Scarred by You Page 3

  Sam bounces like a springbok from foot to foot. His black skin is taut across his muscles. The veins in his forearms and neck are pumped and bulging. He’s smaller than me but moves like a whippet and packs a serious punch.

  “You shouldn’t believe everything you hear,” I say with the same ill-humour I feel.

  “Right. So you’re a figment of my imagination and you’re actually on your honeymoon?”

  “You trying to goad me, Sam?”

  “Put it behind your punch, Layton. Use it.”

  I raise my fists and start to bounce.

  “Bring it,” Sam says. He rubs his forearm over his shaved head and across his brow, mopping up beads of sweat from his previous session. I won’t let that fool me into thinking he’s tired. The man’s a machine.

  We dance around each other, occasionally throwing a punch and ducking from one another, neither of us landing a blow.

  “Come on, Layton, you’ve got more than this. Give it to me.”

  I throw a left and follow with a quick right, neither landing.

  “So you ditched her right before the altar. Lose your nerve?”

  I bust out a right upper-cut that lands on his chin and rocks his head back. “It wasn’t like that,” I snarl.

  “Then what was it fucking like?”

  Movement in my peripheral vision draws my attention. I stop bouncing and turn to face the door to the gym, where Jay Hamilton stands, gloved and ready to spar. I drop my hands to my sides and stare at my best friend.

  “Been avoiding my calls, knobhead?” he asks as he stalks towards the ring, his six-two frame tense and looking for a fight.

  The few women in the gym look up from their mats and machines to give him a second glance. He doesn’t notice, not because he’s used to female attention, which he certainly is, but because his usually brown irises are black and glaring at me.

  “You boys gonna do this safely?” Sam asks.

  “We’re not fighting,” I say.

  Jay dips and slips through the ropes, flicking his dark hair out of his eyes as he stands. “The hell we’re not.”

  “Keep it safe, lads, or you’re out.”

  “Jay, man, come on. This is not what I want to do.” I raise my hands in surrender.

  He lunges towards me and smacks my cheek with a wicked right hook that hurts even through a glove.

  I fire back, left-right-left, landing each blow. “Don’t make me put you down, Jay. Let’s talk.”

  He throws a hard left that swings over my head when I dip. I thrust my fist into his ribs. He dives towards me, rugby-tackling my waist and driving me back against the ropes. I power my right glove into his ribs tirelessly, until he steps back and lands a left on my chin that rocks my head. He’s as strong and as tall as me, and he’s going for it, but I kick his arse every time we spar, and this time won’t be any different.

  I can feel people staring, halting their own workouts. This isn’t a training session and they know it.

  I push Jay back and strike him with a left-right. “Jay, I don’t want to hurt you.”

  “Yeah, well I want to fucking hurt you, Layton.”

  He comes at me again and I smash a hook into his jaw. He’s dazed for a second then drops to his knees, rubbing his glove across his face.

  “She’s my fucking little sister, Layton.”

  I step back against the ropes and watch him panting in the middle of the ring. “I know and I’m sorry. More sorry than you’ll believe.”

  “You’re right. I don’t fucking believe you.”

  “Trust me, I ended it to do what’s right by her. I’m not the man for her, Jay, and it’s better that she finds out now rather than five years from now when she’s got a kid and a divorce to her name. She’s twenty-four. She can find someone she deserves, someone better than me.”

  He slowly stands. “At least we agree on something. She’s a mess, you know that?”

  “I’m sorry I hurt her. I swear, I do love her. I just wanted to do the right thing for once in my fucking life.”

  He shakes his head and climbs out of the ring then turns to face me. “Did you screw her over?”

  “No. On my life, no.”

  “She said you fed her some shit about giving your heart away a long fucking time ago. What kind of bollocks is that, man? If I find out you messed her around, Layton, I’ll rip your bastard head off, and you can count on that.”

  “I wouldn’t do that to her, and you of all people know it.”

  “I don’t know anything about you anymore.”

  “YOU EITHER DON’T know, which I don’t believe for a second, or you do know and you’ve chosen not to tell me.”

  I look up from my screen. Rachel, my PA and good friend, stands in the doorway, holding up her iPhone with the screen facing me. She’s leaning to one side with a hand on the hip of her cobalt dress, her black stiletto pointed out, her red lips pursed. It’s almost comical, in a Clueless kind of way, but it’s completely Rachel.

  “Are you talking about the sale at Harvey Nichols?”

  “Don’t you dare, Cross. You know exactly what I’m talking about.” She struts to my desk and plants her phone down. A news article glares up at me. “Layton didn’t get married.”

  “I’ve heard.” I nudge the phone away from me, casually, as if I haven’t spent half the night awake thinking about that very subject. “Could you please print and bind four copies of the report on the Brazilian haulage deal for my meeting at eleven? Oh, and would you order lunch if you haven’t already?”

  Rachel’s green eyes widen and bulge a little—a look I’m familiar with. Generally, it comes out when men are being arseholes in clubs, or when Arthur takes the last of the chocolate digestives from the kitchenette.

  “The reports are already set out in meeting room three, and I’ve ordered a sandwich lunch with fruit for dessert.”

  I try not to smirk. “Thanks.”

  Her nostrils flare, and she puffs out her next breath as if she’s waiting for me to speak. When I don’t, she snatches up her phone. “Cross, Clark is single. When are we going to discuss this?”

  I scrunch my fingers into one side of my hair. “There’s nothing to discuss, Rach. He’s single. Big whoop. Now he can go back to being a player.”

  “But—”

  I stand and move to the window, turning my back on her. I’ve had about three hours’ sleep, thanks to my brain stewing over the fact Clark didn’t get married. I don’t need anyone else making this into a bigger deal in my head than it already is. “Rach, Clark and I were a long time ago.”

  I hear my office door shut and turn to find Rachel walking back over to my desk. “When was the last time you had sex?”

  I look around my office as if someone might have overhead. My cheeks flush red. There are a lot of perks to working closely with your best girlfriend every day. This, however, is a demonstration of when being Rachel’s boss is a complete pain in my arse.

  “Well?”

  “I don’t remember. And this is not the time or the place to discuss my sex life.” Suddenly overly conscious of my body, I shuffle my black pencil dress down my thighs.

  “You don’t remember because it was eighteen months ago and the last person you slept with was Clark Layton.”

  And God, was it good.

  “That was a mistake. You know I can’t stand Clark. He’s an arrogant arsehole, and I really couldn’t care less who he is or isn’t with.”

  “Mm-hmm, but you haven’t had sex with anyone since Clark.”

  “Rachel, we’re at work, and you’re over-stepping the mark.” I shift my tone from friend to boss.

  Her gaze narrows and she sucks in her cheeks. “Fine. But this conversation isn’t over.”

  I take my seat as she makes to leave my office, flicking her brunette bob as she goes. “Wrong, Rach. This conversation is done.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine.”

  “Thank you for the Scottish shortbread you left on my desk.�
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  “You’re welcome,” I say, my smile betraying me.

  “FYI, the chocolate-covered is my favourite.”

  “Noted.”

  “Fine.”

  “Fine,” I say through a chuckle.

  I try to focus on the email I was about to send before her interruption, but she’s thrown my concentration off. Flicking my pen between my lips, I cross my legs and lean back, staring at the ceiling.

  Eighteen months ago, I had a moment of weakness that led to a mistake. A big mistake. Me finding comfort in Clark’s arms. I’d avoided him like the plague for three years. Seen him around, of course, but felt overwhelmed by a sense of repulsion. Then eighteen months ago… God, I don’t know what came over me. It was the anniversary of my father’s suicide. I was at an industry dinner. I’d had too much to drink, more than I’d usually have. Clark had just been announced as CEO of Layton Oil. I don’t know if it was his power, my intoxication, or my need to be held by someone. Someone who I knew, in those intimate moments, could make me see and feel nothing but him.

  I squirm in my seat and squeeze my thighs tightly together, remembering his touch. How he could liquefy me with one stroke, one look. How he could melt away the reality of my nightmares. I rub the base of my hand against my chest and close my eyes, wishing his face would disappear from my mind.

  “Dayna, they’re ready for you in room three.” This time, Rachel’s voice is my saviour.

  “THAT WENT WELL,” I tell Arthur when we’re back in my office. Arthur sits in the chair opposite my desk with a plate full of leftover coronation chicken sandwiches, his favourite. “I’m impressed with the figures. Brazil could prove very profitable for us.”

  He munches delightedly through a triangle, dabbing his thumbs against the yellow sauce that has oozed through the bread and onto the corner of his mouth. If his wife, Evelyn, were here to see this, she’d be calling him a “messy old coot”. Not that she’d actually say it with malice. Evelyn is one of the nicest women in the world. She spends most of her time fussing over Arthur and Teddy. That hasn’t changed since we were kids.

  Laughing, I hold up a tissue, which Arthur takes from me on a smile. “Indeed. Very profitable.”

  “I feel like we’re stable again, Arthur. Really solid.”

  “I sense there’s a ‘but’.” He tucks his used tissue up the sleeve of his blazer. Cringing, I lift my waste basket towards him.

  “Well, I’ve been thinking that I’d like us to grow now.”

  He concedes, tossing the soiled tissue into the bin. “We’ve only just stabilised.”

  “I know. I just don’t want to get behind the curve. With our blending capabilities and our transport links through Canada and South America now, I just think we can be better. I think we’re strong enough to grow.”

  “It’s a bad time, Dayna. Companies are struggling.”

  “Yes, but not us. We need to make sure we have a base to keep moving forwards.”

  He watches me intently as he takes another sauce-dribbling bite from his sandwich. “Well, I have heard about a new opportunity.”

  I sit up straight and scrutinise the troubled look on his face. “What is it?”

  “A new well. It’s currently government owned but the government has more lucrative opportunities to focus on and it’s looking to sell this one.”

  “Where is it?”

  He takes a breath that makes his chest rise noticeably. “The Persian Gulf.”

  I swallow so hard I wonder whether the sound is only in my ears or loud enough for Arthur to hear. “Okay. I guess it’s not like I can avoid the Gulf forever. Which government is selling?”

  “The Kingdom of Bahrain.”

  “And what’s the scenario?”

  “They’re putting out a tender to select bidders only.”

  “Oh.” I rest back in my seat, deflated.

  “SP is one of them.”

  “Oh.” I’m struck by a combination of intrigue and fear. Five minutes ago business expansion was an idea. Now, it’s a stark, Persian Gulf reality. And as much as I want to expand, I don’t know if I can face the Gulf again. The memories it holds. The darkness. I push my shadows aside and ask, “When is the tender out?”

  “Tomorrow.”

  “Oh.” I blink three times in quick succession. Tomorrow? “Why are you telling me now?”

  “Because it was — is — confidential. I’m not supposed to know. You’re not supposed to find out until invitations go out tomorrow, but I’m… acquainted with a man.”

  I try to hide the concern that’s hovering in the back of my mind. “Aren’t you always?” I say, attempting to put a lightness to my tone that I don’t feel.

  “When you’ve been in the industry as long as I have, you get to know a few people.”

  “What’s the price?”

  Arthur puts his empty plate on my desk, adjusts his trousers at the knee, and shuffles in his seat. “You’ll get the financials in the tender invitation. If you choose to, you’ll form a bid to compete with the other bidders. All bids will be anonymous. You won’t know what the other companies bid, and they won’t be able to see your figures. Submissions have to be filed by Monday.”

  “Monday? Five days?”

  “Yes. Don’t worry about that, you can do it. But, Dayna, you have to know something first.”

  Despite the autumn sun beaming through the windows, a chill runs the length of my spine. “Go on.”

  “My contact told me the names of the other bidders.”

  “Tell me.”

  “Shale Well. Deep Sea Energy. Layton Oil.”

  Clark.

  “And… Persian Fuels.”

  My vision tunnels. The air is zapped from my lungs. I place a hand over my sternum and feel my heart pounding. “Caspar Kahn.”

  Arthur leaves me to it. He says goodbye as he goes but I barely hear him. I watch his mouth move, unable to process his words.

  If I go after this well, I enter the bullring with the man who brought down my father. It’s knocked me completely, brought home the sense of raging fire that I feel every time I think about Caspar Kahn and what he did. This feeling isn’t fear. No, with Kahn, I want revenge.

  I haven’t seen the tender documentation yet, and I’m sensible —I know I need to understand the figures, work through this with my board of directors. But I already know that I need this well. I want to outbid Caspar. I’d love nothing more than to see his sadistic grin wiped off his face when he realises that, despite his best efforts, Subsea Petroleum is back.

  I request a report from Finance on potential funding options so when I get the tender details tomorrow I’ll have something to work with.

  After a desk lunch, two calls and one face-to-face with the manager of my Portsmouth site, I’m glad to have my appointment at Amanda Wakeley to pick up my gown for the dinner tomorrow evening. Unfortunately, that reminds me that this year I’ll be opening the evening with a speech to a room of pig-headed men, with a few women thrown in for good measure.

  I send my speech to the printer and close down Outlook. I don’t want to, I really don’t, but I can’t resist just a quick glance. I pull up the internet browser and type in Clark Layton Wedding. Unsurprisingly, the first hit is Star Struck, the trashy gossip arm of an equally uncouth online ‘news’ site. Clark and Constance are two of London’s golden socialites — they frequent the right places, get photographed with the right people and, in my opinion, are ripe for an invitation to the next season of Made in Chelsea.

  “Hey, here’s your speech. I’m going to head off unless you need anything else?”

  I jump at Rachel’s presence and feel my cheeks burn up as I fumble an attempt to exit the browser.

  “Erm, what are you doing?”

  I hastily click Shutdown. “Nothing. I’m going, I have an appointment—”

  “At Amanda Wakeley. I know, I’m your PA. What I meant was why are you reading about Clark Layton?”

  “I’m not.” And it’s true; t
he page had only just loaded when I got caught red-handed.

  “I can see the reflection of your screen in the window, Cross.”

  I take the copy of my speech and put it in my handbag then grab my red knee-length coat from the stand. “It was on my homepage, Rachel. Why on earth would I be looking up Clark Layton?”

  “Right, because your homepage is Star Struck now?” Her words fall on my back as I walk, somewhat huffily, out of my office.

  I HANG THE black gown on the back of the bathroom door while I shower, to make sure any creases drop out of the silk. Staring at it as I work a lather in my hair, I start to feel nervous about tomorrow. It’s not about my speech — I know that inside and out. It’s more about who I might run in to. Right on cue, memories of Clark fill my mind…

  “Where are you?” I shouted into my mobile above the noise of the bar.

  “To the right of the bar. I can see you,” Teddy told me. He’d just got a job with Layton Oil and he’d invited me out to celebrate the end of his first week.

  I looked around the masses of suits enjoying that first drink on a Friday night. “I still can’t— Oh, there you are.”

  Hanging up, I followed Teddy’s waving hand, wading through groups of people chatting and laughing.

  “Snot Face,” he shouted so loud I could hear him above the guitars of Kings of Leon’s “Sex on Fire”. When I reached him, he pulled me into his chest. Firmer then than it is now.

  I pulled back from him and patted his shoulder. “Fred hit the big time. How’s your first week been?”

  He started to tell me, but his words faded into silence as I caught sight of the chiselled profile of a man who looked as if he should be on a billboard in Knightsbridge advertising some top designer label. I jumped when the could-be model caught me staring. He looked across once and turned away, then quickly shot me another glance. I was still fixed on him, gormlessly so. I guess that’s what Hollywood would call our “meet-cute”.

  His lips curled slightly — smug, arrogant even — and I felt my cheeks burn. He excused himself from the undeniably hot woman who was probably his girlfriend and moved towards Teddy and me. He was even more beautiful up close. He was clothed in a suit that I suspected cost more than my monthly rent — not cheap in the heart of London. His face was lined with stubble, so neat that it was intentional rather than lazy, and his dark-blond hair was just long enough to be an indication of non-conformance.