“Step-brother,” he reminded her.
“Whatever. May I remind you that I have done what I have done, and have full power to do so. Seeing how I’m the CEO and—”
“And there’s the real problem,” he sneered. “The fact that you hold this position leaves my brother and me, in the unenviable position of watching you run this company into the ground with your lack of grit. To the detriment of all our shareholders—”
“In the year since I took control,” she reminded him, “our shareholders have been very happy with their dividends. If you two think it’s time to plan another coup d’état, let me warn you: You’ve failed before, and you will fail again.”
As she said those words, she felt her face and eyes sting with the memory of having to raise every legal defense, mount every strategy she could think of to prevent her brothers from ousting her and claiming the throne for themselves based on their claims that she wasn’t a Clark through blood. But the judge had deemed her adoption by Simon Clark as legal and binding. She was legally a Clark and nobody could undermine that. She’d fought them off before, and she would fight them off again.
His pale skin became mottled with fury. He guessed he was embarrassed because she’d known exactly what he had been thinking. He glanced from her to the cat and back again. “You look like a Bond villain!” Like a little boy attacking the person rather than the issue.
“Meow,” she said. Channeling Eartha Kitt like a boss.
Which didn’t help matters. He decided to get even uglier. “The only reason you’re CEO and not me is that your mother took advantage of my father while he grieved for the love of his life. She threw that curvy ass of hers so relentlessly at my father that he could barely see straight, much less make a decent business decision.”
Chantelle clasped the cat closer to her chest, merely to give her something to hold on to, as she was assailed by the image of herself weaponizing the animal, who was growling dangerously, and launching her at his face like a fanged rocket. Because something told her Minerva was itching for the chance. Although she wasn’t crazy happy with her mother at the moment, she wouldn’t allow her to be disrespected. “I advise you to remove my mother’s name from your mouth.”
Dennis went on bitterly, “My mother wasn’t in her grave for a good thirty days before he married that bit—”
“Watch your mouth,” she warned, very softly.
“He didn’t have to marry that woman or adopt her brat!”
“Dennis—”
“And knowing how much there was at stake for your bottom line, and your ability to wrap my father around your finger from day one, it begs the question if you didn’t even—”
The crack of flesh hitting flesh echoed in the large office, and Chantelle watched in disembodied surprise as four parallel stripes, created by her fingers, bloomed red on his cheek. The cat was on the floor, having struggled free the moment she’d drawn her hand back, and darted behind her legs.
Dennis’s hand rose to touch his cheek, and then he looked down at his open palm as if he expected to see blood.
Chantelle’s fingers stung from the slap, and she was glad; if her fingers hurt, his face hurt worse. “Don’t ever say anything that filthy to me again; not about me, and not about my mother. Are we clear?”
He looked a little ashamed, as if he’d shocked even himself with what he’d said. He couldn’t even meet her eye. She wondered if she should just throw him out of her office now, or get security to come do it for her.
Before she could give him the option, the door burst open and her assistant, Sienna, stepped inside. Sienna was a recent hire; young, beautiful, with smooth dark skin and thick hair that spent the day in a professional updo only to be released by night, curling around her shoulders like a wild thing.
Today she looked agitated, and Chantelle could understand why. Sienna rarely, if ever, barged into her office like this, especially when she knew she had a visitor.
Even if it was her filthy-mouthed, filthy-mindedstep-brother.
“I’m sorry, Chantelle. You know I normally wouldn’t, but….” She glanced awkwardly at Dennis, who had turned his back to Sienna, and was studiously looking out the floor-to-ceiling glass panes of her penthouse office.
Chantelle knew he would rather die than allow an underling to see him in an uncomfortable position. She also rather suspected that Sienna had sussed that the conversation had taken an unpleasant turn and had decided to rush in and rescue her.
She didn’t need rescuing, not from this petulant, whiny little shadow of a man, but full marks for trying. “What is it, Sienna?” she asked coolly.
Minerva sauntered out from behind Chantelle’s legs, throwing dirty looks at Dennis all the way, and placed herself before Sienna, demanding upsies in a loud voice. Sienna picked her up, cooing. Then she answered Chantelle’s question. “There’s a caller on the line… It’s the call you’ve been expecting….”
Sienna let those words hang in the air. Weighty. Significant.
It couldn’t be.“And did this person happen to mention the nature of his call?”
Awkwardly, Sienna peered past Minerva’s enormous bulk at Dennis, who was making no secret of listening in.
“He said it was personal… and urgent.”
Spencer,Chantelle thought. It had to be. She tried to read Sienna’s eyes, and the answer she sought was there.