Betrayal (5 page)

“Yes.” Fiona sounded annoyed. “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”

“Because he has a girlfriend! And they've always seemed like the perfect couple.”

Fiona snorted. “They weren't. Leah wasn't handling her business, so I did it for her.”

“And got yourself pregnant.” Tamia frowned. “Are you sure it's Dre's baby?”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“Have you been with anyone else recently?”

Fiona hesitated for a moment. “The only other dude I was messing with was one of my professors. And he always wore a condom. Dre didn't.”

Tamia shook her head slowly. “Unbelievable.”

“You think I'm happy about this?” Fiona burst out. “I'm not! I'm in prison, Tamia, and I'll probably be here for the rest of my life. I'm depressed and scared as hell, and I keep having nightmares about Mama Esther. Bringing a baby into the world is the
last
thing—” Fiona broke off abruptly, her voice choking on a muffled sob.

Tamia's heart softened with compassion.

“What do you need me to do?” she asked in a gentler tone.

Fiona sniffled. “Dre won't take any of my phone calls, and he returned the letter I sent him. I know he thinks I'm crazy and he regrets what we did, but he needs to know that I'm carrying his baby. Since I can't reach him, will you tell him for me?”

Tamia swallowed hard, then nodded slowly. “I'll tell him.”

“Thank you, Tam-Tam,” Fiona whispered meekly. “Will you let me know what he says?”

“Of course.” Tamia stared down at the hardwood floor. Suddenly her own problems seemed small and trivial. “If he doesn't want the baby, Fee, you know I'm here.”

“I know, and I appreciate that. But I want the baby to be raised by Dre.” Fiona paused, then added sadly, “I'm living proof of what can go wrong when a child doesn't have her father around. I want better for my baby.”

Tamia closed her eyes, sorrow and regret twisting inside her.

“I'll talk to Dre,” she promised. “He'll do the right thing.”

She'd make damn sure of it.

Brandon stared broodingly out the windows of his downtown office.

The winter sky was gray, making the steel and glass skyscrapers look dull and smudged.

He had paperwork to complete, phone calls to make, client meetings to schedule. But he couldn't tackle any of those tasks because his concentration was shot to fucking hell.

He couldn't stop thinking about Tamia.

After she got off the phone with him yesterday, he'd laced up his Timbs, grabbed his car keys, and headed out the door bound for her apartment. He'd needed to see her, hold her, be with her.

He'd gotten halfway across town before he came to his senses, turned around, and went back home.

He'd been miserable ever since.

Brandon sighed, surveying the downtown landscape from his forty-ninth-floor vantage point.

He was one of the top rainmakers at Chernoff, Dewitt & Strathmore, and he'd only been partner for four months.

He made more money than he could ever spend in a lifetime.

He had the POTUS on speed dial.

Everywhere he went, people knew him and bent over backward to accommodate him.

He could have anything he wanted . . .

. . . except the woman he loved.

“Well, well, well,” a mocking voice interrupted his tortured musings. “Isn't
this
a surprise?”

Brandon frowned, muscles tensing.

Resenting the intrusion, he turned slowly to regard the man who stood in the doorway of his corner office.

With impeccably coiffed hair and arctic-blue eyes, Russ Sutcliffe was one of the firm's senior partners and the only one who'd voted against Brandon's promotion that summer. Though his beef with Brandon stemmed from his longstanding hatred for Brandon's father—whom Russ had unsuccessfully tried to keep out of office—he and Brandon had developed their own feud over the past eight years.

“I wasn't expecting to see
you
here this week,” Russ drawled tauntingly. “Aren't you and Miss Yarbrough supposed to be on your honeymoon?”

Brandon was in no mood for the man's bullshit. “What do you want, Russ?”

He laughed, shaking his head at Brandon as he wandered into the large room. “No need to get testy with me just because you felt compelled to call off your wedding. Speaking of which, I'm sure that didn't go over too well with Miss Yarbrough and her family. Aren't you and your father supposed to be campaigning with Bishop Yarbrough starting this month?” Russ smirked. “Talk about
awkward
.”

Brandon just looked at him. “Are you finished?”

Russ ignored him. “Poor Cynthia. It must gall her to know that you couldn't bring yourself to marry her because you're still hung up on a trashy porn star. What does the poor girl have to do to win your love and devotion? Get knocked up?” Russ paused, his eyes gleaming with malicious satisfaction. “Oh, but wait. She's already done that, hasn't she? Why else would you have arranged a shotgun wedding at the justice of the peace?”

Brandon smiled narrowly. “If I were you, Russ—meaning if I were a pathetic has-been whose colleagues call him a joke behind his back—I'd spend less time gossiping and more time worrying about how to generate revenue for this firm before you're tossed out on your freeloading ass.”

Russ's face reddened with fury. “Who the hell do you think you're talking to?”

Though he didn't say it, the word
boy
hung between them like a grenade with an unlit fuse.

“Careful, Russ,” Brandon warned softly. “I'm gonna run this town one day, so you'd be wise not to say anything that could come back to haunt you when you have to come begging me for a job.”

Russ was speechless, his face going from red to an apoplectic purple.

“Good ol' Russ,” drawled an amused voice from across the room. “You never did know how to quit while you're behind.”

Brandon and Russ glanced sharply toward the doorway. Brandon smothered a groan when he saw his father standing there with Iris, the receptionist, who was beaming with excitement.

“Brandon,” she gushed, “you have a visitor.”

He could see that. “Thanks, Iris.”

“I'll bring you and the lieutenant governor some coffee.” She winked at Bernard. “And I'll keep your security boys entertained while they wait for you.”

“Thank you, Iris,” Bernard said with a good-natured chuckle. “If anyone can get them to loosen up, you can.”

As Iris bustled away, Brandon smiled at his father. “Hey, Dad. I thought you'd be on your way to the capital by now.”

“I wanted to stop by and see you first.” Stepping into the room, Bernard Chambers divided an amused glance between Brandon and Russ. “I apologize for interrupting.”

“No apology necessary,” Brandon drawled. “Russ and I were just talking shop.”

“Is that right?” Bernard's dark eyes glinted with humor as he nodded to Russ. “Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“Lieutenant Governor Chambers,” Russ said, his voice dripping with smug condescension. “So nice of you to grace us with your presence. How's your lovely wife?”

“She's well. And yours?”

“Never been better.” Russ smiled thinly. “Speaking of wives, I wanted to congratulate your son on his recent nuptials, but I understand the ceremony didn't go off as planned. I hope that won't cause a rift between you and Bishop Yarbrough. I know how much his support means to your campaign.”

“It does,” Bernard smoothly agreed. “But Joseph Yarbrough believes in my candidacy, so I'm not at all worried about losing his support. Now if you don't mind, Russ, I'm on a tight schedule, so I'd like a few minutes with my son so that he can get back to work and you can get back to doing . . . whatever it is you do around here.”

Russ's face flushed with anger and humiliation. Clenching his jaw, he shot one last glare at Brandon before turning and stalking out of the room.

Bernard and Brandon looked at each other and grinned. Nothing bonded father and son more than putting Russ Sutcliffe in his place.

After Iris brought their coffee and closed the door behind her, Brandon lowered himself into his chair and offered, “Why don't you have a seat, Dad?”

Bernard was already striding forward, radiating enough power and authority to make the enormous room seem smaller. He was a tall man, dark and distinguished. Today he wore a custom-tailored William Fioravanti suit and impeccably polished Italian loafers.

Ignoring both visitor chairs, he sat down on the sleek leather sofa near Brandon's desk and smoothly crossed his legs. As he raised the cup of coffee to his mouth and took a deliberate sip, his eyes never left Brandon's face.

Brandon waited. He knew what was coming.

“Your mother and I have been trying to reach you since Friday,” Bernard said reproachfully. “You've been avoiding our calls.”

Brandon didn't bother to deny it.

“What you did at the courthouse was a mistake—one that we expect you to rectify.”

Brandon was silent, staring into the dark contents of his own coffee cup.

“Is Cynthia pregnant?” Bernard asked bluntly.

Brandon didn't blink. “No.”

Bernard shook his head. “Boy, you must think I was born yesterday. For whatever reason, you and Cynthia have been denying that she's pregnant. But your mother and I both know that's the only reason you were getting married on Friday. And Russ knows it, too. Which is why he and my opponents are going to seize the opportunity to use this latest stunt of yours against me.”

Brandon sighed. “Dad—”

“It's bad enough that we're still doing damage control from the ad they ran about Tamia and her deranged sister. You've just given them new ammunition by refusing to marry your pregnant girlfriend.”

“I'm not refusing to marry her,” Brandon said evenly.

His father snorted. “Sure as hell looked like it to me and everyone else who was there. I've never seen Joseph so mad. You know he's a card-carrying member of the NRA. If he'd been armed on Friday, your mother and I would be making your funeral arrangements right now. Even if he doesn't pull his support, I know he won't be too eager to campaign for me until you do right by his daughter.”

“I plan to,” Brandon bit off tersely. “But with all due respect, Dad, this is a private matter between me and Cynthia.”

Bernard shook his head in angry exasperation. “How many times do I have to remind you that everything you do reflects upon me? As long as I'm running for governor, you can't go around impregnating women and jilting them at the altar. You have to set a better exam—”

“I know, Dad,” Brandon snapped, slamming his cup down on the desk and splashing coffee onto the blotter. Ignoring the mess, he shoved to his feet and stalked to the windows. Jamming his hands into his pockets, he glared outside as anger and frustration pumped through his blood.

He heard the soft creak of leather as his father rose from the sofa and walked over to him.

“We all have to make sacrifices, son. Short-term sacrifices for long-term goals.”

“Whose goals?” Brandon challenged. “Yours or mine?”

His father gave him a disappointed look. “You used to know what was important. You used to care.”

“I still do. But my definition of what's important isn't the same as it used to be.”

Bernard held his defiant gaze for a long moment, then turned to stare out the windows. In silence, father and son contemplated the gray skies that blanketed the city their ancestors had helped build.

Bernard said quietly, “You were absolutely right when you told Russ that you'd run this town someday. You will—without a doubt. But it won't stop there. You're Brandon Everett Chambers. The day you were born, your mother and I looked into your eyes, and we knew with unshakable certainty that you were destined for greatness. Not just because of your lineage, but because of who
you
are.”

When Brandon said nothing, his father continued, “I know you resent my interference in your life. You think I'm pushing you into a political career, and you think that's not what you want. You want to be your own man, carve out your own path. And there's nothing wrong with that. But if you ever mistakenly believe that you can just settle for anything—if you ever forget how ruthlessly ambitious you are—look around this office. Think of all the attorneys you outgunned and outworked to make partner. Think of the opponents you routinely demolish in the courtroom. And remember that it was
you
who told Russ you'd run this town one day. Those were your words, Brandon. Not mine or your mother's.
Yours
.”

Brandon remained silent, a muscle throbbing in his jaw.

“Tamia Luke doesn't belong in your world, son. I know that's not what you want to hear, but it's the truth. A woman like her will only cause you heartache and keep you from fulfilling your potential.”

“You're wrong,” Brandon said flatly. “When Tamia and I were dating, she was nothing but supportive of my career goals. She was my sounding board at the end of a long day, she dropped everything whenever I needed her to, and even though I canceled more than a few dates to work late, she never once complained.”

Bernard gave him a mocking look. “So now you're trying to whitewash your relationship with Tamia.”

“I'm not trying to whitewash anything. I'm just telling you that everything wasn't always bad between us. If that were the case, we wouldn't have been together for nine months. But you know what, Dad? I'm tired of defending our relationship to you and everyone else, so can we just move on?”

“I don't know, Brandon.
Can
we move on? Can
you
?”

They stared each other down until Brandon looked away, clenching his jaw.

Bernard shook his head. “You think I don't know that you're suffering? I know a heartbroken man when I see one. Tamia's the woman you want, but she's not the woman you need. Cynthia Yarbrough is. And if she's carrying your child, honor and decency demand that you do the right thing and marry her. The sooner, the better.”

Brandon didn't respond.

Staring out the windows, he wondered if his father would have issued the same order if Tamia, not Cynthia, were pregnant.

But he already knew the answer.