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It’s Caspar Kahn’s turn to snigger. I want to ram my fucking fork into two pairs of eyes at this goddamn table. I want to take hold of Dayna and carry her away. Shield her. Protect her.
She shifts her attention to Kahn. “I plan to reclaim what was taken from SP. Now, if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I’ve been asked to give the opening speech this evening due to SP’s success in the last twelve months, if you know what I mean.”
As she leaves the table, my father continues, loud enough to reach her. “What a farce that is, too.”
I watch the pale skin of her slender back move as she walks away. “What she left out is that there are only a handful of companies in this room not struggling to pay off their own debt. And she certainly left out that she’s heading up the only company to have made a year-on-year increase in profit.” I don’t need to move my gaze from Dayna’s fine body to my father to know that my comment will have left him reeling.
Dayna takes her position at the lectern on stage. The lights in the room darken, and a soft orange glow illuminates her. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. Welcome, for a fifty-first year.”
If David Attenborough had a female alter-ego, Dayna Cross would be it. Her voice is like a liqueur coffee — warm and smooth with a kick of something that gets my blood pumping.
“It is an honour to be asked to speak here tonight. It has undoubtedly been a tough year for the industry…”
She exudes a confidence that I know she won’t be feeling inside. That knowledge, that I know her intimately, has my abdomen in knots. How did I ever let her go?
She concludes her speech to rapturous applause from most of the people in the room — not including my father and Caspar Kahn. I’m fixated on her, unapologetically so, and when she lifts her eyes to me through her lashes, her cheeks subtly flushed pink, my pulse races.
Shit, Clark, get it together.
I stand when she comes back to the table and sit when a waiter tucks her chair under.
“I’ve got it, thank you,” she says, placing her own napkin across her lap as the waiter hovers, his interest obvious and understandable. Dayna exhales, a short discreet breath that could be relief from the speech being over or preparation for the next two hours sitting at this table.
The others fall into more bullshit conversation. I listen without partaking, eating the parsnip soup that suits the cold weather outside, too aware of Dayna’s presence beside me.
I lean back to allow a waiter to clear my bowl and I inadvertently hang my arm across the back of Dayna’s chair, my head so close to her neck I can smell her perfume — floral with a hint of something exotic.
She turns her head and finds her nose inches from mine. Her red lips part.
“Your speech was, ah, very well delivered,” I tell her.
She waits a nanosecond, her breath teasing my mouth. “I’m not looking for an endorsement, and if I were, I wouldn’t be looking in your direction.”
“Wow, look what four years did to you.”
“I toughened up, Clark, and I developed a B.S. radar.”
God, she riles me. “Toughened up, or became a bitch?”
She scoffs over the rim of her wine glass. “Much better. This is the Clark I know. Be nice to a woman for five minutes, then bring her back down to earth with a bang.”
“I was being nice to you, intentionally so. But that was before I realised you have a gigantic pole up your arse and a chip on your shoulder.”
She shakes her head with a smirk and pushes out her chair so she’s angled towards me. “For the record, most of my change in character happened in the last eighteen months, since the last time you fucked me and left.”
I wince but can’t find the words to retort. The muscles in my gut tighten with guilt.
“While we’re on, I didn’t ask you to defend me earlier, and I’d thank you for not doing so again in this company.”
“I defended your business sense, Dayna, and for that you deserve praise. Your personality is another matter entirely.”
She stands abruptly and picks up her bag. “Excuse me.”
Fuck.
When she returns, we eat our main course in a silence that speaks volumes about my chances of winning her over for the third time in my life. Dayna Cross is not like other women I know. She won’t bow at my feet because I’m wealthy or good looking. Getting her back would be like hitting the jackpot three times or lightning hitting the same spot a third time. And I’m pissed. Pissed at the situation, pissed at my father for being the catalyst to me walking away in the past, and mostly, fucking irate at myself for ever leaving her.
I excuse myself from the table and go in search of fresh air to clear my head. Ironically, I find it on a terrace that’s being used as a smoking area. I thrust one hand in my pocket and another through my hair to stop me from doing what I really want to do and punching a wall or a door or something — anything — else.
