A Ruthless Proposition

by Natasha Anders

  She walked home, thankful that the drizzle had stopped even though the wind had picked up and she was walking against it. She was huddled beneath her coat, hands in her pockets and head down as protection from the wind, and didn’t see the huge figure looming ahead of her at the entrance of her building until she was almost on top of him.

  She yelped in fright and jumped back with her hand on her chest, prepared to scream or run, when she looked up and saw Dante Damaso peering down at her as if he didn’t recognize her.

  “Miss Knight?”

  God, why did he still insist on calling her that?

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to inform you that the paternity test result came today.”

  “I know.”

  “And I want to assure you that you and the child will be provided for.”

  “Just the child,” she corrected, and his brow lowered.

  “What?”

  “You will be providing for only the child. I don’t want your money for myself.”

  “But the medical costs alone will—”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “Do you have a job yet?” His critical gaze swept over her body, and Cleo recognized what a mess she was and had to use every ounce of willpower not to touch her untidy hair self-consciously.

  “Not yet.”

  “The longer you remain unemployed, the less likely you are to find a job in your”—he made a vague gesture at her stomach region—“uh. Your condition.”

  “I’ll work something out. It’s not your concern.” She brushed past him dismissively, hoping he’d take the hint and leave, but he followed her up the stairs to the entrance.

  “Perhaps we should discuss these terms of yours,” he said, and she turned to face him, savagely satisfied to note that because she stood several steps above him, she could meet his gaze head-on.

  “There’s nothing more to discuss. For a man who likes to keep his personal life clutter free, you’re making a total nuisance of yourself.”

  “You know nothing about me,” he grated.

  “And you know even less than nothing about me,” she hissed, sticking her face right up to his until they were almost nose to nose.

  “I know that you’re stubborn, pregnant, and unemployed. I know that you’re living in a hovel and are financially ill equipped to deal with this pregnancy.”

  “Yeah? Well, what’s my name then, smart-ass? Why do you keep calling me Miss Knight?”

  “Not because I’ve forgotten your name, Cleopatra,” he murmured, his voice dropping an octave as his eyes fell to her mouth. She cleared her throat, feeling hot and uncomfortable, and she stepped back, but her heel caught the edge of the next step and she lost her balance. She windmilled as she struggled to regain her footing, but his hands dropped to her elbows and steadied her. “I’ve got you. You’re fine.”

  Her own hands dug into his forearms as she fought her shock and tried to regain her breath and her equilibrium. One of his hands released its grip and moved up to cup her cheek.

  “You’ve gone remarkably pale. Are you okay?”

  She started shaking as her fear of falling subsided.

  “I’m fine,” she said through chattering teeth. “Just a bit shocked, is all. I mean there wasn’t even the slightest possibility of falling, was there?”

  “No,” he agreed. “And if there was, you would probably have landed on me. So you would have been fine.”

  “The thought of falling terrifies me a bit,” she confessed. Something she did only because she still felt so off-kilter.

  “The scar on your knee?” he asked perceptively. She didn’t respond, merely stared at him mutely.

  “I have to go,” she said. “Let’s not do this again sometime.”

  “Can I come up?”

  She gave him a disbelieving look.

  “What? No! You cannot come up.”

  “Then I suppose we’ll have this discussion out on the steps, in public?”

  “Go right ahead,” she invited, calling his bluff. “You’re the one who doesn’t like his business aired in public. I’m quite comfortable with public scenes. I was once a performer.”

  That made him pause, but not for the reason she would have thought.

  “You were? What kind of performer?”

  She shrugged, uncomfortable with his interest.

  “Look, I won’t take up more than five minutes of your time.” He took a step down to give her some space, as if sensing that his presence was making her feel claustrophobic. He held his hands palms up in a gesture of surrender. Cleo looked over his shoulder, noting for the first time that his massive black car was parked next to the curb and that one of his hulking personal protection guys—who often doubled as drivers for him—watched them silently from beside the car.

  “Hey, James,” she called, and waved at the huge, tattooed, dark-suited bald man. He wore sunglasses, despite the gloom of the day. He lifted one of his hands to wave back at her.

  “How’s your new puppy?” Cleo asked. “Still leaving surprise puddles on the floor for you?”

  “He’s getting better,” James replied with a thumbs-up.

  “Have you decided on a name for him yet?”

  “Piddles.” Cleo laughed, aware of Dante’s incredulity at the bizarre exchange between his bodyguard and former assistant. He focused a glare on James, who refolded his hands loosely in front on him and shifted his stance slightly, until he stood with his legs shoulder-width apart. That quickly, James went from personable and friendly to forbidding and formidable.

  “Do you mind? I would like to have a serious conversation with you,” Dante said through clenched teeth, and Cleo sighed.

  “I suppose you can come up for five minutes,” she said begrudgingly. “But you’re starting to make a nuisance of yourself.”

  “Noted.”

  Dante trailed behind Cleo as she led the way to her fourth-floor apartment. He kept his eyes on her narrow, straight back, once again noting her grace and elegant carriage. She really carried herself beautifully, and it was one of the things he’d found so appealing about her.

  He didn’t know why he was here, but despite arranging to see Nicki Unwin—one of his regular on-again/off-again lovers—later that evening, he hadn’t been able to get Cleopatra Knight out of his mind today. He had found himself standing at her doorstep for reasons that remained completely unfathomable to him.

  As he followed her upstairs, he started to take in his surroundings a bit more. The place was a complete mess. It reeked of mold and damp, the wallpaper was peeling, the light in the stairwell flickered, and the stairs themselves were old and rickety. He couldn’t understand why she lived here. Why didn’t she move in with Lucius? Her brother had that huge old house. It wasn’t ideal, but it was better than this place.

  “Why not use the elevator?” he asked as he noticed her starting to limp. Her hand, which had previously glided over the banister with barely a touch, started to grip it with each step up.

  “Out of order,” she grunted.

  “Of course it is.” He couldn’t bite back the sarcasm and immediately regretted it when her back straightened. He had put her even more on the defensive than she had been before. When she finally reached her front door, she was slightly out of breath.

  “This won’t get easier, you know,” he said, striving to sound gentle.

  “It’s none of your business,” she snapped. Her hair was starting to fall out of the absurd little ponytail she had it in, and he noted that the pink tips had been replaced by pale blue ones. A few of the blue strands were peppered through her bangs as well.

  She unlocked her door, and when she stepped aside to allow him entry, he waved her forward. He followed her in and immediately spotted the huge blond guy from the airport seated at the kitchen table, digging into a bowl of cereal.

  Instantly beyond furious and feeling absolutely gullible, Dante’s first thought was that she’d duped him. This was, as he had initially
suspected, an elaborate ploy to make him believe some other guy’s kid was his, and he’d caught her red-handed. How was she going to explain this guy away?

  He turned to face her, ready to give it to her with both barrels, when the annoyed—not guilty, not defensive, not even scared—expression on her face gave him pause.

  “You’re eating my Frostees!” Cleo screeched, and Cal dropped his spoon guiltily.

  “It was just a taste, I swear, hon. You know I’d never eat too much of the stuff; it’s hugely calorific. Well, hello.” His gaze drifted behind her, and Cleo became aware of the man standing so close by.

  “Cal, this is Dante Damaso, my ex-boss. Mr. Damaso, my roommate, Callum Faris.” Cal got up and sauntered over to them where he presented his hand to Dante, who gave it a firm shake.

  “You can call me Cal,” her shamelessly flirting roommate invited. “Or just call me anytime.”

  “Cal,” she hissed, and he rolled his eyes. “Do you mind giving us some privacy? Mr. Damaso and I have a few things to discuss.”

  Cal pouted before grabbing up a denim jacket and heading toward the door.

  “Be good to my girl, Mr. D,” he said on his way out. “I know about five different forms of martial arts, and I’m not afraid to use them.” Cleo felt a spurt of affection for her friend who, while a flirtatious lech, still knew exactly where his loyalties lay.

  They watched him leave, and silence reigned for a few seconds before Cleo darted a quick look at Dante. He had a bemused expression on his face. She grinned.

  “You totally thought he was my baby daddy,” she said, and he had the grace to look completely uncomfortable.

  “For a moment there, I thought I’d been . . .”

  “Conned?” she guessed, and when he flashed her an annoyed look, she remembered that he didn’t like it when she finished his sentences.

  “Duped,” he corrected, and she snorted.

  “Come on, you’ve got to give me that one, they mean the same thing,” she groused, and he cleared his throat but didn’t respond. “Anyway, I’m offended your sordid little mind went there immediately despite the paternity-test results you got today. You have a seriously low opinion of me.”

  He kept his gaze impassive.

  “What? No apology?” she challenged, and his jaw clenched but he remained stoically silent. She shrugged, letting it go because the sooner he was out of here, the better for her.

  “What did you want to talk about that couldn’t be handled by our attorneys?”

  “I wanted to inform you that I would pay for your medical costs as well,” he explained, and she started shaking her head before the words were even completely formed.

  “No.”

  “You wouldn’t need any medical care if you weren’t pregnant, and you wouldn’t be pregnant if not for me. Therefore, the medical bills should fall to me.”

  “I don’t want anything from you,” she said as she shrugged out of her jacket and unzipped her fleecy, gray hoodie.

  “Why the hell not?” he asked angrily. “Everybody else does. Why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m not everybody else,” she said quietly. In that instant she felt her heart break a little for him. How did that feel? To know that people cultivated relationships or friendships with you solely because of what it might get them. She was starting to understand why he’d become such firm friends with Luc. Her brother was one of the least materialistic people she knew. Sure, he wanted the finer things in life, like everybody else, but he would work his heart out to obtain those things and never expect them to be handed to him on a plate. “And FYI, you seem to know some seriously shitty people.”

  “Look, I’ll leave you alone if you let me do this one thing for you, okay?” he promised. “Just let me take care of the medical bills.”

  “If I need any additional procedures that would cost more than I’d anticipated, if I need to stay in the hospital, or if there are complications that require additional medical treatment, I will happily accept your financial assistance,” she stipulated, but he still didn’t look happy.

  “All of it, Cleo,” he maintained. “Give your doctor’s details to Mike, and he’ll take care of everything. I’ve already added the clause to our agreement. If you don’t cooperate, I will make an educated guess as to the possible costs incurred and have Mike transfer the funds into your account on a monthly basis. Once transferred, it cannot be returned. You can then do whatever the hell you want to with the money.”

  She crossed her arms, drawing his attention to her chest, and sighed in defeat.

  “Fine. Okay, consider your conscience clear and our association at an end.”

  “You will accept the money?” His eyes lit with satisfaction when she nodded. “Good. Now, maybe you can tell me what the hell you’re wearing.”

  “What?” Cleo glanced down at herself and realized that with the hoodie unzipped, he could see the top of her leotard. “Oh. It’s a leotard.”

  “Leotard? For dancing or gymnastics?”

  “Dancing.”

  “That explains it,” he murmured beneath his breath, and she tilted her head curiously.

  “Explains what?”

  “Nothing. It’s nothing. What kind of dance?”

  She hesitated as she debated whether to encourage this conversation any further.

  “Ballet.”

  “Seriously?” He sounded so shocked that she was a little affronted.

  “What were you expecting?”

  “I don’t know, with your personality I was expecting something more modern and quirky, perhaps. Ballet is . . .”

  “Refined?” she snapped, on the defensive again.

  “Not what I was going to say.”

  “Elegant?”

  “Damn it, Cleo!” It was the first time her name had ever flowed from his lips so naturally, and it startled her into silence. He didn’t seem aware that he’d used it and was still glaring at her. “I told you not to do that. I was going to say stuffy. Ballet is so stuffy. It’s beautiful, but it has so many rigid lines and rules. It doesn’t seem to match your personality.”

  “You don’t know me, Mr. Damaso,” she reminded again.

  “I know enough,” he disagreed almost gently.

  “Your five minutes are up.”

  “Indeed they are.” He walked toward the door, and she watched him from the center of the room. Once at the door, he turned to face her.

  “I was wondering about week fourteen,” he confessed, his voice so low she barely caught it. He kept his eyes downcast, as if embarrassed to meet her gaze.

  “Week fourteen?” she repeated, buying time, not sure if she should answer him or not.

  “What happened after the fists and the eyelids?” He sounded like a wistful little boy wanting to know the end of a fairy tale, and it would have taken a stronger person than Cleo to resist the appeal of that little boy.

  “Last week he started urinating,” she said, wrinkling her nose, still a bit creeped out by the idea. “It’s kind of gross to imagine him peeing away in there. Oh, and he has his own fingerprints now. This week he’s starting to make little faces.”

  She grinned at the thought.

  “Squints and frowns,” she giggled. “He’s probably paying special attention to getting that frown just right, considering who his father is.” The words gave her pause as she remembered that her baby wouldn’t know who his father was. She kept her eyes averted as she tried to keep her sadness at bay. She’d also grown up not knowing her father and had always wanted more for her children.

  “Anyway, this is all guesswork. We could be a week off. I’ll know for sure on Wednesday when I go for an ultrasound. They’ll be able to give me a more accurate estimate of when he was conceived and when his date of birth will be.”

  “Will they be able to tell you if it’s a girl or boy?” he asked, and she shrugged.

  “I don’t think so. Some of the articles I’ve read indicate that they can tell by twelve weeks, while other sou
rces state that sixteen weeks is standard practice. I don’t think I’d want to know, though.”

  “I suppose Lucius will be going with you?”

  “Luc and Blue are working,” she said unthinkingly, and his eyes narrowed.

  “Callum, then?”

  “Sure. Cal will go,” she said airily, and his eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Anyway . . . I have some stuff to take care of. So I’ll say good-bye now. I’m sure Mr. Grayson has my lawyer’s number.”

  She reached out a hand, and he enveloped it with his. She shook his hand in one decisive up-and-down movement, but he refused to release his grip afterward.

  “Good luck with your hotel in Tokyo. I’m sure it’ll be beautiful.” She didn’t really know what else to say and wished he’d free her hand, but he didn’t seem to have any inclination to do so.

  “Does Lucius know the identity of your child’s father?” he asked unexpectedly.

  “No. And I’d rather he didn’t know,” she said.

  “Why not?”

  “Because he values your friendship, and even though I can’t see what he finds so appealing about you, he doesn’t have many friends, and I wouldn’t want to deprive him of one.”

  “You once found me very appealing,” he reminded huskily.

  “What are you doing, Dante?” she asked in a helpless little voice, and he looked as confused as she felt. It was the most vulnerable she’d ever seen him look.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I have no clue what I’m doing.”

  He stepped closer and tugged her toward him until her chest was flush against his torso. He finally released her hand, only to cup her face in his palms, as if she was the most precious thing he’d ever beheld.

  “Maybe just a good-bye,” he whispered. “Can I say good-bye?”

  “No.” The word carried no weight and floated between them as light as a feather, and he caught it on her lips before it could properly float away. His kiss was gentle and felt alarmingly reverent, and Cleo was floored by it. He shouldn’t be doing this, and she shouldn’t be allowing it. It complicated things.