6. KATE
6
KATE
J ack has too many friends. The party is in full swing, and the bar is absolutely heaving with people. I lost Elly half an hour ago, after she left me to use the bathroom.
It’s probably just as well she’s not here, because the effort not to tell her about Nico and the deal is wearing me out, and the contract is burning a hole in my handbag. I need to read it.
I haven’t been able to think of anything else since Nico walked away earlier. He’s floating in the dark corners of my mind like a ghost. I keep expecting to turn and find him staring at me, but I haven’t caught so much as a glimpse. Maybe he left. Something that feels disconcertingly like disappointment settles low in my belly, and it’s confusing as hell.
What I need is a moment to myself, and a breath of fresh air.
I dodge through the partygoers and escape to the rooftop balcony. On a warm evening, the place would be bustling with bodies, but tonight there’s a chill in the air. Not even the smokers dare to come out. I’m alone.
Perfect .
The only problem is that I checked my coat into the cloakroom, and didn’t bother to pick it up to come outside. I’m woefully underdressed.
Lights sparkle across the city, twinkling like stars. It’s beautiful out here, but I can’t enjoy it. My conversation with Jack and Nico earlier dampened my mood, and without Elly to distract me, I replay it in my mind.
Jack wants to sell Dad’s company and there’s nothing I can do about it.
I rest my champagne glass on the wall so I can pull the contract out of my handbag and scan it. It’s a skeleton contract—only a couple of sheets—but it highlights the main details of the deal. I reach the bottom of the page, but there’s no sign of the proposed price. I’m about to flip the page when—
“Little K.”
My heart comes to a jarring stop and I grip the railing that runs around the balcony, the metal so cold it bites.
Nico Hawkston is standing somewhere behind me, and even though I’ve been thinking of him, the reality of his presence is more intense than I imagined. His energy pulses at my back like an electromagnetic force. I don’t dare turn around.
I lift my glass, tipping back the rest of my champagne, hoping the alcohol might quench my body’s unruly reaction to the sound of his voice. Unfortunately, it only stokes the fire.
I let out a slow breath as he approaches, each click of his shoes hitting my heart like a bullet. His silhouette appears in my peripheral vision until he’s standing right beside me and a coil of heat in my lower belly turns red hot.
In another reality, this situation might be romantic: the two of us alone in the darkness, the rest of the world oblivious to our intimacy. It pains me we’re so far away from that.
Reluctantly, I turn.
The lines of his face are harsh out here in the darkness, brutal shadows cast beneath his cheekbones like they’ve been aggressively chiseled from stone. Thick, dark hair falls across his forehead, and the only suggestion of emotion on his face is the smallest crease between his brows.
He leans against the balcony wall, one hand tucked into the pocket of his trousers, hitching up the side of his dinner jacket. He’s all casual elegance and sophistication, oozing sex appeal as naturally as the rest of us exhale carbon dioxide.
We stare at one another for a few moments, his eyes so intense it feels like he’s trying to swallow me with them. White teeth rake over his full bottom lip and it’s sexy as hell. All the blood drains from my brain, pooling indecently between my legs.
How many seconds pass like this? Five? Ten? Or is it only one long drawn out second? I have no idea. On an intellectual level, I know I should say or do something, but my twenty-six-year-old body has been hijacked by teenage me, who’s desperate to bolt out of the starting blocks and straight into Nico’s arms.
And that absolutely cannot happen.
“I take it you’re not keen on the deal?”
His words bring me back, and coarse laughter cracks from my lips. “What could possibly have given you that idea?”
“Swearing in my face rather gave the game away.” He strokes the underside of his jaw with two fingers, a glimmer of amusement in his eyes.
A powerful gust of bitter wind blows down the length of the balcony and my whole body shivers.
“It’s too cold to be out here without a jacket,” he tells me. “Take mine.”
It’s not a question. Typical Nico, hiding his control with the pretense of kindness.
The scent of his cologne wafts towards me as he shrugs out of his jacket, and my body hums with arousal. It doesn’t feel like a memory of the past. It feels very present day. Present moment.
I’ve been silent too long because Nico, still holding out his jacket, repeats, “Little K?”
“I told you, it’s just Kate. And no, thank you. I’d prefer to freeze than take anything from you.”
His gaze narrows, but he doesn’t query my statement as he retracts the jacket and puts it back on.
“Jack showed you the contract,” he confirms, nodding at the sheet of paper in my hand. “Serious reading for a party.”
His casual tone has me seething. “As if I could enjoy the party now that you’re here,” I mutter. I’m not even sure I want him to hear it, but I don’t want him to think his presence is welcome. It’s not. Definitely not.
Nico stiffens. “Christ, Kate. You’re as cold as the weather. What’s going on? Is this about me buying Lansen?”
This is my opportunity. If I don’t address it head on, I’ll lose my nerve . “I’m surprised you dared come anywhere near us, after what you did to my father.” My voice is tight with the effort of restraining my anger.
He stills a moment that stretches interminably long. Then, finally, “Ah.”
Scowling, I step closer to him. “Is that it? Is that all you have to say?”
“What exactly do you think I did, Little K?” His voice is silk, his upper class accent like crystal in the dark night.
“Stop fucking calling me that,” I snap.
Nico’s only response is to raise a brow, his attention not wavering from me for a second. He waits, and the need to answer his question overtakes my irritation. “You killed my father.”
A beat passes before he replies. “How did you reach that conclusion?”
His voice is calm but curious, making doubt flail in my gut like a dying beast. But I know I’m right. Why won’t he just admit it? My fingers tighten on the stem of my glass.
“The timing. Two weeks after you refused to go through with the purchase, he was dead.”
Nico tilts his head, examining me like he wants to open up my skull and see what’s going on inside. His inspection makes me nervous and I’m suddenly aware of a pulsing sensation in my toes, my hands… the whoosh-whoosh-throb of my blood.
“I can’t imagine how hard losing a parent was for you, and I’m sorry for all you’ve suffered.” This stuns me for a second, but Nico doesn’t pause before adding, “But your father’s death isn’t something you can pin on me, as much as you might want to.”
Angry heat scorches my insides. “If I have to listen to you deny—”
“It was a heart attack.” He enunciates each word, sharpening the syllables as if he thinks they’ll penetrate my delusion. Condescending prick . “In business, shit happens. If it was too stressful, then maybe your father oughtn’t to have been playing the game.”
A gasp of outrage sticks in my throat, and then the words escape in a rush. “It wasn’t the stress that killed him. It was you. Your fucking choices. He wanted that deal more than anything. And Lansen was a good business. Why didn’t you buy it back then? Why did you mess him around?” I pause for a beat to let Nico answer, but he doesn’t, so I continue. “Dad didn’t deserve it. He was a good man. A hundred times the man you’ll ever be.”
“Is that so?” There’s something in Nico’s gaze that draws me off point: the softening of his features, a gentleness to his eyes. If I had to guess, it’s pity.
I will not be pitied by Nico Hawkston .
“Yes, a hundred times. A thousand times. Loyal, caring, honest. Whereas you, you… you ruined his life. You fucking ended it.”
Nico is staring at me, utterly unmoved, whereas I’m losing my cool, which in this temperature is an impressive feat. Somewhere beneath the anger, I know I shouldn’t be saying any of this. If Jack could hear me, he’d rip my head off, but I can’t stop.
“Dad was going to retire. He had the whole thing planned out. Wanted to buy a boat and a house in the South of France with the money from the sale. We were going to stay with him. It was his retirement plan. We could have had years together as a family.” I break off, my voice thick with grief, unable to look Nico in the eye. “Years of memories. He wanted me to bring my children there. His grandchildren. He had a future marked out, and you destroyed it. That money… the money he wanted to set aside—”
“Little K—”
“Stop saying my name like that!”
His brow furrows. “Like what?”
“Like you care.”
The silence that falls is fragile and thin; a veil Nico could waft away with one hand, exposing all the long-denied emotion hiding beneath my words.
I wait for him to protest or confirm, but he says nothing.
I can’t take it anymore.
“You know what? It doesn’t matter.” My arm flails in his direction. I’m making a fool of myself, but I don’t care. Let him think whatever he wants. He’s a cruel, calculating bastard, even if he does look like a Greek god.
I crush the contract in my fist and throw it on the ground. The wind catches it and it shuffles along the balcony floor towards Nico’s highly polished black shoes. He lifts his foot and pins the paper in place before bending to pick it up. I don’t know what he intends to do with it, but I’m not waiting around to find out.
I storm back towards the glass doors. The party is still going on inside. Everyone looks happy and relaxed, whereas I’ve been transported to a parallel universe where I’m experiencing the full gamut of emotions. Hatred and lust perform a riotous shuttle run through every cell in my body.
I can’t be with those cheerful people now, and I absolutely cannot stay out here with Nico Hawkston.
I’ll have to go home.
Just as I reach the door, a hand grips mine, firm yet gentle. “Wait.”
Nico’s touch sears my skin and I skid to a standstill, electricity zapping through me, raising every tiny hair.
I can’t breathe. Can’t think. Biochemical reactions explode through my body like fireworks.
He’s touching me.
I’m rooted to the spot, anchored where our bodies meet. He’s standing so close that I’m struck by the breadth of his shoulders and the strength that lingers beneath his suit. I could never over-power him or outrun him. His scent mingles with the cool night air, wrapping around me like the jacket I wouldn’t take.
His gaze fixes on where we’re joined, a puzzled expression crossing his face, like holding my hand has made his brain misfire. Is he feeling this too?
The expression vanishes and his gaze traces a slow path up my body to my face, dragging sparks through my flesh.
“Let go of me,” I whisper, although the teenager in me is yelling, touch me, touch me everywhere .
Nico doesn’t release me. “How much money did he want to set aside?” His voice is low; more of a vibration than a whisper, and it resonates in my bones. “For the house. The boat. For the future he never got to have with you. How much was it?”
He leans in, the warmth of his breath ghosting my cheek. My heartbeat skitters. Whether he knows it or not, I’m completely at his mercy. I want more of this. More of him . And I hate that I want it.
His dark eyes hold mine as he waits for an answer.
“Ten million.” My voice is breathy, and I’m ashamed of how it sounds. “Nothing to someone like you, but a huge sum to my father.”
Nico releases my hand, at once shattering the tension and severing the circuit running through us. He steps back, and the distance between us feels like the theft of something I didn’t know I needed.
He flattens the scrunched up contract and takes a pen from the inside of his jacket, scrawls something on the paper, then neatly folds it.
He holds it out, stretching across the gulf between us.
My fight has drained away, and I find myself yielding to him as I take the contract. As soon as it leaves his grip and is safely in mine, he gives a sharp nod.
“Good night, Little K. It was good to see you again.”
The dismissal is a slap in the face. I freeze as Nico steps around me and pushes open the glass doors, disappearing back into the party, leaving me alone with the realisation that my world has shifted.
I thought my attraction to Nico Hawkston was long dead.
I couldn't be more wrong.
A chill breeze ruffles the papers in my hand, and the sheets flap open. Jack was right; the price Nico’s paying for the company is colossal. Multi-millions. A sum that will propel Jack right up The Rich List. It’s printed in black ink at the bottom of the second page, but it’s been scratched through.
Underneath, Nico has scrawled another figure.
I blink to check I’m seeing it correctly, because it looks like he’s increased his offer by exactly ten million pounds. I run my finger over the neat row of zeros as I try to drag coherent thoughts through the fog Nico has left behind.
Did he really think more money would make this better?
Anger is a yoke across my collarbones, crushing the desire that surfaced only seconds ago. That fucking bastard is trying to buy me. Still staring at the contract, I follow in his footsteps, his name sitting on the tip of my tongue. I’ll call him back and give him a piece of my mind.
“Kate?”
I jerk my head up. David Webster, my contact at Argentum, is leaning through the balcony doors, beaming at me. I’ve never met a happier looking man than David. Big red cheeks and a white beard. A perfect Father Christmas, if Father Christmas ran marathons, played regular tennis and had fifteen percent body fat.
At our spa meeting yesterday, he was more casually dressed. Tonight, he looks dapper: black tie suit and curly white hair brushed into a slicked-down side parting. “I thought it was you out here.”
Shit . My spa project depends on this man’s co-operation and I’m mentally all over the place.
I force a smile and slide the contract into my handbag. “David. Hi.”
“You must be freezing,” he says, holding the door open for me. “Come inside. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
My body responds like an automaton, marching inside on demand, but my mind is slipping in and out of focus. I fix my gaze on David, but the memory of Nico keeps pushing him out. Nico’s eyes, his touch, his hand-written scrawl on the contract...
A large man lingers just inside the door, a looming presence that fills the space with a cloud of disgruntled ill-intent so thick it seems to suck all the oxygen out of the air. If David is Father Christmas, this man is the Grinch. A knot forms in my stomach when I realise he’s waiting for us. He’s familiar, but I can’t place him.
“This is Martin Brooks,” David says. “Do you remember him?”
I mentally filter through possible identities for him, but come up short. Too much of my brain power is still whirring over Nico like a clogged up hard drive.
“Your father’s business partner,” David explains.
The memories click into place. Martin Brooks, of course. But what the hell is he doing here? He never showed up to Dad’s funeral, nor did he send a condolence card. I remember because Mum has never forgiven him. There is no way she would invite Martin anywhere, and I doubt Jack would because he doesn’t have anything to do with him either. The man dropped out of our lives eight years ago and I haven’t seen him since.
He’s aged a lot. His previously dark hair is now a salt and pepper grey, and he’s carrying more weight than he used to. He taps the lapels of his green tweed jacket. Jack’s invitation was very clear about the dress code—black tie. So either Mr. Brooks didn’t know or doesn’t care, or he never received an invitation in the first place.
“Hello, Mr. Brooks.”
Martin looks down his bulbous nose at me like I’m an insignificant fly in the ointment of his life. “Kate Lansen. What a pleasure.”
His slow, bored drawl makes it sound anything but. The knot in my stomach tightens. I trust David, but I can make no sense of Martin’s presence here.
“I didn’t know you still saw Jack,” I say, careful not to sound suspicious.
“I don’t. Wasn’t invited.”
I suck an inhalation. The awkwardness in the air is palpable.
David draws back, his red cheeks blanching as a tiny frown forces the wrinkles on his forehead into high relief. “My wife couldn’t make it, so I brought Martin as my plus one. I hope I haven't transgressed a boundary. Martin was very keen to see all the Lansens again.”
“Figured I could crash the party very briefly and see you all,” Martin says. “I didn’t want to miss Gerard’s son turning thirty-five. Time flies.” He gestures to the balcony. “Was that Nico Hawkston you were out there with?”
The sudden mention of Nico has the butterflies in my stomach sprouting wings and soaring, but Martin’s malevolent tone kills them off almost instantly. I collect myself enough to nod, but offer no further explanation. It’s none of his business.
“Hmm.” Martin’s fingers rasp over his unshaven chin, stretching the slack skin around his jaw. “Tricky bastard, Nico Hawkston. Looks like a gentleman, but he’s not. Steer well clear, Kate.”
I’d rather steer clear of you . The thought pops up unbidden, like a mushroom in a dank forest.
David scratches his white beard and laughs uneasily. “Martin is our newest member on the Argentum board.”
Martin chuckles, but the sound is so clogged with phlegm that it sounds more like a smoker’s cough. “I’m very excited about your spa project. I remember how much your father loved that idea. Can’t wait to get my hands stuck in and get dirty.”
He utters the last sentence with such malice that a cold sensation ripples over my skin.
“Don’t look so worried, Kate,” David says, looking just as concerned himself. “Martin assures me his vision aligns with ours. Anyway, I just wanted to touch base before I head home. Wife’s home with the grandkids, which is where I should be.”
“About time for me to leave too.” Martin drains the last of his champagne and plonks the glass down on the nearest table. “Wouldn’t want to outstay my welcome. Bye, Kate. Have a good night.”
I watch the two men walk away. I’m unsettled and, without thinking, I reach for the contract in my bag and look again at Nico’s handwritten scrawl, and the addition of ten million pounds.
Surprisingly, staring at the neat black ink on the page no longer stirs up the same anger it did only moments ago. It’s still true that an offering of cash will never take away the pain of losing my father. And yes, I still don’t want Nico to think he can buy me.
But maybe the gesture wasn’t all bad.
Comfort spreads through me, soothing the unease that Martin’s appearance dragged up. Because if I had to choose between the two evils that are Nico Hawkston and Martin Brooks, I’d pick Nico.
Every fucking time.