The only person who knew of her current mission was Sienna. Although her assistant hadn’t been with her long, Chantelle held deep conviction that this was a woman in whom she could put all her trust. Not only had Sienna been instrumental in arranging for her insemination at the clinic, but she had been the one who had suggested that, given the bind she was in, the sperm donor would be the perfect person to aid her. After all, the man had given up his sperm, which was a clear indication he had no attachments to it. He would not fight for custody or make her life more complicated than it needed to be.
“Dennis, get out. Sienna, patch him through.” Not even lingering to see if her commands were being obeyed, she strode over to her desk and waited by the phone. She heard Dennis slink by, and out of the corner of her eye watched him flatten himself to ooze past Sienna and Minerva, who were both standing in the doorway, both equally prepared to do him grievous harm.
Knowing that two loyal guardians had her back made her smile.
But when the call beeped through and Sienna let herself out with an encouraging nod, Chantelle stopped smiling. When you’d done as much business as she had, you know what once you had a fish on your hook, you bided your time until you know he was caught and caught good.
And then you reeled him in.
“Hello?” she asked coolly.
“Miss Moreau,” came the voice on the other end. Deep, melodious, tense.
“I think we’re way past the ‘Miss’ and ‘Mister’ stage now, Dustin.” She hoped her coolness made him squirm. She waited.
There was silence.
“You called me for a reason,” she prompted him.
“Yes. I was wondering if we could meet,” he ventured.
“It depends. I’m a busy woman. I don’t make time to meet unless there’s something in it for me.”
Dustin sighed deeply, sounding so full of cares and worries she felt a twinge of guilt. She knew she had him over a barrel. According to her investigator, the Spencer family was in financial trouble because Dustin’s sister, a teenager called Arabella, was in kidney failure. Chantelle knew how much they owed the hospital already, and knew it would skyrocket following surgical costs when—if—they were able to get her a viable kidney.
There was no need to feel bad about what she was doing. Chantelle repeated to herself. It wasn’t her fault his kid sister was sick, or that her medical bills were astronomical. If anything, she was now the closest thing that girl had to a fairy godmother. Just a wave of Chantelle’s exuberant cash wand and voilà, money for all medical needs and debt.
Chantelle listened, congratulating herself on her powers of negotiation, as he said, “I’ve reconsidered your proposition. Is it possible that we could meet this evening?”
Though tempted to toy with him a little longer - make him sweat until tomorrow - there was also such a thing as dragging a game out too long. “I can meet you in half an hour,” she responded, giving the name of an upscale restaurant a few blocks over; an overpriced and pretentious place, but she was accustomed to meeting clients there, and she felt comfortable. It was practically home turf.
He said instead, “Doesn’t sound like that would suit me. What about The Mudhole, in forty-five minutes?”
She couldn’t hide her shock. “You eat at a place calledThe Mudhole?”
She could practically hear him shrug. “They make a mean mudslide. I hear it’s got some sort of salted caramel brownie at the bottom. You should try it.”
She’d rather face plant into a swimming pool of tepid chocolate pudding. “I’ll stick with my usual vodka tonic—” Then she stopped.You’re pregnant, girl. “You know what, I think I’ll just have a ginger ale.”
She didn’t need to clarify: he seemed to understand. “I’ll have one waiting for you when you get there. Forty-five minutes. I’ll text you the location.” He ended the call before she even had the chance to say yea or nay.
It was as though a sliver of her power and command had dripped from her fingertips, and she didn’t like it one bit.
Asshole.
Chapter 5
“Dustin, baby,” the waitress bubbled as she set down the two drinks he had ordered. “How did you know I’m a sucker for ginger ale? Four years sober, ya know? But I don’t get off until eleven. The ice will melt.”
Dustin grinned at the 50-ish, bleached-blonde woman with a tattoo of a Celtic cross on the back of her hand… one he himself had put there more than a year ago. He knew Bea quite well. As senior waitress, she often put a good word in with management to help him pick up a few bartending shifts at The Mudhole on weekends.
“Right. Because I’m not scared that big man of yours wouldn’t rip off both my arms and use them as drumsticks.”
Bea leaned low and whispered into his ear, “Otis is on the road this week. Load of agricultural equipment up to Minnesota. Therefore, it’s you, me, and a motel key.” She wriggled her ample hips at him and swiveled away, cackling.
It was an old, familiar routine between them, and this evening, he was glad for a good joke to put his spirits at ease. Because what he had in mind was outrageous. Twice since he’d sat down at the bar, he’d fought back the urge to get the hell out of there. Not even calling Moreau to cancel. Just leave.
Because this was madness.