Dance for the Billionaire (13 page)

“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.”

What else could she say?  He clearly didn’t want her gratitude.  How she could make him understand that she wasn’t expecting marriage, that she would accept whatever time he had to give her, as long as it was exclusive time—she won’t share him with another woman.  If he dropped her tomorrow she would be devastated, but she prayed she would be able to move on, taking precious memories of their time together with her.  Trying to hold on to a man like Dominic would be like trying to keep hold of an eel.

“I think you need to meet my mother.”

“What?”  Hadn’t he heard a word she’d said about keeping things just between the two of them?

“It’s time you knew a little more about me.”

“I don’t need your mother to tell me how wonderful you are.  I know that already!”

“I’ll call her and arrange for the two of you to meet for lunch.”

“Dominic I don’t want to meet your mother!  We’re not even dating.”

“Aren’t we?”

“We’re having sex.”  He gave her a stony-eyed glare and she hastily amended, “Great sex, though.”

“You can tell that to my mother.  I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear it.”

“Are you seriously ordering me to meet your
mother
?”

“She helped my father get the company off its feet in the beginning, so she’s as much a part of it as he is.  I’m giving you an instruction,” he informed her coolly.

“Fine.” She pulled away from him and hurriedly exited the flat. 

This is why you never sleep with your damn boss!

The conversation really hadn’t gone as she’d planned.  It was hard to explain what she felt without sounding prejudiced.  She’d never wanted to be anything but black.  Her Jamaican roots were strong.  She didn’t want to change who she was just to date a person of another race.  She liked her kinky hair, she liked her big hips, her chunky thighs and full behind.  She loved Jamaican food and music.  She loved talking Patois, or listening to other people talk it among themselves, on mobile phones while walking past her, or at a bus stop, or on a bus.  She loved the fleeting reminders of her parents’ birthplace, which she still remembered vividly from her visits there.

Though, she was ashamed to admit it, but she almost always did a double take when she saw the fairly rare sight of a black woman with a white man.  She always wondered what was in it for him, or for her.  If the guy was much older she always thought he had to be loaded; if he was young or good looking, she wondered if he needed a visa to stay in the UK, or if the woman had money.  Her first thought was never that they simply loved each other.

The seven year difference in their ages was ideal—she needed someone just a bit older to put her in her place from time to time.  She would walk all over a younger man.  But anyone seeing her and Dominic together would assume that she was after his money.  She cringed at the thought, but acknowledged that she deserved the payback for herself thinking the same thing of other black women in a similar position.

Dominic’s money had little to do with her feelings for him.  Yet, there was no ignoring the fact that he was loaded.  She would have been attracted to him, even if he was a postman or a street cleaner.  The question that she couldn’t honestly answer was: would she have slept with him if he was?  His money gave him an aura of power that was seductive.  He had also, with a sum that was peanuts to him, drastically improved her financial position and given her the first months of security she’d had since the age of eleven.  And yet, if he wasn’t rich she would worry less that she was just a plaything he would discard when he was done toying with her.

Never say never.  She was thankful that she hadn’t ever vocalized the private thought that she would never date a white man.  She’d had typical teenage crushes on black actors, singers and rappers; had been attracted to black boys while at secondary school and had seen a few on the university campus who had made her heartbeat quicken.  But one casual date at Pizza Hut with a fellow student had made her realize that real romance could far removed from its portrayal in novels.  Her date had ordered a large pizza for himself and a bottle of wine to accompany the meal, and another as they chatted afterwards.  She had barely drunk any, not being used to it or liking its dry, crisp taste, but had enjoyed her small Margherita.  When the bill was presented, she was horrified to learn that although he had invited her on the date, he’d expected her to pay half the bill.  Luckily, she’d had the required amount in her purse, but it had severely eaten into the amount she’d set aside for that month’s groceries.  In the weeks following her siblings hadn’t noticed that their portions of meat, chicken or fish were smaller than usual, or that often there weren’t enough pieces for their sister to have a share as well.  It had taken several weeks of scrimping and scraping to financially recover from the one lousy date.  She’d decided that they weren’t worth the effort—at least not until she was in a better economic position.

On the other had, she hadn’t been attracted to any of the boys at school and had never felt the slightest spark between herself and any of her male white colleagues at university.  In her naïveté she had imagined that it meant she simply wasn’t attracted to white men…and then Dominic had walked into Armstrong’s.

She didn’t have a problem with interracial dating or marriage—she just thought that the motivation should be love, not the prospect of greater social acceptance or the purpose of genetic engineering.  Both parties had to be proud of their own racial heritage and fully accepting of the other’s.

She didn’t doubt the love she felt for Dominic.  She was quite happy to be a member of the working classes.  She was proud to be black and would have no problem if their children were replicas of her or Dominic, or a combination of both.

What she didn’t honestly know was if her head had influenced her heart—did Dominic’s wealth, after years of financial struggle, have anything to do with the way she felt about him?

If she couldn’t convince herself her love had nothing to do with his money, how could she convince anyone else?

Chapter Ten

“Mr. O’Brien would like to see you in his office immediately.”  Angela didn’t sound her usual bubbly self.  The fact that she’d used Dominic’s title didn’t bode well considering the company’s creed that they were all part of one big family so there was no need to stand on formality.

Chantelle hoped that she wasn’t the cause of the woman’s uncharacteristic solemnity, though she suspected she was.  Dominic must have just read her letter of resignation.

“Tell him I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”  Chantelle tried to make her voice sound coolly professional, but butterflies were dancing in her stomach.

Let him stew in his own juices for a little longer.

Taking a deep breath, she lifted her legs and swung her chair in half a dozen complete circles before she remembered that she could be seen from the outside.

It wasn’t as if she planned on leaving tomorrow.  She had just politely informed him that she would work out her three month notice period effective from today.

Her iPhone immediately beeped.

Get up here now.  Or I’ll come down and get you!

She stood up and immediately headed towards the lifts.  He was crazy enough to come down and haul her upstairs by her hair…or kiss her senseless in front of everyone.

Angela looked up in relief when Chantelle tapped on the door.

“Hi Angela, I finished what I was doing a little earlier than expected.”

“No problem, Chantelle.”  The woman’s frowning face broke into a smile and Chantelle wondered if she knew more than she let on.  The woman reached into a drawer and pulled out a handbag that Chantelle had seen priced at several thousand pounds.  Dominic must pay the woman a fortune.  “He’s expecting you.  Go on right through.  I’m popping out for lunch now.”

Dominic stopped his pacing when she pushed the door open.

“What the hell is this?” he demanded, shaking the paper he held crushed in his hand at her.

God, he’s even more gorgeous when he’s angry!

“Dominic, I told you I was going to leave.”

“And I told you that you weren’t going anywhere!”

She’d come up with several reasons to convince herself that she was better off leaving him and the company.  Just one look at his beloved face made her wonder if she could honestly bear to tear herself away.

“Dominic, it’s better this way,” she began, backing away to the door as he advanced.  “If the media find out about us, Shawn and the girls could get teased or bullied by the neighborhood kids…even their own friends.”