by Laura Carter
He stands so abruptly my eyes lose focus, as the knife he’s been turning comes hurtling past my head and slams into the wall behind me. Caspar charges at me, and I can’t push him off. My feet lift off the floor as he slams me back against the wall, the knife in my peripheral vision. He digs his thumbs so hard into my trachea I can’t breathe. I try to fight but it’s useless; he has me pinned.
“The Middle East is mine. It’s always been mine. The only people I allow in the Middle East play by my rules. Your father couldn’t play fair and he got what he deserved.”
My legs kick frantically. I’m going to die. I blink, but my vision is starting to blur.
He lets me go and I fall to the floor in a heap, holding my neck in one hand as I gasp, dragging air into my lungs.
He kneels beside me and yanks my wet hair in his fist, jerking my head back so I’m forced to look into the depths of his black soul. His slicked hair is out of place, ragged, as he spits his words at my face. “You’ll kill the deal with Hassan Deeb. That well is mine.” He pushes my head away from him and stands, towering over me.
“If the Middle East really is yours, Kahn, you kill the deal.” I stumble as I try to climb to my feet, venom giving me the strength to stand and face him. My hatred twists my lips into a sadistic grin. “You can’t, because Hassan knows there’s only me capable of making him an offer as good as this.” I laugh, a dark, echoing sound. “You’ve tried to kill the deal, and he said no. Now you’re trying to get rid of me the way you got rid of my father. Except it’s too obvious, isn’t it? To kill the woman everyone knows you hate. To kill the woman you’re openly in battle with.”
The back of his hand whips across my cheek. The blow is so brutal and unexpected I stagger back against the window, pulling down the curtain as I fall.
“Wrong. If you submit that bid, I will kill you, Dayna Cross. Make no mistake. You’re nothing. No one.”
I hold my breath as he turns and walks away. The door slams behind him.
I press my fingertips to my stinging cheekbone, and I break. I shiver uncontrollably as I sob on the floor.
The door.
Dragging myself up on my weak legs, I grab my phone and stumble to the door. I secure the safety latch then turn and press my back against the wood, sliding to the floor as I cry. Alone. Terrified. Unsafe.
I scroll through my phone and find the only number I can think to call.
I FINISH THE Scotch in my glass, and through the plume of cigar smoke that hangs in the room, I beckon the waiter. He stands by the door of the secret poker room with his hands folded behind his back, always focussed on the table, waiting for the next order, and the accompanying tip that’s probably as much as his weekly salary.
Just over an hour ago, I had a showdown in here with Dayna. Which is, incidentally, the reason I’ve had a few more glasses of Scotch than I’d intended to have tonight. I have no intention of getting pissed, not when there are so many crazy bastards who are shit at poker and willing to throw away pots of cash by the tens of thousands. But I needed a couple of drinks to take the sting out of everything that’s going on at the moment.
Teddy’s been bleating on at me all day to withdraw from the tender process for the well. Honestly, I’m hearing him. I did want this well to prove something, but he’s right. If I win this well and it turns a loss, I’ll only prove that I can’t do a better job than my father
The waiter takes my empty glass and breaks the silence of the room. “Another, sir?”
I nod. This will be my last one.
“I’ll take another.” Mark Strathford waves his empty brandy glass in the air, eyeing me as he does. Of the six suited men around the table, seven including the dealer, there are only three of us left in this hand, and we’re going down the river. Four cards out, one to come.
I know Mark has a decent hand. He does this thing with his right thumb when he gets excited, flicks it through his index finger quickly like he’s sparking a lighter. It’s not a bad tell; he can hide it behind his left hand. But once you know he does it, like I know, you can see a subtle movement in his covering hand.
The other player still in is Dominic Castini, a good-looking man in his early forties. Nice tan, still hanging on to his dark hair, and he’s in good shape. It’s damn fortunate he’s got those things going for him, because his business skill is non-existent, and that’s only marginally below the standard of his poker bluff.
Right now, there’s eighty-five grand in the pot, and the cards on the table are four of clubs, ten of hearts, eight of spades and jack of diamonds. I’d be willing to bet Dominic is praying for something to come down the river and the buffoon has come this far with nothing. But who knows, maybe he’ll surprise me. Mark, on the other hand, he’s exactly the opposite. I’m nursing a pair of tens and a pair of jacks, which I got on the last card. Mark has been smug from the off, so whatever he has, he got it in the first three table cards. There’s no opportunity for a flush, not even with the fourth card. It’s unlikely he would have been flicking that thumb after the first two cards thinking he had a straight. He couldn’t have thought he had a full house. So, my money is on three of a kind or two pairs. Three of a kind would beat my two pairs but if he’s riding on two pairs, he couldn’t have anything higher than my tens and jacks. I’m pretty sure he didn’t get anything on the last card.
“Mr Layton?” the dealer asks.
“I’m in.”
The dealer turns the fifth card. Ten of diamonds. I keep my face straight, but Mark smirks. He got something on the final card. My mind jumps quickly through his possible hands. Full house is my best bet, and there’s no chance it can beat mine if he’s using the four or the eight.
Dominic turns first.
“Two pair, fours and tens,” the dealer announces.
Fucking muppet. He came all the way on a pair of fucking fours.
Mark. He turns his cards, slowly, one at a time. What a dick.
“Full house, tens and fours,” the dealer says.
I turn my cards together and push them along the green velvet to the dealer.
“Full house, jack, ten. Mr Layton wins.”
Now I smile.
My buzz is cut short by the vibration of my phone in my pocket. The dealer is collecting cards and stacking chips — my chips —so I can look this time. Dayna’s name dances across the screen. It’s been four years since her name flashed up on my mobile.
“Deal me out,” I say, throwing down the small blind and sliding a five-thousand-dollar chip to the dealer before pushing out from the table. The money will be wired electronically, nobody carries chips in or out of the room except the dealer, who does so in a discreet black case.
“Sir, your drink.” The waiter holds a tray with my Scotch on it in front of me.
“He looks like he could use it,” I say, inclining my head to Mark, whose eyes are so bulging with fury it amuses me.
I answer my phone as I close the door behind me. “Dayna?”
At first I think she sighs, then she sniffs, and I realise she’s crying. “Clark,” she croaks.
“Are you crying? Dayna, what’s wrong? Where are you?”
“I don’t know what to do. I’m scared. Can you come to my room?”
My heart rate doubles in an instant. “Yes. Yes, which one?” I start running to the lift.
“Five-six-one.”
“I’m on my way.” I thump the button for the lift continually as if it will bring it quicker. What the fuck has happened? I can’t wait. I run to the stairwell and bound up the stairs, practically throwing myself out at the fifth floor. I stop in front of two arrows then run again towards 560-570.
I hammer on her door and hear her yelp—in shock? She fumbles with the chain and finally opens the door.
“Clark.” My name is barely audible from her lips.
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong?” For the briefest second I take her in. Her hair is wet, and she’s in a robe. Her eyes are swollen and… “What is this?” I reach
out to her red, bruising cheek. She flinches. “Who did this?”
She drops her shoulders and starts sobbing again. Inside I’m frantic, my temper raging, my desperation almost overwhelming, but more than anything, I need to hold her. I scoop up her slim body, and she wraps her arms around my neck, her fists gripping my dinner jacket. She puts her head into my neck and cries, as I kick the door shut and carry her to her bed. I need to know no one has touched her… like that. God. I squeeze my eyes shut in relief when I see the bed is made; it’s something at least.
Then I notice the curtain pulled down from the pole.
I sit on the bed with Dayna in my lap and lift her head so I can see her properly. “You need to tell me what happened. Who did this to you? Did they hit you? Did they… touch you?”
She shakes her head. I’m so fucking relieved I pull her against my shoulder, kissing her temple. Her cries come again. “Baby, I’m here. I’ve got you. I’m going to take care of you.”
I hold her to me, rocking her until her tears stop, my chest feeling like I’ve been hit by a truck. “You’re shaking. Let’s get you dry.”
I’m raging, but I need to keep it together. I need to look after her, and I need her to tell me who in their goddamned right mind would dare to touch her. I lift her from my lap and place her down on the edge of the bed, then I go to the bathroom and find her hairdryer. I kick off my shoes, take off my dinner jacket and sit behind her, sliding my legs either side of hers. I dry her hair, ruffling the silky brunette strands with my fingers. She watches me in the mirrored wardrobes, her fingers pressed gently to her marked cheek.
“I’m sorry for calling you,” she whispers when I’ve finished. “I just… I was scared, and I didn’t know what to do.”
I climb off the bed and kneel in front of her, lifting her chin until she looks at me. “I want you to call me. I want to be the first person you call. I want to be the person who looks after you.” I lean up to kiss her brow, holding my lips against her soft skin. “Get under the covers. I’ll turn up the thermostat.”
I get her a glass of water and sit on the bed next to her. “I need you to tell me what happened, Dayna.”
She turns on her side to face me and props herself up on her elbow, rubbing her nose with a tissue. “You were right.”
“About what?”
“It was a dangerous move, going to Bahrain.”
I feel my jaw tighten. “Hassan had something to do with this?”
She shakes her head. “Kahn. Hassan told Caspar about the alternative bid.”
“Caspar? He did this to you?” I swear it’s only her hand on my chest that keeps me calm enough not to walk right out of the room and smash his fucking skull.
“I offered Hassan a ten percent stake in my profits.” I try to focus on her and not the rage that’s blazing inside me. “It’s the only way. I can’t afford the well alone. I’m looking for other investors, but I’m not stupid; that well is barely profitable. There’s a real risk it won’t generate a return at all.”
“I know. Teddy wants me to back out.”
She nods. “You probably should.”
“But you won’t.”
She looks at me with eyes so mesmerising they draw me in. I slide down the bed and mirror her position.
“I can’t. I need the well, Clark.”
“I’ve told you that there’s nothing to prove. And this…” I reach out to her cheek, trying not to show the overwhelming anger that’s making my hands tremble. “This isn’t worth it.”
She watches her finger as she draws circles on the duvet. “It isn’t just about the well. It’s about the Persian Gulf. And… it’s about beating Caspar.”
“Christ, Dayna, it’s taking all my strength not to walk out of this room and break every bone in his body right now. Don’t tell me you’re encouraging the fight. Why do you want to rile him?”
She takes a deep breath. “Everyone thinks that my father was shoddy. That he cut costs and that’s what led to Little Princess exploding and killing all those people. My father thought it, and that’s why he killed himself. He couldn’t stand the thought of what he’d done.”
“So you want the well to prove you can do it right?”
“No. I want the well to piss off Caspar.”
“Congratulations, Dayna, you’re succeeding in the most idiotic thing I’ve ever known you to do.”
She rolls her jaw.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean that. I just can’t understand why you want to step into a bullfight.”
“Little Princess didn’t explode because of things my father did, Clark.” She gets off the bed and paces, hands on her hips. “Caspar sabotaged the rig. I can never prove it, but he admits it. He’s proud of it. Swinging dick of the fucking Persian Gulf. He messed with the valves so the pipelines couldn’t take the pressure.”
“What?” I’m up now too, standing opposite her, the bed between us.
“SP was going strong. We had some big contracts coming in. I was about to take over management of the rig.”
I close my eyes and push away thoughts of Dayna being hurt, or worse, Dayna being one of those who died.
“Caspar sabotaged the rig because he wanted my father out of the Gulf. He couldn’t take the competition. Caspar killed my father, Clark. He’s the reason my father is dead. My father died thinking he was to blame. I can never forgive Kahn for that. Never. Do you understand?”
I drag a hand back through my hair, trying but unable to process everything that’s happened, that’s happening. “Fuck.”
“That’s why I need the well. I don’t have something to prove to the industry. I want to take back what my father had. I want to stick my fingers up to Caspar and hurt him the only way I can.”
“He knows you’re in with a chance of winning now. That’s why he came here.”
She opens the top of her robe and shows me her angry red-purple neck. “If he thought he could get away with it, he’d kill me to keep me out of the Middle East.”
She moves to the wall, and I notice for the first time that there’s a knife lodged there. She yanks it out and throws it down on the bed. Morbid fascination makes me pick it up. I turn it in front of my face. All I can think about is how I’d like to put it through Caspar Kahn’s throat.
“You’re pulling out of that deal, Dayna.”
“No. I won’t. Haven’t you heard what I just said?”
“I heard that Caspar wants to kill you, and I won’t let that happen. You’re pulling out.”
Her eyes fill. “You just don’t get it, do you? He killed my father, Clark. My father.” She tries to stifle a sob, but it breaks past her fingertips and her shoulders heave. I put the knife on the bedside table and go to her, wrapping my arms around her, pulling her into me.
That arsehole is going to pay.
I bring Dayna to the bed and lie back, hugging her into my chest. “This isn’t you, Dayna.”
“I told you, I’ve changed. I’m not the girl I used to be.”
“Yes, you are.” I pull the duvet over us and hold her hand against my pecs. With my other hand, I stroke her hair, and I kiss her scalp until her breathing calms. I’m anything but fucking calm.
When I’m certain she’s sleeping, I slip out of the bed, put on my shoes and jacket, and take the knife from the bedside cabinet.
I take the lift to reception, hanging my bow tie loose down the sides of my neck and untucking one shirt tail en-route. When the lift pings on the ground floor, I walk to the service desk, off-balance enough to seem drunk, not unsteady enough to be escorted off the premises by security.
I lean over the counter towards the receptionist. “Excuse me, I need you to help me.”
She doesn’t flinch, clearly used to seeing drunken men in black tie at one a.m. “Are you a guest of the hotel, sir?”
“Yes. I, erm…” I lean closer and whisper, “I’m staying here with my partner, Mr Kahn. I’d, ah, appreciate your discretion.”
She looks me up and do
wn, sizing me up. “Of course, sir. How can I help you?”
“We’ve been at the crude energy conference all day.” She nods. “We’ve both had a few too many. I made an insensitive comment about him not discussing our… relationship while we’re here. He didn’t like it. Oh, it was my fault, but he’d had too much to drink and overreacted. So he went to the room, and I think he’s probably passed out drunk. Now my key card won’t work for our room, and he isn’t answering the door. If he’s sleeping, I don’t want to wake him. Could you reset my card for me? And, please, please, don’t disclose our…”
“Of course, sir.” She takes the card from me. “What is your room number?”
“Four… five-five. No, five-six. Ohhhh…” I drop my head into my hands. “I think maybe it’s five…”
“Three-eight?”
I lift my head and deliver the most heartfelt, drunk-looking smile I can. “You. Are. An. Angel.”
She smiles and hands me Dayna’s spare key card, now set up for Caspar’s room. “Sir, I suggest you head straight back to your room. We don’t want security to make a scene.”
“I will indeed. I have some making up to do. Thank you.”
Back in the lift, I tuck my shirt into my trousers, my fury returning at a rate of knots. I stop outside 538 and listen. When I don’t hear anything, I slip in the card and let myself into Caspar’s suite. The lounge is empty, but I can hear movement in the bedroom. The door is ajar, and low light spills out through the gap.
I hold my eye to the opening. I can hear the sounds of pants and grunts. The room comes into focus. A small, exotic-looking woman in black suspenders and bra is straddling Caspar on his bed, riding his cock, her hands in her hair. He starts lifting his hips, grunting harder, and grabs her waist, pulling her down on him until she lets out a fake, high-pitched screech. I wait, until he’s about there, then I step into the room.
Caspar holds the woman still. She squeals when she turns to see me standing in the doorway holding Caspar’s knife.
“I suggest you get out,” I snarl.
She swings her leg over Caspar and gathers her things — condoms, lube, a sheer cover-up that wouldn’t cover much at all.