A Ruthless Proposition(29)

“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 sources 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.