Chapter 25: Dell
It feels good to be home.
Not at the penthouse, of course. In my office.
My chef-prepared lunch has just been delivered. The Tokyo meeting went well. I’ve caught up on most of the critical events of yesterday.
I feel in control again.
The baby and Arianna seem like a far-off dream, like a movie I watched once when I was young and impressionable.
It’s nothing that affects me now.
The twelve grand for the child spa is worth having a nanny in place. Bernard informed me that the new woman was kind and organized and the place felt as harmonious as could be expected.
All is well.
The first indication that my life has been impacted more than I might be admitting is the unwelcome buzz from my office manager that Camellia Walsh has arrived and is asking to see me.
“Under no circumstances allow her in here,” I say into the intercom. “Put her off.”
Camellia. I can still see her hobbling back to her car after breaking her shoe. It was completely unacceptable for her to chase me down like that.
I should face facts. That woman was a tactical error. Most of my weekend women understand me. Short-term trysts. Nice. Neat. Pleasurable.
Then done.
But not her. She has proven too clingy by a long shot. I’m not in the market for a girlfriend or a wife. And even if I was, she wouldn’t have made the cut.
That line of thought makes me flash to a vision of Arianna curled up on my weight bench. Other than the kiss, nothing about our time together fit my normal interactions with women. It had all been so — ordinary. Baby shopping. Doctor visit. Assembling a swing and a stroller. Dinner.
But there had been that kiss. The dreamy, half-awake passionate meeting of our mouths. I could still feel her in my arms.
My reverie is disrupted by the abrupt opening of my door.
“Dell Brant, how dare you try to use your secretary to get rid of me!”
Camellia Walsh storms into the office. I stand up, prepared to unleash my displeasure at the interruption, when I see her.
I clamp down my rage. She’s a disaster. Mascara down her cheeks. Her hair spilling from an updo. Only her fuchsia knit dress is in perfect order.
“Good grief, Camellia, what’s happened to you?”
My assistant pauses to make sure I’m okay with the disruption. I nod as Camellia comes around my desk to lay her tear-streaked face on my shoulder.
I do not want her there. But I act appropriately, patting her back.
“What has happened?” I ask.
Her next words rather confound me.
“The DOMs have rejected me. And I just wanted you! Who cares about those other dirty old men!” Her voice is plaintive, pathetic.
So no one has died. She hasn’t been harmed or threatened. I disentangle myself and take a step back.
“Please explain yourself,” I say, already impatient. I have no time for games.
“The DOMs said no, but that’s not what I want anyway.”
I hold up a hand. “What are you talking about?”
She purses her lips. “I thought you knew.”
“Is this an S&M thing? I’m not into that.” I can be, actually, but it’s not something to share with Camellia.
“No, not that sort of dom,” she says, unsure now. Her face is crumpled. She decides to change tactics. “Dell, darling, please say you’ll take me out this weekend. Once wasn’t enough.”
Oh, this is the worst.
“Camellia, I have plans. Perhaps some other time.” I return to my chair and pick up my phone. “Now, if you’ll excuse me.”
She tries to slip into my lap. I’m not sure how to politely retreat. I’ve met prostitutes who were more subtle than this.
I place my hands on her rather minuscule waist to forcibly remove her from my leg. She had her lowest ribs removed to make her figure more dramatic, and it startles me the same now as it did when she was naked in my limo.
Not that it stopped me then.
When she stands on her own two feet, her eyes flash. “I saw you with that baby,” she says, all pretense gone. “You better explain that to me before I use that information against you.”
Now we’re in a place I’m used to. Cutthroat negotiation. Threats. I’ve had meetings go this way before. So much more civilized than the head games she was playing before.
“What could possibly be scandalous about a man carrying a child down a New York boulevard?” I ask.
“Whose child?” she asks. She clears away the mascara streaks in two quick swipes with her hand.
“It isn’t my place to disclose the private information of a minor,” I say.
She swiftly re-pins her hair. She looks nothing like the distraught bombshell who stumbled in.
“I aim to leverage our relationship to get into the DOMs,” she says coldly. “So agree to another weekend with me, at least publicly, or I’ll go to the worst online gossip sites about your secret love child.”
“I don’t do second weekends,” I say.
“I know,” she shoots back. “That’s why it’s sure to get me in.”
Despite playing ignorant earlier about this DOM group, I have a rough idea of what she’s talking about. A certain subset of my former lovers gather to drink and no doubt speak of me with sarcasm and disdain. It’s fine. Amusing, really.
“Why do you want to associate with the other women I’ve slept with?” I ask.
She arranges her face into the classic expression of a beatific upper-class wife, pleasant and neutral. “It’s social security for aging divorcées,” she says. “Now what will it be?”
“No deal,” I say, waving her off. “Do your worst about the child. You’ll only embarrass yourself.”
“We’ll see about that.” She huffs out an unhappy breath and turns on her heel.
I picture Arianna rolling her eyes at the woman and have to smile at my computer monitor. The door closes behind her.
But she has reminded me of a task I should do today. The DNA test. The one-day non-court-admissible one. At least I would know. If it turns out Grace is not mine, I can let her go right now. The official one is pointless.
I type in the Google search to find a clinic nearby. I’ll need the child of course for another swab. Perhaps I’ll have the nanny bring her separately so we aren’t seen together again.
But as I scan the list, I think about how Grace reacted in the doctor’s office. Her screams. The upset. She was inconsolable for an hour. I can’t do that to her again, even if it won’t involve a needle jab.
I close the window. I have a nanny in place until Monday. The child will no longer be a bother to me.
I will just let her be.