Except that now, Dustin had no idea what to do. How to help. Sell the car? Sell the shop? But if he did, how would they eat?
Sell more sperm? The idea came out of nowhere as he began to undress, with the shower water running, heating up. That idle thought made him laugh. Even if he sold a thousand samples, it wouldn’t be enough to make a dent in the family’s debt. And the idea was just too stupid.
As his jeans hit the floor, he spotted a bit of white sticking out of a pocket. He bent over and retrieved it.
“Huh,” he breathed. He hadn’t even remembered placing it in his pocket. A business card, a rectangle of richly textured linen stock. All it said was:Chantelle M. Clarkand a couple of numbers.
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—”