“You’re not one of them, so what’s the problem?”
“It’s hard to explain.” Chantelle floundered for an explanation that wouldn’t offend him. “Most black women who date white men seem to have a certain look. I don’t know if they achieve it before or after they start the relationship, but it’s not my style.”
“What look is that?”
“Skinny, have weaves down to their asses and often talk like they’re trying to be…” Chantelle let her voice trail off. While it something she’d observed more and more in London, she didn’t know if it was true for black women who dated white men in the rest of the UK, or worldwide. She knew that she wasn’t making perfect sense to Dominic. There were several points she wanted to make, but every one would make her sound like she hated white people, when all she wanted to convey to him that she was proud of being black.
“Have I asked you to change anything about yourself?”
“No,” she was forced to admit. But that would no doubt change if she agreed to be seen with him publicly. After all, which young, billionaire playboy didn’t want a slim, sexily- or scantily-dressed woman on his arm?
“I would naturally want to buy you things and ensure that you have an appropriate wardrobe for the functions we have to attend.”
“A wardrobe you would no doubt choose yourself?” she asked and waited for his affirmative reply to drive home her point.
“Not personally. I would get you the best personal stylist available.”
“And yet, you won’t be trying to change my style?”
“Chantelle, it’s more about you feeling comfortable when we go out together. On a given night out I run into members of the aristocracy, government ministers, actors, actresses, singers, you name it. I want you to feel comfortable rubbing shoulders with them and you can’t do that if you don’t feel at your best.”
“All the more reason for us to keep what we have between us private.”
Dominic had really no idea the amount of money that was needed to equip her for life in the media spotlight. She was slowly building her wardrobe for the office and it was taking all her spare cash.
“I have certain social obligations that I’ve committed to. I don’t intend to attend them alone.”
“Are you saying that you’ll take another woman if I don’t go?”
“It’s your choice,” he said silkily.
Bastard!
“It won’t be a problem for you to be seen with me—you won’t even be the only billionaire or millionaire with a black woman on his arm. Naomi, Kelly…we seem to be the latest accessory,” she said, bitterness coating her voice. Few people would think that Dominic’s and hers was a serious relationship. She would be seen merely as the woman, or worst ‘one’ of the women, he was currently sleeping with.
“You think I’m trying to follow some kind of trend?” he asked, his voice dangerously cold.
“I’m saying that it’s easy for you to parade me on your arm for a couple of months and then dump me when—”
“So now you’re accusing me of just wanting to use you until the next woman comes along?”
“Dominic, I know that you would never marry someone like me and that’s fine.” It wasn’t, but if she didn’t keep her expectations low and realistic, she would be hurt too deeply to recover when he finally grew tired of her.
“Thank you for knowing my intentions better than I do myself!”
“We both know that your wife is likely to be some busty, blue-eyed blonde whose daddy is also rolling in dough.”
“I’m surprised you’re even here with me, if that’s what you think!”
Suddenly all the fight went out of Chantelle. She was happy with their current arrangement. She didn’t want to get a taste of the glitzy celebrity lifestyle and then be dissatisfied with her humbler means once he’d moved on. It would be doubly mortifying if other people witnessed her tumble from top to bottom.
“Dominic, don’t let’s fight,” she pleaded, snuggling her head onto his shoulder. “You’ve done a lot for me and I’m grateful.”
“I haven’t done anything you have to be grateful for. The money I gave you at the club was part of a business transaction—you danced for me; I paid you. You were interviewed for a job at the company advertised—you’re the best of the candidates; they hired you.”
“You know you did more than that. The house in Jamaica—”
“You wouldn’t have needed my help if your uncle wasn’t such a bastard,” he reminded her. “And Derek made it all happen, not me.”