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A forced social engagement is the last thing I need this week. The only silver lining is that it’s an industry dinner. The men here are more likely to pat you on the back for breaking a woman’s heart than give you a hard time. But there’s always my father for that.
I thank my driver as he holds open the limo door, and I fasten the button of my dinner jacket.
“The prodigal son.” My father arrives at the same time I do. He falls into step next to me, a close match for my height and width but missing conditioning these days — not something that stops him wanting to pick a fight with me every time we see each other. “Just when I thought you’d done all the fucking up you were going to do…”
We walk the red carpet leading to the entrance of the lavish hotel. “A pleasure, as always, sir.”
“Don’t get smart with me, Clark. I have a lot more than that to say to you.”
We step through double doors held by suited doormen. The official photographers for the event are waiting with cameras that force me to squint under the flash. We’re engulfed by a blend of rich aftershaves coming from the hundreds of obscenely wealthy men. “That’s possibly the first time you’ve acknowledged I’m smart. I’m touched, truly.”
I accept a glass of champagne from a waiter and take a swig that clears half the contents. I glance around the packed reception area. A pianist can barely be heard above the raucous conversation and rumbling baritone laughs of men in bow ties, already indulging in fine drinks and canapés. The industry is out in force.
My father puts a hand on my shoulder, a move that might look affectionate to an outsider, but his fingers dig into the muscle beneath my collarbone. “Do you appreciate what you have now, what I’ve handed you on a goddamned silver platter, you selfish little prick?” His words come low and ominous through his teeth. “You’re at the head of the company I built, and I won’t let you bring down my reputation, my name. You won’t return to your old ways and you will get that girl back. If you want to fuck other women, do it quietly, but to everyone else, you will maintain the stature that I’ve gifted you and you will marry that girl.”
I take his hand from my shoulder, squeezing his fingers in mine. I stare into his ageing brown eyes. “Years ago — hell, months ago — I was afraid of you. I did everything you wanted. I gave up things I shouldn’t have had to give up, all for you. And now I see you for what you are: a bitter, twisted cunt. You think you’re still someone. You’re not. You’re an old man whose ticker is failing. You’re weak, and one day, people will find you out.”
“Is that a threat, son?”
We turn and smile as a photographer moves in front of us and snaps. The father and son of Layton Oil. As blissful as the Little House on the fucking Prairie.
I drain the remainder of my drink. “It’s not a threat. But the only reason I’m not telling Mother what you did last week, what you’ve been doing, is because it will hurt her. Make no mistake, I no longer have any loyalty to you.”
I turn to leave, but he grabs me by the arm. “You’re wrong, son. You were never everything I wanted.”
A short, sinister laugh bursts from my chest. “Nothing and no one will ever be everything you want.”
I grab another drink and turn on a smile when I hear my name being called by Harrison Franks, the MD of Stellar Fuels. As I join him and his group in conversation, I turn my head around the opulent reception. My eyes meet my father’s more than once, beckoned like bugs to a warning light.
“The difficulty is that these companies think they can charge higher prices for their widgets and valves, but the specifications haven’t changed. They’ve got to recognise that with oil prices this low, they’re asking for disproportionate coin. Do you agree, Clark?”
I pull my attention back to Harrison and speak to him with half my focus on the rest of room. “I agree that we can’t afford to pay more, but the specifications have improved.”
As Harrison continues to drone on about widgets, I spot Caspar Kahn of Persian Fuels making his way into the hotel. This morning, I found out the names of all the bidders for the well in the Middle East. Caspar is one of them, and I intend to see what I can get out of him about his bid.
“Gentlemen, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to take care of.”
I’m halfway across the space between Caspar and me when I hear a female laugh. There are only a handful of women at these events, but that doesn’t make a difference; I’d recognise that sound anywhere. It’s like my legs forget how to walk. I rotate on the spot, my body tensing against the charge in the air around me that’s rendered me stupid.
The day before my wedding, I saw my father with another woman, his fingers ramming into her as they hid behind a wall at our pre-wedding luncheon. His own son’s pre-wedding luncheon. “You don’t have to be in love with the woman you marry; you just have to make sure she’s the right woman,” he told me, as if it was some kind of defence to adultery. I thought about it for the rest of the day. I was thinking about it when I read SP’s accounts and saw Dayna Cross’s face on the cover.
I’ve never bought into fate. But it was too hard to deny the signs. It was a reality check. I didn’t want to be like my father. I didn’t want to marry Connie because she said the right things in company and behaved the right way. If I did that I’d ultimately hurt her. I’d hurt her because she’d never be what I now realise I want. No, what I need.
And what I need is standing right across the room from me.
Caspar Kahn can wait. I rub my fist against the dull throb under my ribcage and remind myself to breathe. She’s stunning. Infinitely more beautiful in person. My lips curve upwards at the sound of another laugh. She sips her champagne and her cheeks flush as she tucks a loose strand of hair behind her ear. I’d stake my life on the fact someone in her circle just complimented her. And rightly so. Her black gown touches each magnificent curve of her body and floats down to the ground from her flat stomach. She leans forwards as she speaks, and my lips part as I catch a glimpse of her back. The gown drapes down to the small of her spine. My mouth goes dry as I fix my eyes on her naked flesh.
As if she’s tuned into my presence, Dayna turns her head over her shoulder. She finds me. My legs are moving me forwards before my mind tells them to do so. There’s a fleeting look of something I like in her eyes. Something I’ve seen before. Heat? Desire? Then, just as quickly, it’s gone, and her face shifts to an expression more like disgust. My brain realises now that this is a bad idea, but I keep moving. She breaks from the group to place her empty glass on the bar.
“Dayna.” Her name comes unintentionally low and husky off my tongue.
She stills but for the subtle rise of her shoulders. I take the moment to drink her in, remembering the smoothness of her skin.
When she turns, there’s a sarcastic smile in her eyes. She leans back against the bar, confident and sexy as hell. “Clark.” It’s cold, and it stings like a jellyfish.
Just like that, I snap back from whatever fictional land I was just floating through. I hold up two fingers and mouth “Scotch” to the bartender. I unbutton my jacket and rest back against the bar beside her. “I see you still have an attitude problem.”
We each take a Scotch and slip back into position, our stances identical.
