by Laura Carter
He nods curtly. “I can also have a pretty good guess at what you’re offering, and I’ve no doubt it will be of interest to them. But I don’t like it. I don’t want you to get into something you can’t handle.”
My jaw drops open. The arrogant bastard thinks I’m not up to it. I stand abruptly, my chair scraping the floor, drawing attention from those on surrounding tables. “Fuck you, Clark, you self-righteous prick.”
He stands as I storm away from him. “Dayna, I wasn’t saying…”
I ignore him in the queue to board the plane, and I ignore him when he walks past me to take a seat towards the back of first class.
We land on time and I have to move swiftly for my connection to Bahrain. There’s no time for a messy goodbye. Instead, I’ll have an awkward-as-hell night at the conference, but right now, I have to get my mind back in the game.
THE SHORT FLIGHT to Bahrain gave me time to think about the meeting. I need to be firm. Show them I can be on their level, but charm them enough that they want to take my deal. This is the only chance I have of beating Caspar and taking a small piece of the revenge my father deserves, that eleven workers and their families deserve.
I fleetingly considered Teddy’s concerns this morning about Iran. If oil really does hit thirty dollars a barrel and keep spiralling, I could be putting SP in a position to lose money. It’s something I need to think about. And I will. I already have Arthur in my ear about financials, but I’m struggling to believe his motivation isn’t just to protect me from the Middle East. Right now, this well isn’t just about money to me. It’s about so much more.
A man in traditional dress holds up a sign with my name, misspelled, and leads me out to a limousine arranged by Hassan.
“Welcome to the Kingdom of Bahrain, Ms Cross. We have a short drive to Mr Deeb and Mr Akbar. They wait for you.”
Twenty minutes later the limousine stops. The blue coast is on one side and an opulent hotel on the other. The heat of the afternoon is strong and feels intense against my all-black attire. The driver gestures to a concrete staircase that leads to an orange-stone archway. Two guards with guns slung across their shoulders stand either side of the double-door entrance.
Maybe I should have let Clark come with me.
I try to hide my involuntary shudder and swallow my nerves as I nod to the guards and walk into the hotel.
“Ms Cross, this way.” A man steps from behind the reception desk. I follow him out to a terrace that overhangs the sea. Two more armed guards stand either side of a short staircase leading out to the only occupied table. Two men, whom I take to be Hassan Deeb and Mr Akbar, sit smoking cigarettes, small glass cups of tea in front of them.
“Mr Deeb, sir,” the receptionist says.
“Ah, Dayna, welcome.” Hassan stands and holds out a hand. As he does, one of the guards lifts my free arm and starts to pat me down. I jerk at his touch. “Please, Dayna. I’m sure you understand; we can never be too careful.”
I try to relax as the guard frisks me, thankful that he doesn’t try anything funny.
“This is Hamad Akbar. A fellow member of the Gulf Council and our government here.”
I extend my hand, which Hamad takes somewhat reluctantly, throwing me a hostile look as he does. A waiter holds out the spare chair at the table, and I take my cue to sit.
I tell him I’ll join the men in drinking mint tea but decline the offer of food.
“Do you mind if we smoke, Dayna?” Hassan asks.
“Not at all.” I really couldn’t be more uncomfortable anyway. “Gentlemen, I know your time is precious, so let me get straight down to why I’m here.” I somehow manage to sound confident.
“We know you come to offer an alternative bid. What is it?” Hamad’s words and manner are abrupt and more than a little rude.
I try to hide that I’m taken aback. “Alright then.” I reach down to my bag to take out some papers that I haphazardly pulled together yesterday and had printed at the airport in Switzerland. As I do, a guard makes a swift move towards me, holding his gun in both hands.
I raise a palm and take the papers out slowly, feeling, frankly, terrified. I try to hide the tremble in my fingers as I hand both men a document. “This is my proposal. You may already be aware that SP has unrivalled blending know-how in the market at the moment. I think I could use that expertise to generate more profit from the well than either of the other top bidders.”
“I’m curious, Ms Cross. Why do you not do that yourself?” Hamad asks, blowing smoke in my face.
“Well, I could have, with my first bid. But I’m afraid I don’t have the capital to outbid Per— the other bidders.”
Hassan chortles. “It is alright. We expect you know who they are. Our tender process is a formality, Dayna. But… rules can be… circumvented, shall we say?”
I nod, uncertain how much of an undertone lies beneath that statement. “Well, here is my proposal. That figure there is my offer, but I’m willing to give you a ten percent stake in the profits of the well. Ultimately, I estimate that cumulative sum would outbid Persian Fuels and Layton Oil.”
“You want to work with us.”
My heart starts racing in my chest. Do I really want to get into bed with men who have four armed guards for tea? I remind myself not to tar every Middle Eastern man with the same brush as Caspar Kahn. “That is what I’m proposing, yes.”
AFTER I SUMMARISED the proposal, Hassan and Hamad took no time nudging me back out to the limousine and on my way to the airport. They didn’t give much away, but I guess we’ll see on Monday. They have the details of my alternative bid. I’ll formally submit it to the process on Friday and find out the final decision on Monday, when the highest ranked bidder, and therefore the new owner of the well, will be revealed.
The detour from Dubai was long, but hopefully worth making me late for the conference. I missed the day’s seminars, and now I’m flustered, having got ready in a rush to make it to the dinner on time.
As ever, I’m in a simple floor-length gown. High neck, fitted at the waist, navy blue. This is one of the few industry dinners where partners are invited. If I went for pink, gold, silver or such colours, I’d become siloed as one of the wives, and I already have to fight to be considered a member of the oil community.
When I slip into the reception, people are already heading to their seats in the dining room. As is typical of Dubai, the hotel is lavish. The walls are made largely of fish tanks full of brightly coloured jellyfish. The floors are marble. Furniture trimmings are gold, and the lighting is abstract, ultra-modern. The windows show the view across downtown Dubai, lights twinkling against the dark sky.
I take a dry martini from a waiter and join the masses. Unsurprisingly, I’m sitting at a table with four other directors — all male — and their wives, who have bunched together, talking about the spa facilities within the hotel. They’ve obviously spent their day there, no doubt while their husbands have played golf then shared vulgar conversation over brandy or Scotch. The entire industry is about men congratulating one another on their latest leggy blonde or exotic brunette conquest.
I’d feel for the women at the table, but it’s not like they don’t know their husbands are filthy pigs. The women stay because having the security of a large home and a healthy bank account, not having to work yet having every luxury they could wish for, ranks higher on their agenda than being in love and being cherished exclusively.
Sometimes, I’m pleased my mother got away from it all, but I definitely don’t approve of her method of doing so. I’m certain my mother was the one who had an affair and left, not that she ever confessed. Although I don’t pretend my father wasn’t married to work. My issue with my mother isn’t just infidelity, it’s that she also couldn’t wait to disown me to start a family with her next millionaire.
As I pull out my chair to take my seat, I feel a hand rest on the small of my back. “We need to talk.” Clark leans in close, his shoulder pressed to my back as he whispers into my
ear.
“I think you said enough this morning.”
“I didn’t mean it that way and you know it. The truth is, you were having doubts about that meeting and whatever deal you were offering, and you took that out on me.”
I twist sharply to face him and whisper through gritted teeth. “No. The truth is you shouldn’t even know about that deal, but you got too close. It’s business, not personal, Clark. Is that why you slept with me? To find out what I was going to tender?” I don’t even know why I say it. I know it isn’t true.
He takes his hand from my back. “You can be a real bitch sometimes, do you know that? Grow up.”
I watch him walk away shaking his head, my mouth open. I really want to argue, but it was a ridiculous thing to say. It was bitchy and juvenile. I take my seat, more annoyed with myself than him.
“Walter, it’s nice to see you,” I lie, turning to the pleasantly plump, golf-course-tanned president of Raw Energy. The smarmy git runs his dirty eyes over my body, not something I’m ever in the mood for, but something I’m really not in the mood for now. “I don’t think I’ve ever met your wife, Walter.”
He clears his throat, rolling his second chin as he does. “Crystal, this is Dayna Cross. I’m sure you ladies can find something to talk about.”
I scowl at him as I offer my hand to his wife. “Pleasure to meet you.” She reaches out her jewel-covered fingers, a thin diamond bracelet falling forwards on her wrist as she shakes my handle feebly.
“Hi. Which one is your husband?” she asks.
I’m going to need another dry martini. Or ten.
DINNER WAS PAINFUL but it’s done, and it’s after ten, so I feel like I can legitimately slope off to bed in another half hour or so. I just need to mingle enough. Let the industry see my presence. Then I’m out of here.
The men at my table stand without asking me if I’d care to join them at the bar. I make a trip to the ladies, leaving their wives discussing aquamarine, sapphire and ruby as choices of stone in hair vines for up-dos. They’ll no doubt stay there while their husbands send a limitless supply of champagne to appease them. The men will be drinking brandy, smoking cigars or playing poker for ridiculously high stakes in games that no one is supposed to know about.
After my pit stop I head to the bar for one last drink. As I’m waiting for the bartender to mix me another dry martini, I clock Hassan Deeb talking to Caspar Kahn on the opposite side of the bar. Caspar’s attention is fixed on me, and there’s a definite darkness to his irises. I’d be willing to bet my life that Hassan just filled Caspar in on my proposed alternative bid.
I take my dry martini and raise my glass, smiling at Caspar. As much as I hate him, as much as he intimidates me, I can’t help but be smug because I’ve rattled him.
You’re going to lose this battle, you bastard.
My free arm is yanked suddenly. Clark drags me through a door to the side of the bar and into a small room hosting a poker table, set but not yet with a dealer or players. I have time to put down my glass and shake the spilled alcohol from my fingers before Clark forces me back against the wall with his body. His face is close to mine and there’s a wild look in his eyes that’s unmistakably fury.
“What the hell are you doing?” he says.
“Excuse me?”
“Goading Caspar. Selling yourself to Hassan Deeb. It doesn’t take a genius to work out what you’re offering the government, Dayna. You’re giving them a stake because you think you can turn a better profit than the rest of us from that well.”
I push his chest, surprised by how easily he moves back. “What if I am? It’s a good plan. You’re pissed that I can offer it, just like Kahn is.”
He moves a hand to his hip, pushing back his dinner jacket, so I can see where his muscles cut in under his white shirt. “It is a good plan. If you want to be in bed with men like that. You know their reputation, Dayna. They’re dangerous. You can’t do this. I won’t let you.”
“Who are you to tell me what I can and can’t do?”
He softens his tone. “I’m someone who cares about you. If you were mine, there’s no way I’d let you do this. Whether we’re together or not, as a friend, I’m asking you not to go through with it.”
Emotion threatens to take over my senses. He’s called me on my own worries about the deal. And he’s here again, telling me he cares. But that look on Caspar’s face, that’s what this deal is about. It’s bigger than Clark. Bigger than me or us. “I’m grateful for your concern, Clark, but I have to do this. It’s the only way I can win.”
He steps closer to me again, his hands on my shoulders, his face pleading with me. “So lose. Take the next opportunity.”
“I… you don’t understand. I need this well.”
He brings his palm to my cheek in the familiar way he does. “Dayna, if this is about you being respected, you are. The men in that room don’t like you, because you terrify them. What you’ve done with SP intimidates them. They already respect you; that’s why they don’t want to like you.”
“It’s not about that. It’s so much more than that.” I peel his hand away from my face. He doesn’t fight me as I push off the wall and leave through another door, avoiding the bar and heading straight to my hotel room.
IF YOU WERE mine, there’s no way I’d let you do this.
I was his. I was his for as long as he wanted me. But he didn’t want me then. He broke my heart and left me as soon as I told him I loved him. Oh, I heard him, this weekend. His father and his upbringing never taught him how to love. I get what he’s saying, but he’s thirty-two years old. At some point you have to grow up and become an adult in your own right.
Has he?
He was about to settle down, become a husband. Maybe that does mean he has changed. But even if, if, he’s changed, just weeks ago he was about to marry someone who wasn’t me.
Irritated with myself, defeated by my shitty day, I swipe another tear from my cheek, wondering how many more can come before I’m hospitalised with severe dehydration.
I’m someone who cares about you.
Maybe so, but I’m not a rebound. I can’t be. I won’t be. I’ve admitted to myself I’m still in love with him, which makes me vulnerable. Do I want to be with Clark? That’s a question my head is too messed up to deal with right now. What I’m not willing to do is try, just to have my heart torn in two, again.
I let the door to my hotel room slam behind me. I pace the floor of the lounge, trying to get myself out of this godforsaken dress.
“Who the hell does he think he is?” I ask the empty room as I jump, in a tantrum, trying to get the dress over my breasts. You can’t do this. I won’t let you. “Really? You won’t?”
Even if I wanted to listen to him and take his advice, which I don’t, he doesn’t know how much I need this win.
I finally free myself of the dress and kick off my heels as I walk into the bedroom of my junior suite. I stare at the king-size bed like it’s taunting me. All this space for one.
Shaking my head, I walk past the velour chairs and chaise longue at the bottom of the bed — damn this room could be sexy — and hang my dress in the mirrored wardrobes.
I strip out of my underwear, unpin my hair, and take the hotel’s white robe into the bathroom. I take off my make-up at the bloody his-and-hers sinks while the shower heats and steam begins to fill the room.
Emotion balls in my throat, and I have no idea what’s the bigger cause: Clark fucking Layton, the terror of sitting in a restaurant with armed men ready to put a bullet through my skull if I made a wrong move, or that venomous look in Caspar’s eyes as he glared at me across the bar.
Not for the first time since I’ve been CEO of SP, I feel totally, completely, utterly out of my depth in work, life, every way. I step into the shower, deflated, and tilt my head back, letting the warm water run over my face.
How did I get here?
I wash my body and hair, thankful that I can go to bed soon and put this day behind
me. I dry off, slip into my robe and head to bed, towel-drying my hair as I go, knowing I won’t bother blow-drying it. Also knowing I’ll regret that decision in the morning.
I open the door to the bedroom and scream. A man sits in a chair at the foot of the bed. My heart thumps against my ribs. My lungs contract frantically until I can get a grip of my erratic breaths.
Caspar Kahn sits in his dinner suit, legs crossed, eyes boring into me, turning a knife over and over. He drops the point of the blade to the dark-wood side table, then he flips the knife so the butt of the black leather handle taps the surface. I watch the knife, trying to stay calm. Eventually, I look at him.
“Get out.”
He laughs sardonically. The sound resonates in my ears and brings home to me that I’m trapped, naked but for a loose robe, in a room where no one can hear me, with a man who all but killed my father and eleven innocent people. A man who looks like he wants to kill me.
“Sit down.”
I cast my damp towel to the bed and put my shaking hands into the pockets of my robe, trying to mask my fear. “I’ll stand. I’m sure it won’t take long to say what you’ve come to say, then you can fuck off.”
He looks at the knife, continuing to turn and tap it against the table. “Ah, Dayna Cross. Stupid like your daddy.”
He stops turning the knife and slams it down on the table, making me flinch. “You see, he had two problems. The first was that he just didn’t belong in this industry. The second, his biggest problem, was that he tried to meddle on my ground.”
The noise of my own inhalations fills my ears, but outwardly I’m calmer. Not as confident as I’d like to look, but not as frantic as I am in my own mind, thinking about the blade under Caspar’s palm.
“I don’t even think you believe that, Kahn. I think the reason you hated my father was because he was a threat to you. You were afraid of competition because you’re weak. You can’t fight fair. The only way you could beat my father was to sabotage his rig.”