“Oh. Hey,” he replied, as if he’d only just noticed her sitting on the lone chair in the living room, an overstuffed monstrosity that she’d purchased at a thrift store.
“So . . . I’m pregnant,” she blurted, and he froze on his way to the bathroom. He turned to face her, his mouth gaping and his eyes just about popping out of his skull.
“Shut up. You’re shitting me, right?” He always got so American teen when he was surprised by something. It was equal parts endearing and exasperating. “Oh my God. No wonder you’ve been such a bitch lately.”
“Wow, thanks,” she said with a grin. She couldn’t help it; his irreverence and honesty always made her smile.
“Well, you have.” He forgot all about his need to go to the bathroom and sank down onto his sleeper couch opposite her chair. “Are you keeping it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you thinking about terminating the pregnancy?”
“I was thinking about it, but decided against it. It’s not a choice that sits well with me, not at this point in my life.”
“Fair enough,” he said. “So adoption is still in the cards?”
“Yes.”
“Have you considered telling the da . . . Ohmygod, is Dante Damaso the father?” His voice rose dramatically on the last syllable, and she winced.
“What do you think?”
“I think you should keep the kid and let baby daddy fork out loads to take care of you both,” he said, as if she were crazy to even consider any other option.
“Yeah. No. I’m not that mercenary.”
“Did you get pregnant deliberately?” Cal asked pointedly.
“Of course not. It was probably a stupid faulty condom.”
“And who, pray tell, took care of the condoms?”
“He did.”
“Then why are you stressing about this? You didn’t ask to get pregnant; this is as much his fault as it is yours—more his than yours, in fact. You trusted him to take care of your protection. I mean, you could have caught all kinds of nasty diseases because of that one dodgy condom.” Cal would be the one to think of gritty realities like that. But Cleo didn’t think she’d caught anything other than a bad case of pregnant from Dante—the man was too fastidious.
“The doctor tested for those today,” she said listlessly, remembering Dr. Klein explaining what some of the blood draws were for. She wasn’t particularly concerned that they would find anything untoward.
“So, you’re going to be like those impractical chicks in the romance novels, all super strong and independent: ‘I don’t need no stinking man and his stinking money to take care of me and my stinking baby’?” Cal asked after a while. “And while their men are rolling in dough, they’re living in poverty—because they’re good girls and taking his money would seem greedy, right?”
Cleo didn’t respond. When Cal was off on a tangent, it was best to let it run its course.
“Because that’s just plain bollocks. The guy was there when this kid was made; he should damned well own up to that and help you out.”
“I don’t even know if I’m keeping the baby,” Cleo said weakly.
“Hmm. Just don’t be a fool, Cleo. False pride never helped anybody.”
“Look, I only learned about this pregnancy today, Cal,” she said, exhausted. “I need time to think about some things.”
“Yeah, and one of the things you need to think about is the fact that this baby’s father isn’t exactly impoverished, and if you wanted to keep it, there’s no reason he couldn’t support his child.”
“Enough.” She held up a hand and rubbed her forehead with the other hand. She was developing a splitting headache. “I’m going to bed. Good night.”
For the next couple of weeks, Cleo felt like someone who was swimming in ether. She couldn’t get her head together. She felt like she was living in a weird otherworld where nothing made sense—up was down, left was right, and she was carrying Dante Damaso’s baby. She kept expecting to wake up and heave a huge sigh of relief because of the outrageous dream she’d had, but that never happened. Every day she faced the same crazy reality. Worse, her pregnancy made itself felt in all the nastiest ways: constant morning sickness; a severe lack of energy; lack of sleep; bloating; tender, swollen breasts—just about every symptom she’d read about, she had. It was crazy, annoying, and more than a little unbearable.
Every Sunday night she picked up her secondhand copy of a handy week-to-week pregnancy guide she’d bought at a bargain bookshop and read up on what she could expect over the next week. She found it fascinating how fast the baby was developing every week, but she found the changes in her body slightly less fascinating.
Cal was still pressuring her to tell Dante, while Blue and Luc’s stoic refusal to ask about her decision had the opposite intended effect. She felt more pressured by their unwavering, silent support.
She put all of that out of her mind and focused on her book, wanting to see where the baby was this week. The most exciting news was that it should now have perfect little fingers with fingernails starting to grow in. Her hand rubbed her flat abdomen in wonder as she pictured those tiny fingers with their soft, brand-new little fingernails. If it was a girl, someday—years from now—she might take an interest in manicures and want pretty painted nails. If it was a boy, he might like working with his hands and getting dirt under those nails. Or maybe vice versa. Who knew?
Cleo fell asleep thinking about those tiny perfect hands.
It was the fingernails that did it. Cleo could not stop thinking about them. She fell in love with those fingernails and their tiny fingers on their equally tiny hands. And over the course of the next week, she stopped thinking of it as “the baby.” It had become “my baby.”
It was a seemingly trifling change in thinking but it had major implications. The baby was now hers, and she couldn’t imagine anyone else loving it or taking care of it. There was no longer a choice. She was keeping it.
And Dante was entitled to know about the baby.
But first she would have to think about how she would go about this. She had to make it perfectly clear that his responsibility began and ended with the baby. She wanted what was best for her baby, and what was best was for the father to provide some kind of financial support. She wasn’t looking for some huge payday, even though she knew he would think otherwise.
Two weeks later, during her twelfth week of pregnancy, Cleo was sitting in the waiting area of Dante’s office, smiling nervously at Mrs. Clarke. The woman—currently sporting a gigantic diamond on her ring finger courtesy of Mr. Whitman, who had proposed after just a month of “courting”—had happily agreed to help Cleo sneak in a visit with Dante. Cleo didn’t want him to know she was coming, didn’t want him to speculate about the purpose of her visit, so here she was . . . ready to turn his carefree bachelor existence upside down.
“He’ll be done with that conference call in about ten minutes, dear,” Mrs. Clarke informed her. “Would you like a cup of coffee or tea while you wait?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Clarke, I’ll be fine.” As much as Cleo would have loved a cup of herbal tea to settle her nerves, her bladder had become ridiculously small over the last few weeks. She couldn’t trust herself not to need a bathroom within minutes and miss her window of opportunity.
She was nervous about seeing Dante again, not just because of the news she had, but because she couldn’t help wondering if that crazy chemistry would still sizzle between them. She didn’t understand this attraction they had for each other. How could you want someone so desperately while disliking them so intensely? It was bizarre. Well, whether the chemistry still existed or not was a moot point; this baby would take care of any lingering desire soon enough. Dante was about to regret the day he’d met her.
She was nervously twiddling her thumbs when Mrs. Clarke looked up at her.
“You can go in now, Cleo. And please bring this to Mr. Damaso.” She handed Cleo a folder. Cleo straightened her skirt
before taking the folder with trembling fingers.
She halted outside of those intimidating walnut oak doors, straightened her shoulders, and, after a cursory knock, let herself in. His dark head was bent as he focused on his phone, and he didn’t so much as glance up while she hovered awkwardly just inside the doors. She was so enthralled by the sight of him that when he spoke, she nearly jumped out of her skin.
“Just leave the folder on my desk, Mrs. Clarke,” he said irritably, head still down. When she made no move to obey him, completely unable to unstick her frozen feet from the floor, he glanced up with an imposing frown. The frown deepened into a scowl when he saw her. That scowl certainly didn’t bode well for the future of this meeting. At first, he just stared at her, making her wonder if he’d forgotten her name again, but after a few excruciatingly long moments, he finally spoke.
“What are you doing here, Knight? I’m busy.”
“I’m aware of that, but I need to speak with you.”
“I don’t have time for idle chitchat,” he said dismissively. “And quite frankly, I don’t care what this is about. If you have any grievances about Whitman or your new position, take them up with Whitman’s second in HR. Just because we happened to have a thing at some point doesn’t entitle you to special privileges.”
“I don’t want special privileges,” she said automatically and then hesitated because she kind of did want special privileges. That slight hesitation put her on the defensive, and she grappled desperately for a way to regain momentum. She walked toward his desk and sat down in the same chair she had once sunk down into in a postcoital blaze. The memory of that morning was enough to stain her cheeks red, and the dilation of his pupils and tightening of his jaw told her he knew exactly why she was blushing. They both took a moment to lose themselves in that raunchy memory before Dante snapped back to reality.
“You need to leave.”
“Not before I say what I came here to say,” she maintained stubbornly.
“I told you, I’m busy.”
“I don’t care,” she snapped, and then regretted her tone when he tensed and his eyes narrowed with temper. “Look, I’m sorry to intrude, but I really have something important to tell you.”
“I can’t think of anything you’d have to say that could possibly be of interest to me,” he growled, and settled back into his chair. He positioned his elbows on the armrests and steepled his hands just in front of his face. It made him look like a movie villain, which—she supposed—was the point. “But if you really think it’s that important, make an appointment. My time is precious, and I have no room in my schedule for you today. That will be all. Good day.”
She watched as he unfolded his tall frame and leaned forward to grab his phone and the folder she had dropped on the desk. She was so shocked by the rude dismissal that all she could do was gape at him as he got up and started to round the desk, clearly intending to leave the office.
She jumped up and moved into his path. When he casually stepped right past her, she did the only thing she could think of. She ran to the door before he could get there and pinned her back against it with her arms spread out. He stopped directly in front of her; there wasn’t much more than a foot between them.
“Knight, I won’t hesitate to call security,” he warned. “You’re starting to get on my nerves.”
“I’m pregnant,” she blurted, and the look of horror on his face would have been comical if Cleo wasn’t so damned anxious about his response.
“Qué?” He exploded hoarsely. “Qué dijiste?”
“I’m sorry. I don’t . . .”
“What did you say?” he repeated in English, his voice brittle.
“You heard me,” she said, keeping her chin up and defiant. “I’m pregnant.”
“I wish to know what you think you will gain from telling me this news. Is this some kind of joke?”
“It’s no joke; I’m pregnant.”
“Very well. Let us play this game.” He shrugged. “Who is the father of this child you carry?”
“You are.”
“Sé que mientes! Te conozco muy bien.” The frigid outpouring of Spanish told her more than anything else how much she had rattled him and how angry he was. He turned away from her and strode back to his desk, probably in an effort to put as much distance as possible between them.
“You’re lying to me,” he grated after he had the length of the office and a desk between them. “I like being lied to even less than I like being blatantly manipulated.”
“I’m not lying.” She tried to sound calm even though she felt far from it on the inside. This was exactly the reaction she’d been expecting. She warily—and on unsteady legs—made her own way to the desk. She sank back into the chair simply because her legs could no longer support her.
“This is so much bullshit. I suggest you leave this office before I call security, and I want you to vacate the building in under an hour. You’re fired.”
Her knees shook so badly they were practically knocking together, and her teeth were rattling in her head as shock caused her to quiver.
“You can’t fire me,” she whispered. “That’s completely unethical.”
“Not as unethical as what you’re trying to do right now. Don’t bother to work out a month’s notice either. We’ll pay you a month’s salary in lieu of notice. Using our past intimacy in this way is a complete betrayal. I no longer trust you to work for this company, I no longer believe that you are an ethical person, and I cannot have someone like you employed here.”
“I’m pregnant, with your baby,” she said adamantly, and he swore before picking up his phone and punching in a number.
“Send security up to my office, immediately,” he barked at whoever happened to be at the other end of the line.
“You need to hear me out, Dante,” she said earnestly. This wasn’t at all how she had expected this meeting to go. She’d known he would be upset, but this reaction was extreme even for Dante.
“I am Mr. Damaso to you,” he flared arrogantly, and she snorted.
“Fine. Mr. Damaso, one of your condoms failed, and one of your overambitious little soldiers found its mark and left me knocked up.” She spoke fast, aware that time was a limited commodity. He moved away from the desk and turned his back on her, staring out the window and refusing to acknowledge her words. But Cleo kept talking. “I’m keeping my baby. I don’t want you to be a part of his life, and I don’t want you to give me a huge amount of money.” He swiveled back to face her at that pronouncement, his expression insultingly skeptical.
“Not a huge amount, but some, right?” He mocked.
“Well, yes. Of course.”
“Of course.” There was a world of sarcasm in those two words.
“Not a lot, a monthly allowance that will go only to this baby’s health and well-being. I didn’t ask for this, I didn’t intend to get pregnant, but now that the baby is here, I can’t do anything else but keep it and love it. But I can’t afford to take care of a child without some sort of support from you.”
“If you don’t leave my office immediately, it will be rather embar-rassing for you when security drags you out,” he said coldly.
“Dante . . . Mr. Damaso, look—”
He held up a palm, and it shut her up immediately.
“Mierda! Enough! Enough of this now, Miss Knight. It was a good attempt to fleece me but hardly very original. I suggest you go back to the real father of your child—that blond giant, perhaps?—and hit him up for some cash. Unless the two of you hatched this scheme up together?”
He thought Cal was her baby’s father? She would have laughed at that if this whole situation weren’t so damned tragic.
She pulled an envelope from her shoulder bag and dropped it on his desk.
“Please read these documents I’ve had drawn up when you have the time. I understand that this has come as a complete shock to you, but maybe after you’ve calmed down, you’ll be able to approach this situation in a more
rational and calm manner.”
“I am more than rational and calm, Miss Knight. I can see quite clearly what’s happening here.”
“Nonetheless, I’ll leave these here.”
Two burly uniformed security guards finally stepped into his office, and he glared at them.
“Your response time is appalling,” he gritted. “I could have been murdered up here while you dawdled over your coffee and doughnuts.”
The two men apologized profusely, and he shut them up with a wave of his hand.
“See Miss Knight back to her desk, wait while she packs her personal items, and escort her out of the building. I want her gone within the hour.”
“Yes, sir,” one huge guy responded curtly while the other slanted her a sympathetic sideways glance.
They approached her chair and flanked her, and one of them dropped a hand on her shoulder.
“Do not touch her.” Dante surprised them all by snapping out the command.
“Sorry,” the security guard mumbled awkwardly.
“You need to come with us, miss,” the other guy said, and Cleo nodded, feeling defeated and exhausted. Her hand dropped protectively to her flat abdomen; the gesture was unconscious and seemed to draw his eye and darken his expression even further. She pushed herself up tiredly and grabbed one brawny guard’s arm for support as she swayed slightly. She held on to him as they both escorted her out of his office. She could feel Dante’s eyes boring into her back as she left, but she refused to look back. If this was how he wanted it, then so be it. She would find a way to look after her baby without his help. Dante Damaso be damned.
Dante dragged both hands through his hair and gulped in a deep, semicalming breath. The nerve of her. The goddamned, absolute gall of her.
Who the hell did she think she was? Who did she think he was? Some naïve fool who would fall for such a ridiculous and obvious ploy? He was absolutely livid. He wanted to wring her duplicitous little neck with both hands.
He leaped into action, jumping out of his chair and striding determinedly toward the doors. Halfway there he turned back and grabbed the envelope she left on his desk. He didn’t even want to look at it, but he’d need to show it to Mike Grayson, his personal attorney.
A Ruthless Proposition Page 12
