Chapter 6
DAYNA
I don’t believe it. After just telling him to stay here, with me and my friends, for my birthday.
We’re back at the chalet and… he’s looked at my phone. Tried to snoop on my emails.
And I know exactly why as I march into the chalet lounge and stand in front of Clark, hands on hips so he can’t see that they’re shaking with rage. The mild happy fuzz I got from the lunchtime beer gone.
‘You looked at my phone?’
His face says it all.
I know because I’ve typed in my code and my tender email is on the screen. I didn’t leave it that way and no one else would have touched it. Still, I hoped I wasn’t right until his expression just confirmed it.
‘You wanted to know how to fix things? This is definitely not it! You were looking for my bid, weren’t you?’
Everyone else in the room falls silent. Rachel halts on the bottom stair, tucking her shirt into her jeans. ‘What did I miss?’
‘If you want to know that bad, Clark, ask. Don’t be sly. It doesn’t become you.’
He stands. As if he dares pick a fight over this.
‘I did look at your phone.’ I feel every muscle in my body tighten. ‘You left it out, it was unlocked and I opened your inbox. I thought about opening your bid email but I didn’t. Okay?’
‘Not okay! This isn’t about us, Clark; this is about business. You can’t cross lines there. Have some fucking integrity!’
I storm towards the staircase. Rachel jumps out of my way.
‘If you must know, I kicked your arse.’ I watch him through the banister spindles. ‘I’m ranked first.’
There’s a flash of surprise in his expression, but he doesn’t seem to know I’m outright lying. So now I know he’s ranked second, because actually, I’m in third place.
Caspar Kahn, murderous fucking bastard, is the top-ranked bid. The knowledge that I’m pitted against that man, knowing how dangerous he is, brings an involuntary shiver down my spine.
He killed my dad. What would he do to me if I win this well?
By the time I reach the top floor, I’m out of breath, both from stomping and from my entire body being overtaken by anger. Why in the hell didn’t I tell him to go home? I slam my bedroom door and start pacing by the window.
‘Shit!’ I can’t outbid Persian Fuels. I can’t afford to. Deep beneath my anger, I have the sense to know it could be a death wish.
Yet I can’t stop the urgent desire I have to beat him. To take something he wants.
To avenge my dad’s death.
I need more money. But I can’t – won’t – bid much higher. The well isn’t worth it. Any bank will know that. I know that, and I have to remember the fact. No matter how much I want to see Caspar squirm, I’ve got to stay focussed.
I stop in front of an oak chest of drawers, hands braced on the edge.
Alternative bids. That’s where I need to be if I want to have a chance of winning this.
Round two gives each bidder a chance to increase their current bid.
Even if I do that, it’s unlikely I’ll outbid Layton Oil.
I won’t outbid Persian Fuels. Caspar will go as high as he needs to win.
But round two also gives bidders an opportunity to submit an alternative bid.
Something that isn’t just money. Something innovative.
A consortium or joint venture. SP could form an alliance, bid as a team with another company in the industry, perhaps.
Urgh! There’s no one in the goddamned industry I’d get into bed with. No one I’d trust.
Except Clark. I brush that thought away. I can’t possibly trust Clark; he just proved it.
Not to mention that I’m so unhinged over him right now, it would be a disaster. The whole time I was screaming at him in the lounge, I wanted to jump his bones.
What is wrong with me? How can I despise him and want to jump into bed with him all at once?
As I stare into the mirror on the bedroom drawers, suddenly the bid, the well, Persian Fuels, Layton Oil, it’s all superseded by a lingering sensation on my lips. They look like they did this morning, but they’re different now. They tingle with the reminder of Clark’s touch.
I wanted to kiss him back out on the slopes.
I wanted to tell him that I could forget everything.
But he’s moved on. He was almost married.
I don’t know if I’d ever be able to get past it, but I know I’m not willing to risk the excruciating pain he leaves in his wake for a rebound shag.
He’d have his way with me, and I’d be the one left shattered into irreparable pieces. Again.
The opening of the bedroom door startles me.
‘Rach.’ I relax a little at the sight of her.
‘You okay?’
‘’Course.’
She comes into the room and closes the door behind her. ‘You don’t need to fake it with me.’
‘I just… he gets to me. I hate that I let him. One minute, he’s being the arsehole I know he is, and the next… he’s the man I fell in love with.’
‘Was he going to leave?’
I plonk down on the edge of the bed and nod.
‘And you stopped him?’ Her words are slow, confused and questioning.
‘He must be hurting. He’s just split with Constance. I mean, if they’re even split for good. I couldn’t make him leave. A break might help him. I don’t want to see him hurt like that.’
‘Like you have, you mean. Let me tell you, if a guy ditched me hours before the altar, like he did Constance, we’d be done. He’d be lucky if I didn’t cut off his balls.’
I laugh. It’s short but still a release. ‘I’d probably endorse that.’
‘Soooo, at what point did he kiss you?’
I exhale, long and slow. ‘You saw that, huh?’
‘The whole bar saw that. I thought Matty was going to burst a gut to take Clark out.’
‘Christ, that’s all we need, a whose-dick-is-biggest competition.’
‘You surely know the answer.’
I chuckle. ‘Well, Matty was still growing, I think.’
‘I knew it. Layton has the looks and the kit.’ She sits next to me and nudges my shoulder with hers. ‘You know, maybe he’s changed, Dayna.’
‘Can you tell me why you’re defending him? First Ted, now you.’
‘Hey, I’m not defending him. I’m ready to mangle his balls in a heartbeat, just say the word. All I’m saying is, I’ve never known you happier than when you were with Clark. Maybe he’s changed, and you won’t know that unless you talk to him.’
‘Maybe he has,’ I concede. I guess he was going to be married.
I suppose that could be a sign he wants to put his player days behind him.
‘But I’ve changed too, Rach. I’m not the girl he walked all over any more.
I’ve seen things, things that have changed me.
I’m not the girl he remembers. I don’t think I could be that happy any more. ’
‘So maybe you get to know the new versions of each other. As friends. Orrrrr otherwise.’
‘Otherwise? I’m not going to be the woman he fucks to decide whether he goes back to his childhood sweetheart.’ I want to be the woman he fucks just because.
‘Right. Fine. Settled. You can be a cock-tease instead and make yourself feel better in the process. Torture the bastard for what he did to you.’ She winks and I’m laughing again.
‘Ladies!’ The bedroom door opens. Yvette and Amy stand in the doorway. ‘You rang?’ Yvette dangles a bottle of champagne from one hand and two glasses in the other.
Amy pulls another two flutes from behind her back with dramatic flair. ‘Birthday bubbles!’
‘We have plans for you, lady,’ Rachel says as Yvette cautiously squeezes the cork of the Bollinger. ‘You’re going to need that LBD I told you to pack. Dinner, catered. Ridiculous games. And some hot-tub action.’
‘Ahh, hence the swimwear,’ I say.
‘Yep. Then you can really torment Layton.’
‘He already looked pretty tormented to me,’ Yvette says. ‘I knew he wanted you back, but I didn’t think he was going to dive in that heavy.’
I take the first glass of fizz from Yvette and almost choke on the contents. ‘He wants me back?’
She lifts her head quickly, flustered. ‘Maybe that’s a conversation for the two of you to have.’
‘He’s only just ended things with Constance,’ I say, when I ought to be telling her he has no chance.
She hands out the other two glasses, fills her own then puts the much lighter bottle on the drawers.
‘You might want to ask why he ended things with Constance. And with that foot firmly in my mouth, a toast.’ She raises her glass.
‘To our wonderful, intelligent, caring, sexy lady. Happy thirtieth, honey.’
I blush. ‘To my girls. Thank you for this weekend and for always looking out for me. Well, except when you let Teddy invite Lucifer to my birthday.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ve withheld ever since in your honour,’ Yvette says.
I clink her glass. ‘I appreciate the sentiment,’ I say as I simultaneously think about going down in a blaze of glory, all the way to the inferno of hell with my ex.
‘Have you heard from your mum?’ Rach asks.
I scoff around another sip of fizz – my mother could drive the most saintly woman to alcohol.
‘Not even a message,’ I say. ‘Actually, not for weeks, except to tell me it’s Anna’s birthday party this week.’
‘She’s throwing her latest stepdaughter a b-day bash and hasn’t even asked what you might like as a gift for your thirtieth?’
I shrug. ‘It’s my birthday tomorrow. There’s still time.
’ Then I laugh because based on years of experience, I don’t expect a message until at least days have passed after my birthday, if even at all.
We don’t have a gifting relationship. Nothing remotely mother-daughter wholesome.
The opposite. We tolerate each other. ‘But hey, I’ll be thirty for the next 365 days; I’m sure she’ll pause in planning the nineteenth birthday of her latest billionaire husband’s daughter to remember her one biological daughter has turned thirty, at some point. ’
‘I’m sorry, babes,’ Amy says.
I wave off the sympathy. ‘My days of hoping my mum would ever put me even second in her life are long gone. She and I are just a tree and the apple who rolled down the hill and never stopped. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s cutting toxic relationships.’
I drain the rest of my drink. If only that were true.