Chantelle felt a wave of warmth flow over her. She stopped at a booth that was selling sterling silver hand-crafted bracelets and earrings, focusing her attention on those rather than his proximity.
He asked, “What were you planning to do?”
She shrugged. “The baby’s name, I guess.”
She wondered if he was going to ask whether she had chosen any names yet, but instead he said, “You could also do the baby’s footprint. That’s pretty popular. Or a spectrogram. It’s a visual representation of any sound, expressed in waves and lines. A lot of new moms use the sound of their baby’s heartbeat on the ultrasound, or its first cries….”
She stared at him, unable to conceal her delight. “What wonderful ideas! I’d definitely try that.”
He looked almost surprised at her approval, as if he’d expected her to dismiss his ideas out of hand. Did she really radiate such negative energy towards him? she wondered.
“Better to wait until after you have the baby,” he advised. “Although with modern sterilization techniques, the risk of infection is very low, it’s still best not to give your body yet another challenge to deal with… on top of manufacturing another entire human being.”
She nodded, taking his advice. “Thank you.”
They began walking again, and Dustin once again fell naturally into the role of guide, patiently explaining the contents of the different booths. A couple of hours later, as they headed for the steps of the hall, Chantelle’s arms loaded with art books, drawings, brochures, and giveaways, she realized that she enjoyed her time. “This is why I chose you, you know,” she blurted.
“Excuse me?”
“Your love of art, your talent. You mentioned it extensively in your profile at the clinic. This is why I chose you—or at least, your sperm.”
His smile was surprised, perplexed. “That’s an awesome compliment. Thank you.”
She hastened to brush it away. “Well, it’s only because I’m so analytical, you know? I figured I’d get some more artistic genes to balance it out. It’s not personal.”
“Uh-huh,” he said agreeably. But he was smiling.
Chapter 14
Winning felt good, Dustin thought. He liked winning. And while this wasn’t the first art competition he’d won in his career, it was the first in a long time, what with the past couple of years being consumed with concern over Arabella’s health and the need to pay for her care.
By the last day of the competition, he and Onyx had finished the elaborate back tattoo they had designed for their model: a scene from the Garden of Eden, complete with serpent, the forbidden fruit, and humanity’s first lovers. Rather than lean heavily on the religious overtones of the old masters, their artwork conveyed a kind of risky sensuality, a hunger for the knowledge hidden within the branches of the tree, and a crackling, sensual energy arcing between man, woman, and demon. The church of previous centuries would have been scandalized, but the judges had given it the thumbs-up… as did voters who’d named it the People’s Choice.
Now, he was sitting in a nice Mediterranean restaurant with Onyx, her business partner, Frederic, and Chantelle. The prize money had been good, and he was proud to be able to use a little of it to pay for the meal. It was a welcome respite from the discomfort of relying on meals provided under Chantelle’s roof, where at the back of his head he always felt like a vaguely unwelcome guest.
The air was still alive with the enthusiasm and joy of victory, and it had been especially rewarding when Chantelle had beamed at him and congratulated him on his win. He was surprised to note how much her approval meant to him.
Lunch was proceeding splendidly or would have, if the undercurrents weren’t so strong. Onyx had placed herself at his side, and was clearly flirting with him. Her usually revealing outfit was even more so today. An anime-influenced pink and white bra top and micro-mini, with knee-high white latex boots and an assortment of tinkling earrings. She seemed determined to dominate the conversation, and when Chantelle slipped in a few words, she hastened to interrupt or override.
Chantelle, classy as always, responded only with a lifted brow and a half-smile, as if Onyx wasn’t worth engaging.
Frederic, for his part, proved to be genuinely annoying. He lost no time in boasting about his Catalan roots, and in his nasal southern drawl went on interminably about why the region should regain its independence from France.
All the while, he kept encroaching upon Chantelle’s space, frequently trying to draw her into a conversation in French, even though he knew that it would exclude Dustin. It was almost as if he wished Dustin wasn’t at the table… so he could make his moves on Chantelle in peace.
Which rankled.
Chantelle didn’t seem to mind the side conversation; soon, they were chatting away in French that was way too fast for him to even guess at the subject matter. And from time to time, she laughed, a musical sound that drew Dustin’s attention every time. It was both enchanting and annoying. Enchanting because he loved the clarity of her laugh, and annoying because since he’d met her, he’d only elicited laughter from her once.
He wondered what he could do to make her laugh like that again.
Then, two things happened. First, Onyx gave him a sly, sidelong look, and let her hand fall upon his thigh under the table. He flinched, drew away, and shot her a warning look. She widened her eyes at him, as if she had no idea what the problem was. And then she did it again.
Second, he noticed that Chantelle was laughing so hard that she had to pause to catch her breath. Bringing her glass of flavored water—which, he’d discovered, was her addiction—to her pretty lips. Dustin watched as the too-slick, grinning ass across from him let his hand fall upon Chantelle’s. And left it there.
He felt his head go hot. He was sure he made a sound, because all eyes turned to him.
Lazily, almost tauntingly, Frederic slowly said, “Oh, Dustin,mon ami.I apologize if we have cut you out of the conversation. It’s just that this enchanting creature is simply so witty.” He twinkled at Chantelle in a way that made Dustin want to smack the sneer off his oily face. “But please, do tell us. What do you plan to do with the prize money? I’m sure a man like you would have great need of it, no?”