Chapter 10: Arianna
We give Grace another bottle. Well, I do. Dell mostly paces the living room, running his hands through his black hair until he looks like he’s been electrocuted.
His shirt is wrinkled, and he’s given up on the tie altogether.
It looks good on him. Like he’s a real human.
“Can you fetch me a dish towel or a hand towel or something?” I ask him.
He nods. He heads toward the kitchen but Bernard intercepts, holding a beige towel.
Spooky.
“He’s like Big Brother,” I whisper.
“He can hear that,” Dell whispers back.
“I can!” confirms Bernard from the other room.
“Shouldn’t he be losing his hearing by now?” I ask.
“I’m only sixty-two!” Bernard adds.
“Cheeky, isn’t he?” I say to Dell.
“He can be,” Dell says.
“Who else is here with you?” I ask.
Dell drops onto the sofa beside me, spreading the towel across his thigh. “Just Maximillion. The others come and go to do their work.”
“I saw a cleaning lady, I think.”
“Probably,” he says. “I don’t pay much attention unless they annoy me.”
I glance down at the baby at that. I imagine most people probably annoy him.
Grace has almost finished the bottle and I decide to burp her so she can drop off to sleep. The outing to the baby store will go a lot easier if she’s down for the count.
I reach for the towel and my fingers graze Dell’s thigh. It’s rock hard beneath the smooth pants leg.
My hand jerks back without the towel. I don’t know why I’m startled. I guess I figured a billionaire workaholic investor would be pale and soft.
“You missed,” Dell says, passing me the towel.
I throw it over my shoulder. His expression doesn’t reveal anything, if he’s amused or annoyed or thinking of something else entirely.
I lift Grace to my shoulder and she immediately lets out her trademark drunk sailor belch. We both laugh.
“I should have named her Popeye,” Dell says.
“She’s definitely got the baby burp down.” I pat her back a few more times to see if anything else is in there.
But her head drops to my shoulder. She’s done for.
“We should probably go while she’s sleeping,” I say.
“But we still have the car seat problem,” Dell reminds me.
Shoot, he’s right. “Taxis are exempt from the car seat law, but I can’t really condone letting her ride without one,” I say.
Dell snaps his fingers. “I bet there’s a service somewhere that comes with one. Bernard?”
“On it,” the man calls out.
“Good plan,” I say. I should have thought of that myself.
“You probably don’t need to buy one yet since she might…” I trail off. What if Grace isn’t his? What will happen to her?
“We’ll buy one,” he says. “It can go with her. We’ll get her all set up no matter what.”
I relax against the back of the sofa, carefully shifting Grace’s heavy head.
“Is she asleep?” I ask Dell, turning my shoulder to him.
“Out like a light,” he says.
Bernard steps into the room. “I have a black Lexus SUV arriving in ten minutes with an infant seat installed.”
“Thank you, Bernard,” Dell says.
He leans forward in his position on the sofa, his elbows braced on his knees. He still seems a little uncertain. The Dell that walked into my child spa that morning wasn’t uncertain about anything.
“What’s getting you?” I ask.
“Oh, just bullshit,” he says. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You don’t want to baby shop,” I say. “Nobody does. I could leave her here with you and go.”
His eyes pop. “No, no thanks. I’ll go.”
“You’re still thinking about somebody seeing you.”
He shrugs. “It’s stupid. I just don’t like people speculating about things they know nothing about.” He frowns. “Nobody needs to know she was left here. That her mother…” He stops.
“I understand,” I say. “But hey, you’ve got a LOT of hair out of place. You’re halfway into your anti-Dell disguise.”
He cracks a hint of a smile. I stand up, holding Grace carefully. “Let’s go through your closet. I bet you have some not-so-Dell-ish things in there to wear. You can go all Hollywood on them. Sunglasses. Big hat.”
I can’t picture Dell in even a ball cap. But maybe something that isn’t a suit. I doubt the clientele at the superstore would be people who would know him anyway. None of my parents from the child spa will set foot in there.
Which makes it perfect.
Dell stands up, and I follow him out of the room, careful not to jostle Grace.
We pass the front door and walk down a long hall of closed doors.
Finally, we get to the last one. When he opens it, I realize — I’m going into Dell Brant’s bedroom.
It’s as enormous as you’d expect from a penthouse. My entire apartment would fit into it. Four arched windows fill the back wall. A giant bed is angled in the corner, all dark wood and navy stripes.
There’s a reading nook with a window seat, two armchairs, and a table. Near the front corner is an entertainment center with a large flat-screen television and an overstuffed leather sofa.
Two more doors stand open. One leads to a bright bathroom in navy and white. The other is dark, a closet, I presume.
I transfer Grace to a cradle hold. She lets out a little snore and I have to smile.
“Still out?” Dell asks.
“Still out,” I say.
He heads toward the closet, unbuttoning the wrinkled shirt as he goes. My heart hammers a little more than I expect. He’s so confident. The feeling is effortless to him. It shows in his stride. The nimble tug at each button. The movement of his shoulders.
I’ve had to work hard for years to make sure I project competence and strength to the families who entrust their children to my spa. Dell looks like he was born knowing his place in the world.
He strips off the shirt, then the undershirt.
I force myself to control my sharp intake of breath. Dell Brant works out. His shoulders are cut, the biceps pronounced. His back is a case study in musculature.
I tear my gaze from his body as he moves inside the closet. Just beyond the door is a swinging panel built into the cabinet. He shoves the shirt through it. I wonder what other items of Dell’s are lying there. I imagine for a moment burying my face in them.
Then I snap out of it as Dell flicks on the light inside.
The room is astounding. Ties in every color, carefully hung in a case. Shoes, shined to brilliance, all lined up on an angled shelf.
Then the shirts, from pale pastels to deep rich tones, perfectly spaced in two long rows.
And the suits, pants nestled beneath the matching jackets, all along the back.
But then, that’s all there is.
“Where are your regular clothes?” I ask Dell. “Jeans? T-shirts? Shorts?”
Dell presses a corner of a drawer and it slides out. Inside are high-tech moisture-wicking shirts and short sets, warm-ups, and wind suits.
“I guess you could wear some of this,” I say uncertainly.
“I have jeans,” he says. He closes the drawer and pauses, as if not certain where they are.
“Don’t dress down often?” I ask.
“It isn’t called for,” he says. “I live a very formal life. And Bernard usually gets things out for me.”
I want to make a joke about mothers picking out clothes, but bite my lip instead.
He opens another large drawer. It is filled with undershirts and boxers.
My face flushes.
Dell pushes it closed.
“What’s in this one?” I ask, pushing on a smaller drawer.
Silk handkerchiefs like a rainbow. “Wow,” I say.
“Bernard keeps it very organized,” he says.
I close it and choose the one below. “How about this?”
I see Dell’s mouth open as if to stop me right as I press the corner to spring it open.
I don’t expect what is in there.
“Birmingham Bulls?” I ask, pulling out a red and blue ball cap. “What are they?”
He takes the hat and drops it back in the drawer. “Just an old defunct hockey team.”
Next to it, though, is an Auburn University sweatshirt.
“Are you from Alabama?” I ask. I can’t picture someone like Dell being from the south.
He frowns. “There isn’t anything suitable in there,” he says. He closes the drawer with his knee.
“There’s nothing wrong with being southern,” I say. My interest is definitely sparked now.
He clearly doesn’t want to talk about it.
“Jeans are here,” he says curtly and opens another drawer, snatching the first pair on top.
“It’s summer, so maybe just a workout shirt,” I say. I back out of the closet with Grace. He’s so touchy! I totally plan to do a thorough search for him and his connection to Alabama when I get a chance.
He doesn’t respond, just opens another drawer.
I walk back through his room to the bed. I sit down on it, realize where I am, and pop up again like a jack-in-the-box. I’m not sitting on that bed.
I picture the one-shoe redhead sprawled on it and grimace. No telling who else has been there.
Bernard enters the room, sees me in it, then backs out quickly, eyes wide.
“Sir, do you need assistance locating a suitable change of clothes?” he calls from the doorway.
Dell emerges from the closet, bare chested, bare footed, in just the jeans.
I catch my breath but can’t quite look away now that I get to see him from the front.
His chest is muscled and smooth. His pecs bulge. And speaking of bulge, I can spot his in the jeans. It’s sizable.
“I’m fine, Bernard,” he says. “Just trying to find something less conspicuous to go baby shopping.”
“Baby shopping, sir?” Bernard’s voice catches. “How long do you anticipate the infant remaining here?”
“Until Monday,” Dell says. “The doctor will call us then with the official DNA results.”
“But surely this is just some sort of prank,” Bernard insists. His controlled expression is utterly lost now, full of horror and distaste.
Dell pulls the shirt over his head. “I don’t think people prank with small children,” he says. “There are a few laws concerning their welfare.”
I hold Grace tightly by the bed.
“Is she staying to assist in the nighttime?” Bernard asks. “I understand they can make quite a commotion at odd hours.”
I open my mouth, then shut it again.
“We’re interviewing some nannies tonight,” Dell says quickly. “I’ll select one who can start immediately.”
Fat chance of that, I think, but don’t speak my opinion again. Dell already knows.
“Do they know who they are interviewing with?” Bernard says. “We might get a number of unsuitable candidates.”
This time I chime in. “Taylor was very discreet about the inquiries,” I say. “She is used to dealing with clients of stature.”
Bernard takes me in as if my assurances are insignificant.
“It’s your business, sir,” he says, watching Dell shove on socks and running shoes with definite disgust. “Would you like me to find a pair of proper leisure shoes?”
“Don’t worry about it. This is fine. I’m sure that car is ready for us by now,” Dell says.
“Indeed.” Bernard steps aside. His eyes cut to me as if to blame me for Dell’s state of dress.
I shrug and cradle Grace carefully. “Did you make another bottle?”
“Yes,” he says. “It’s in that sack.”
He means my Del Gato Child Spa tote. I guess it isn’t up to his standards.
I could be offended, but honestly, he reminds me greatly of my father. When I pass, I shock him by kissing his cheek. “Thank you, Bernard. You’re a good baby butler.”
He pinches his lips together, his placid face spotted with pink. Ha, I got to him.
Now to see if we can turn this uptight billionaire into a proper father by Monday.