a tree trunk and preceded him. Which he didn’t mind one bit, because it allowed him the opportunity to enjoy an appealing rear view, of her hair twisted up at the top of her head in that way women had, that made it look as if it had taken her all of two minutes, but which had probably been artfully arranged over half an hour.

Gold teardrops dangled from her ears, lightly brushing the tops of her slender shoulders. Today, the dress she was wearing was a deep green that reminded him of bottles, the kind good beer came in. And her narrow waist and flaring hips made him think of an entirely different type of bottle. This time, one that held his favorite, thirst-quenching soda.

Dustin felt his mouth go dry.

Her skirt was disappointingly long and demure, covering what he imagined would be spectacular knees and thighs. Her legs were encased in pantyhose just a shade darker than her rich skin, which made them look even longer and more shapely than they already were, and her feet were balanced upon shoes that looked almost too delicate to bear the weight of an adult woman. They gave her a few extra inches of height, but yet offered her no significant advantage, because even with her wearing them, he was half a head taller.

Stop gawking, stop gawking, stop gawking, he warned himself. This wasn’t a date; it was a business meeting. And the person who eventually held their mettle was the one who would hold the power.

He held out the chair for her, and she accepted it with a half-smile. He sat opposite her. Her hazel eyes held his without looking away.

Tension sat at the table like an uninvited guest.

“Why don’t we order first?” she suggested.

Bea glided over smoothly, as if she had been hovering, waiting on his signal. They both agreed they weren’t super hungry, so they ordered a couple platters of tapas and a few more drinks. Deciding to keep her company in not consuming alcohol, he ordered fresh-squeezed juices for both of them.

As soon as they were alone again, he allowed himself to examine her face. He had suspected that his brain had somehow embellished how attractive she was, his memory exaggerating the perfection of her face, the shape of her mouth, over the two days since they’d met. But that wasn’t so. She was inarguably as beautiful as he’d remembered. But this time there was a tautness around her mouth and eyes that spoke of tension. He wondered if it was meeting him that had her looking so rattled—or something else.

“You okay?”

Her brows flicked upward in surprise, as if she wasn’t often on the receiving of such concern. “Sure. Why?”

“You look a little… tense,” he said delicately. Dustin would hate for her to infer that she looked bad. Because she was anything but.

She shrugged. “Just have something on my mind, that’s all.”

“Work?” he asked sympathetically.

“I wish. Family issues.”

“The same family issues that have you looking for a husband?”

She gave him a look that said, I didn’t expect you to go there, and then shrugged again. “You could say that.”

Dustin could empathize, but not relate. He’d had a happy childhood, raised by parents who loved him and each other. He’d been devastated when he’d lost his mother at a young age, but his father had always been there for him. Even after his dad remarried when he was nineteen, he’d never felt that he wasn’t part of his father’s new family. And after the accident that killed his father, Dustin had become the rock for his siblings. As Arabella’s hospital bills mounted and his own fiancée took off, he gave up the condo he rented, moved into his stepmother’s home to cut costs down so he could offer even more financial support. With no rent or mortgage of his own and his car paid off, most of his income went towards his business’s upkeep and Arabella’s care.

Today, and everything that was to follow, was part of that sacrifice.

Their drinks arrived, and they each took a sip.

Briskly straightening her spine, Chantelle said, “Okay. Let’s get down to it, shall we? You called the meeting, so shoot.”

“I want you to know I called the fertility center to let them know their database had been breached. They’re looking into it.”

She squinted at him suspiciously. “What’s this, a shakedown? Are you threatening to blackmail me?”

“What? No!” he said hastily.

“Because let me assure you, I had the means to hire one of the best hacking teams available. Not that I needed it. It’s not like a sperm bank’s database is the Pentagon. They were in and out without a trace, and there certainly isn’t any evidence leading to me.”

“That’s not what I was trying to—”

“Also, that tech team is also backed up by an impressive legal team. If you were trying to tattle—”

“For God’s sake, Chantelle. This isn’t a shakedown! I’m not interested in threatening you. You came to me, remember?”

She looked as surprised as he felt. He’d said her name out loud, held it in his mouth, and discovered he liked it there.

He took a deep breath. Might as well get on with it. “Are you still looking for a husband?”

She seemed as keen as he was to get down to business. Defiant, even. “Yes.”

“And you are convinced that marriage is the only way to solve your issue? Whatever that is.”

Her lips twisted a little. “Unfortunately, yes.”

“And you’ve found no other suitable candidates?”

Over her shoulder, he noticed Bea standing there, platters balanced in her hands. Without a word, she delicately set them down, giving Chantelle an appraising look, taking in her tailored clothing, expensive jewelry, and careful makeup. Dustin knew he would catch hell from her about his mystery “date” later.

Chantelle waited until she was gone to respond. “No. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and for my benefit, it would be more appropriate to marry my baby’s biological father. Which is why I sought you out in the first place.”

“Okay,” he said, giving in to the inevitable. “I’ve thought about it, and I have decided to accept your proposal… proposition. I’m not sure what to call it.”

A look of triumph flickered across her face, a return of that self-confidence she wore like a mantle. “I expected you’d come around.”

The note of smug victory in her tone annoyed him—but not enough to make him back out. This was too important. “What made you so sure?” he asked.

She shrugged, peering at the patatas bravas on the platter but not picking up a morsel. “Your financial situation is a bit precarious.”

“So apart from hacking into sperm bank records, I guess your people had a field day with my creditors?” he said dryly. Trying not to let his embarrassment show in the presence of such obvious wealth.

“Distasteful, sorry. But it was a means to an end.”

Figuring that was about as much remorse as he’d get out of her, he went on, “But I have certain conditions—”

“You have conditions?” she exploded.

“I’m not the one desperate for a husband and breaking several laws just to walk into a stranger’s store dangling money in his face.”

She flushed hotly, and again, he was drawn to her coloring, the warmth of her skin and the flash of her eyes. “Go on, then.”

“First,” he said firmly, calmly leveraging what little negotiating advantage he had. “I want a guarantee that you are good for the money. I believe your price was one million dollars?”

She bristled. “What, do you think I can’t afford to pay you?”

“Unlike you, Chantelle, I don’t have a spy team at my disposal, able to come back to me with a detailed record of every nickel you possess, and how much you last spent on a mani-pedi. I don’t know you from Eve. How am I to know that this front you present, this patina of wealth, isn’t just that? How am I supposed to know that this isn’t some sort of massive scam?”

“To do what? Con you out of an over-mortgaged tattoo parlor and a ten-year-old car?”

He flinched, feeling himself redden. The fact that he was in a financial bind was one thing, but having it thrown in his face by a wealthy woman was emasculating and humiliating.

But he was here on a mission. If he had to get hit by a few arrows while dashing across enemy ground, so be it.

“I assure you I am good for it.” She folded her hands on the table. “Once you and I arrive at terms upon which we both agree, I can have the money in an escrow account by morning. So please proceed with your conditions.”

He wondered if he detected a hint of a sneer in the word conditions, as if she thought he was so powerless he couldn’t afford to have any. He was going to have to show her otherwise. “Second,” he said with authority, “is that the money is to be paid to my stepmother.”

The surprise on her face was clear. Did she expect him to leap at the money for himself?

He continued, “However, she must never know where this money has come from, and certainly not be able to connect it back to me.”

“How do you expect me to do that?”

“How the hell would I know?” He took another sip of his drink and popped a ridiculously tiny empanada into his mouth. “But if you have the means to hack a database, I’m sure you have the manpower and creativity to gift someone a million dollars in a way that won’t make them suspicious.”

She nodded slowly. “Fine. I can make that happen.”

“And, my family cannot know about this marriage. I love them too much to entangle them in this messy heap of lies, and I certainly am not about to explain myself.”

“No problem. It’s not like I’m planning to leak the news to the society pages.”

He cracked a smile. “Are you often in the society pages, Chantelle?”

“Often enough for them to know that the scandal of a lightning-fast marriage would sell a few copies. Or rather, in this day and age, be worth a few click-throughs.”

The idea of living in a fishbowl like that made him shudder. Having no money was limiting but having lots of it must have some drawbacks.  

“Are you done?” she asked.

“Can I request my favorite song for the married couple’s first dance?”

Surprisingly, she actually smiled. “The pomp of a fancy wedding will have to wait for my next marriage. This will be strictly a sign-on-the-dotted-line affair. Let me make this clear, we will be married, but you won’t be my husband.”

“So, no little bottles of bubble soap?”

“And no champagne.” The smile rose to her eyes, softening her face for the first time since he’d met her. He almost liked her like that.

“Awww.”

Then she grew serious again. “I agree to your conditions, and put forth some of my own.”

“Sure thing, boss.” He was kidding, but it did feel in some way as if he was selling himself, or at least temporarily hiring himself out to a ridiculously high bidder.

“Don’t try to be funny. This is a business arrangement. I am not your employer.” She began counting on her fingers. “Condition number one. You must sign a prenup. It will explicitly state that you are to inherit nothing upon the dissolution of our marriage or my death in either the United States courts, or those of France—”

Ah, so that was the source of the accent. “You’re French?”

“On my mother’s side, yes. My mom was born in Haiti, but moved to France when she married my father. I was born in France and lived there until I was twelve.”

“Okay. I figured you might be Canadian or something.” He grinned wickedly, guessing that if there was one way to annoy a French person, it was to suggest they might be from Canada. The flicker of irritation on her face told him he was right.

She responded with dignity and pride. “My family is from Provence, in the south. Near the Mediterranean coast.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“It is,” was her wistful response. Then she seemed to give herself a mental shaking. “As I was saying, I need it to be clearly understood that the million dollars we have agreed upon will be the only monetary benefit for you from this arrangement.”

He said, a little too sharply. “I may be many things, but greedy isn’t one of them.”

She went on unperturbed. “Second, you will have no rights over the baby when he or she is born. Your only connection to my child is DNA. You are not the daddy; you are and will continue to be the donor. Do you understand me?”

“Loud and clear.” Yet he wasn’t sure how he felt about that. He’d grown up believing in family, and that family did for each other whatever was necessary… after all, his sister Arabella was the only reason he was here. But while he had never dreamed of fatherhood, he’d always imagined that it would be in his future. The idea that his progeny would soon be brought into this world and have nothing to do with him, ever, was unsettling.

“Third,” she began.

“I only laid down two.”

“A million dollars says I get to make as many rules as I want.”

“Fair enough.”

“Third,” she repeated, “this is to be a marriage in name only. We will not live together. We will not attempt to present to anyone outside of this agreement that it is anything that it is not. No public displays, no handholding and, most importantly, no sex.”

Ouch. He’d been told no before… every man has, at least once. But to be told a preemptive no… well, that stung a little. “No problem,” he retorted. “It never crossed my mind. You aren’t my type.”

It was her turn to flinch. “I’m not your ‘type’? What type would that be?”

“You’re too uptight. Your blouse is buttoned up so high, I’m surprised you can breathe. You look as if smiling aches a bit, and laughter would bring you physical pain. I bet you grind your teeth in your sleep.”

“According to the terms of our agreement, you’ll never get to find out how I sleep,” she shot back smartly.

He’d asked for that. “Anything else?”

She paused, as if thinking. Then she said, “I think that covers it. You stick to your end of the deal, and I will stick to mine.”

“Then, a deal it is.” He lifted his drink to hers and they clinked glasses. When they were done with their drinks, silence fell again, and Dustin realized that this meeting was over. They had barely touched their food, and his unsettled stomach wasn’t sure if it was hungry or not. He signaled to Bea for the check and boxes to pack everything away. Even if he wasn’t interested, Aaron and Kim would enjoy the treat.

As Bea placed the check squarely in the middle of the table, Chantelle reached for her purse almost automatically, like a drone. He stopped her, resting his hand gently upon hers. Her hand was warm and soft. He didn’t say a word, but she withdrew and let him pay. He had the impression that it wasn’t often that people around her didn’t just sit back and allow her to buy them things, even something as simple as tapas and a drink.

He felt a little sorry for her.

They walked into the evening air side by side, with Dustin feeling Bea’s frankly curious stare at the back of his head.

Then he turned to Chantelle to suggest they speak again the next day, but hadn’t even opened his mouth when he realized that she’d gone ashen. “You okay?” Was she hungry? She hadn’t had a bite.

She didn’t answer, but her eyelashes began to flutter, scaring him. “Chantelle!”

Before his eyes, she began to deflate, slowly, listing to one side. His hands shot reflexively out to her, grasping her before she could slide any farther.

She shook awareness back into her head, pressing her fingers to her temple. “It’s fine. I’m fine.”

“You aren’t fine. You looked about to faint.”

“I’m just tired—”

“You’re pregnant.”

“Yeah. And dizziness is part of the package. It’sfine, dammit. Just a little vertigo.” She pointed at a long, sleek, dark gray vehicle in the parking lot. “My driver’s waiting for me. I’ll just go home and lie down.”

He nodded, but as he fell into step next to her, she gave him a surprised look. “You don’t have to walk me over. I’m not an invalid.”

“That doesn’t mean I’m not a decent human being,” he reminded her.

As he continued to walk her back to the car, she didn’t argue.