He told her so.
“Mr. Spencer, I would prefer if you refrained from questioning my sanity.” Her lips were pursed tightly now, and she was positively shimmering with irritation.
He finished his own water, capped the bottle and tossed it overarm into the recycle bin. “Miss, is this a prank?”
It was her turn to say, “Excuse me?”
“IsPunk’dback on the air? Are cameras rolling? Because, sweetheart, there is no way on God’s green Earth that you could be having my—”
“Paradisio Falls Cryos Center.”
Thud thud thud. Her words fell like toppling bricks. He was glad he was done drinking the water. Dustin was sure he would have choked otherwise. “What are you talking about? What do you mean?” he faltered.
“It’s a fertility clinic,” she prodded.
“Iknowit’s a sperm bank. I’m just asking—” He paused again, and then gasped. “Oh, good God!” Took him long enough, but finally he understood. A couple of years ago, he’d made a deposit at the sperm bank. All because he’d lost a stupid Superbowl bet he’d been too drunk to remember making. A couple of days later, once he was sober enough to be embarrassed about what was required of him, enough to be kicking himself for his rash foolishness, he was as good as his word and done the deed, emerging to his screeching, howling jackass friends pounding him on the back and making jokes about him single-handedly lowering the global IQ if any woman was stupid enough to choose his sperm.
He took his ribbing in stride, but later felt bad about it, because it didn’t feel right that life from his body should begin because he’d backed a stupid team in a stupid game and lost. It had been a one-off deal. And he had planned on calling them to have it disposed of, but his dad had passed away and he’d forgotten all about it.
“Are you telling me that—” He couldn’t even finish the thought.
She was smiling, a mixture of triumph andwho’s crazy now?written all over her face.
“You’re pregnant with my—” he pointed downward past his belt, in the vague direction of Little Dustin. (Well, Not-So-Little Dustin.)
“With your sperm, yes.”
Of all the things he’d imagined would happen to him today, this wasn’t one of them. He was so confused, he found himself stuttering. “But how do you know it’s mine? That information is confidential. The sperm bank is supposed to keep my identity a secret unless I give consent. Aren’t they?”
“I suppose.”
“I can’t remember giving my consent. How do you know it’s mine?”
She twinkled at him, face lighting up, even more beautiful in mocking triumph. “When you can afford to pay well for the information you want.” She tossed her hair, confident now that she had the upper hand. Now that she had used her revelation like a sucker punch to the solar plexus, leaving him winded.
“Now, Dustin, may I call you Dustin?” She barely waited for his nod before going on. “What’s it going to take to get you to marry me?”
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, notbeg. 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.