A Ruthless Proposition Page 14

  He looked uncomfortable and his broad shoulders shifted restlessly.

  “It was not my intention to humiliate you.”

  His words infuriated her and opened her eyes to the fact that she was a lot angrier about the embarrassing experience than she realized.

  “Is that an apology? Because if it is, it needs work.”

  “Look, this is not getting us anywhere,” he deflected. “I would like to offer you another position.”

  “Back in HR?” she asked, allowing the subject change. For now.

  “No, there would be too many uncomfortable questions. I want to move you to the Joburg office.”

  Oh, he wanted to move her to an unfamiliar office, in a strange city miles away from her family and friends, did he? And far, far away from him. Wouldn’t that just make his life a whole lot easier? Not that Cleo was interested in making it difficult; she just wanted to move on with her own life and forget she even knew Dante Damaso.

  “I can’t move to Johannesburg,” she stated, her voice brooking no argument.

  “Look, be reasonable. You can hardly raise a kid without some form of employment to bolster the financial aid you’ll be receiving from me.”

  “You be reasonable. If I take you up on this offer, I may have the benefit of an added income, but I won’t have the emotional support I would need from my family and friends. This is my first pregnancy, I’ll be going it solo, and I’ll want my brother, Blue, and my other close friends around. I’ll want familiar surroundings. The last thing I want or need right now is to move to an unfamiliar city.”

  He was quiet for a long time before conceding the point with a very brief dip of his jaw.

  “Give me time and I’ll try to arrange something else,” he said.

  “I don’t need any favors from you, Mr. Damaso.” He looked almost embarrassed by the honorific he had insisted she use just the day before. “Just child support. You are in no way responsible for any other part of my life.”

  “Nonetheless, I am the reason you no longer have a job. I acted hastily and would like to make amends for that.”

  “A glowing reference would do just fine, thank you,” she said, while the inner voice that had tried to warn her on that first night in Tokyo protested again. As before, she didn’t listen to it, and Cleo hoped she wouldn’t wind up—once again—paying for her refusal to heed her common sense. But she had some pride, and depending on him for child support was bad enough; she didn’t want to depend on him for her very livelihood too, not after he had so unceremoniously fired her the day before. Yet another thing, she noted, that he had not yet apologized for.

  “So how does this paternity-test thing work?” He changed the subject rather abruptly and looked remarkably uncomfortable with his own question.

  “Well, you’re the one who wants proof that the baby is yours, so you’re going to have to arrange for that.”

  “They have prenatal tests, right?”

  “I will accept only noninvasive testing. Anything else could potentially harm my baby.” He grunted, a sound she assumed meant assent. “And you’re paying for it. I’m not paying for some stupid test I already know the answer to.”

  “I have to protect myself,” he said almost defensively. “You’re not the first woman to ever accuse me of fathering her baby.”

  “Oh God, you mean you have other illegitimate kids running around out there?”

  “Of course not! Those other women weren’t even pregnant.” He looked so disgusted that Cleo almost felt sorry for him. It couldn’t be easy to be the target of so many gold diggers—no wonder he had them all sign nondisclosure agreements. Then again, how many good, decent women had he scared off with that stupid document? His personal life was crazy and a little messed up, and she was happy enough to stay well away from it.

  “Maybe you should consider limiting yourself to—I don’t know—one or two serious relationships a year, with nicer women. You may find life a lot easier in the long run.”

  “The thing with you wasn’t a relationship and it wasn’t—” She held up a hand to shut him up. Surprisingly enough it worked.

  “Spare me. I’ve heard it all before. Blah, blah, ‘you’re not my usual type’ blah, blah, ‘it wasn’t serious’ blah, blah, blah. You’re like a broken record, Mr. Damaso. It gets tedious after a while. Now would you please mind leaving me alone? I have stuff to do.”

  “For God’s sake, call me Dante,” he commanded, and she sighed before crossing her arms over her chest.

  “I prefer ‘Mr. Damaso.’ It keeps things businesslike and impersonal. Besides, I hope never to see you again after this, so does it matter what I call you?”

  “I suppose not.” He levered himself up from the table and stood towering above her for a few long moments before she scrambled to her feet to feel less small. The hasty movement immediately sent her stomach into turmoil, and she clapped a hand over her mouth and pushed past him to the bathroom, where she was violently ill.

  When she eventually came back to her miserable senses, it was to find Dante Damaso on his haunches beside where she was hunched wretchedly over the commode, one of his large hands stroking her back soothingly. Appalled that he had seen her like that, she shrugged off his touch and moved away from him shakily, ignoring him when he reached down to help her stand.

  He allowed her that small, defiant move and stood back and watched while she splashed water on her face—soaking the front of her robe in the process—and gargled some mouthwash. She pretended he wasn’t there and exited the bathroom to return to the living room with her spine straight and her chin up.

  “Maybe you should lie down or something,” he suggested, and she swallowed down her irritation as she glanced over her shoulder to find him watching her from the bathroom door.

  “Why are you still here?” She trudged the short distance to her room, shrugged out of her wet robe, and hung it from a hook on her wall to dry. Unfortunately, he followed her. Could the man not take a hint?

  He shoved his hands into his trouser pockets and glanced around her bedroom, taking in the clothes that were draped over every surface, the posters of ballet and contemporary dancers that adorned her beige walls, and the ragged pointe shoes that were hanging from one of the posts of her gorgeous, antique, queen-size four-poster bed. She loved that bed, had brought it with her from her old bedroom in the house when she moved out. It cost the earth to transport it every time she moved, but she would never sell it or leave it behind.

  “I can’t figure out if this room is a teen dream or nightmare,” he mused, and leveled that killer gaze on her again. “A bit juvenile, isn’t it? Do you plan to move out of this dump before you have the baby?”

  “None of your damned business. Please leave,” she demanded wearily. He sighed impatiently and turned to walk the short distance to her bedroom door.

  “Mike Grayson, my attorney, will be in touch.” He threw the words over his shoulder as he reached for the front door. She trailed him back into the living room and was startled when he unexpectedly turned around again to look at her. “Eat something. You look like hell.”

  And with that parting shot, he was gone, leaving Cleo feeling absolutely drained in his wake. Her legs turned to liquid as she finally allowed herself to relax, and she sank down onto the sleeper couch.

  The door opened again seconds later and surprised the hell out of her. She jumped—instantly back on alert—when his head popped through the opening.

  “And lock the damned door!” he ordered before leaving again. She stared at the closed door in complete disbelief, before forcing herself up to do just as he’d commanded. More as a deterrent against any more unwelcome visits from him than out of any real fear of an intruder.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Ten days and one simple cheek swab later, Dante sat in his office and stared at the discreet, still-closed envelope he held in his hands. He knew what it would say; he’d known since that first meeting with Mike. A mercenary woman would have demanded far mo
re from him than Cleo had.

  “It doesn’t matter,” he said aloud. And it didn’t. It couldn’t. This kid wouldn’t be his in any way except biologically, and he could live with that. He could quite happily live with that. Why should he sacrifice his freedom for what amounted to a stupid mistake? Cleo chose to keep the baby, and Dante chose not to know the child. They could both live with that.

  And someday—when it was old enough—the kid would have to live with that too.

  He would have to live with the knowledge that his father had chosen not to know him. Or love him.

  Dante noticed, almost impassively, that his hands had started to shake, and he dropped the envelope onto his desk and clenched his fists to control the tremble. He picked it up again seconds later, took in a huge gulp of air, and tore it open—the violence of the gesture akin to ripping a Band-Aid off a wound.

  He unfolded the slip of paper carefully, reading through the scientific jargon before getting to the most relevant bit.

  Cannot be excluded as the father of the child . . . probability of paternity 99.9992%

  Right.

  He refolded the paper precisely along the original lines and noted that his hands were trembling again. He meticulously placed it back into its envelope and then smoothed it carefully flat on the desk’s surface before tucking it away into the breast pocket of his jacket. Once there, it felt like it was burning a hole into his chest, so he removed it again and shoved it into his desk drawer. He locked the drawer and tucked the key into his breast pocket.

  He had anticipated this; he had known it was coming, so now he could continue with his life as planned. This matter was already taken care of; Mike had only been waiting for confirmation of the child’s paternity before he made the financial arrangements. It was out of Dante’s hands now. He could get back to business. He could build more hotels; go out with gorgeous, glamorous women; and one day—years from now—even marry one of them. That woman would be the mother of his children. Simple and uncomplicated, that’s how he liked his life. And the woman he chose to be his wife would have to be equally simple and uncomplicated. Someone who could make his life easier without needing constant attention and validation. Cleo and the baby were just obstacles to overcome before he could get back out onto the open, uncomplicated road of his life again. He need never think of them again.

  Only . . .

  He couldn’t help but recall the last time he’d seen Cleo, and he wondered if she’d found another job. And if she’d moved into a better, more secure apartment yet. Were the tips of her glossy black hair still that horrendous shade of pink?

  Did she still suffer from morning sickness?

  What wonders did week fourteen hold?

  Mierda!

  He had to stop thinking about this. He picked up his phone and thumbed through his contacts before finding the name he was searching for.

  “Nicki, querida, this is Dante. Do you want to meet for a drink later?”

  He was going to get this situation out of his mind in a time-honored tradition. With booze, babes, and lots and lots of sex.

  Cleo read the test results, laughed, then cried a little and laughed again before tearing the paper up and tossing the pieces in the bin. She would probably hear from Grantley Bingham, her grandparents’ really ancient attorney, soon. Mr. Bingham had kindly offered to help her out for a fraction of his usual fee because he felt he owed it to her grandparents. He’d been dealing directly with Dante’s attorney and had informed her that things were going along swimmingly at the moment.

  The old man was sweet, and despite knowing her for her entire life, had remained completely nonjudgmental and professional throughout their proceedings. He had merely congratulated her on her pregnancy and kept giving her unwanted advice on everything from morning sickness to baby names.

  Cleo rested a hand on the still-flat surface of her abdomen. She still suffered from morning sickness, but luckily it wasn’t too debilitating anymore. Even though her book told her that her energy should be returning, she continued to feel lethargic, which she put down to a mild case of depression. She didn’t have a job yet, and once she started showing it would be even more difficult to find anything. Luc and Blue had been pressing her to move in with them, and it was becoming the likeliest scenario for her.

  Luc had been seriously pissed off with her when she’d told him that she’d quit her job, and he’d put it down to “Cleo being her usual irresponsible self.” Cleo had said and done nothing to correct him.

  Cleo was scared and felt alone and lonely, despite Cal’s constant and overbearing presence and Luc and Blue’s smothering. Most nights she woke up in an absolute panic, with cold sweat dripping down her body—terrified of screwing up her baby’s life—and she had absolutely no one to talk to about that.

  She had her first dating ultrasound coming up in a couple of days and hadn’t even told Blue about it. The appointment was for midday, and she didn’t want Blue to take off any more time from work to go with her. Luc managed a small IT company in a rundown industrial part of town, and the place always seemed to fall completely apart when he wasn’t there. She could take Cal, but quite frankly, she’d rather go alone; he tended to irritate her when she felt even remotely stressed.

  She looked around her flat and sighed. She’d been cooped up in here for too long. She hadn’t ventured out much due to a lack of funds and a lack of desire to do anything remotely social. But she was unaccustomed to going so long without any form of exercise, and it was starting to give her a dose of cabin fever.

  She resolutely went about collecting her leotard, a gauzy crepe wrap skirt, tights, and pointe shoes and stuffed them into a tote bag. She tied her short hair up into a small, tight ponytail and grabbed up her coat on her way out the door.

  It was midspring, but the air still had a bite, and it had been an unseasonably rainy October. A fine, misty rain fell outside, and as she walked the short distance to her favorite dance studio, the light precipitation frizzed her hair and dampened her face. The air smelled clean and she inhaled deeply. She would have to pay for her entry into the studio, and she couldn’t really afford to spend the money, but she really needed this.

  “Cleo, we haven’t seen you in months,” Susan Killian, the owner of the studio, enthused when Cleo entered the place. She was all smiles and came around the reception desk to give Cleo a hug. The woman was short and comfortably plump, she had unnaturally brassy red hair—always up in a messy bun—wore too much makeup, and had glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She had a habit of staring over the top of them when she was speaking to someone, which made her look like an aging librarian. She was still hugging Cleo—who was only an inch or two taller than the other woman—to her ample chest, enveloping her in an overpowering cloud of Red Door by Elizabeth Arden. Susan had been a pretty decent dancer back in her heyday, before retiring and opening the dance studio. Now she taught ballet to girls ranging in age from just three to fifteen as well as an adult beginner’s class in the evenings. She had often tried to enlist Cleo’s help with a couple of the classes, but Cleo was resistant to the idea. She felt that taking the step toward teaching would be the final nail in her dancing dream’s coffin, and as she’d told Blue, she honestly didn’t think she had it in her to genuinely want her students to succeed. Which just made her feel like a terrible person. Even though she hadn’t danced professionally in more than three years, she’d never felt like it was completely lost to her. Now with the pregnancy, she knew that she’d have to finally face reality. Time to grow up.

  “I’ve had a few personal issues to deal with,” Cleo said, explaining her absence. “Can I book some time at the barre?”

  “Of course you can.” Susan waved a hand carelessly. “I’m between classes right now, and the studio’s practically empty.”

  “Thanks, Susan.”

  Ten minutes later, as she was going through her stretching routine, she could feel the stiffness working its way out of her joints and muscles. The familiar
routine felt like a comfortable blanket settling over her, and she cleared her mind entirely and focused only on her body. She moved on to her barre routine soon afterward, her intention to do a slow, easy workout in deference to her pregnancy and the lethargy she still felt. She’d brought her own CD along, and as the soothing strains of the piano solo flowed over her, she started slowly and gently and dropped into her demi-pliés. Simple and smooth. This was home to her.

  By the time she’d progressed to her en pointe exercises, she was starting to feel a bit of strain in her knee, but she worked through it. She’d definitely encourage her child to dance, and hopefully he or she would derive as much joy and freedom from it as Cleo did. If not, she hoped they found something they loved as passionately.

  She released the barre and moved into a fluid, easy arabesque en pointe on the left leg and held it for a couple of seconds longer than she normally would have, just to prove to herself that she could do it. When she moved to do it on the right leg, her knee immediately buckled, and she fell out of the arabesque with a frustrated cry. She grabbed hold of the barre with both hands and bowed her head in defeat.

  “Stupid, stupid, stupid!” she admonished herself. And it had been stupid; she’d known it would happen. It always did, and yet, even three years after her accident, she kept trying. She was too stubborn for her own good sometimes. And dumb, definitely dumb.

  She regained her composure and started her cooldown exercises, cutting her routine short because she felt disheartened and seriously exhausted. A telling sign that, even though it wasn’t showing yet, her pregnancy was already changing her body. She could usually push herself twice as hard at the barre.

  Susan was reading a romance novel behind the reception desk when Cleo limped her way out of the studio, and she frowned in concern.

  “Have you been silly again?” she asked, giving Cleo a disapproving glare over the top of her glasses.

  “No more than usual.” Cleo shrugged and slung a towel around her neck. She hadn’t bothered to change—merely pulled on a sweat suit to keep her muscles warm. She could be at home and under the shower in less than ten minutes, the studio was so close to her apartment. That was one of the reasons she’d found the apartment so appealing in the first place, despite its many other faults.