Vengeful Love: Black Diamonds (24 page)

“Close the door,” he snaps.

I do so, taking steps into the middle of the office.

“You were right,” he says, pausing but facing out to the city. “It’s Nick Fucking Henshaw.” I nod but don’t speak. “Stuart swears he has nothing to do with it. Says he’s never heard of Nick or Francis.”

“Do we believe him?”

“He swore on his mother’s life. That’s not something a man does lightly.”

I venture forward now, taking a seat in the chair opposite Gregory’s desk. The black leather is still warm. No doubt Stuart got a thorough dressing down. Most likely a threat on his life if he so much as thinks about crossing Gregory.

Gregory laughs now, sardonically, and strokes his forefinger and thumb along his jawline, his other hand still resting on his hip. “He wants a payout.”

I had suspected as much but I let him speak.

“Three fucking million. Three. Fucking. Million. It’s nothing to do with the fucking game.”

“He wants money because you forced him to resign.”

“Fucking prick.”

“I had a feeling that would be the case once I realised it was him. The way he spoke at the gala, he—”

“Oh, well, fucking marvelous, Scarlett. When the fuck were you going to share that feeling with me?”

I stand abruptly from my chair.

“Attitude check, Gregory. Right now! Otherwise you can stare at my back as I’m walking out of your fucking office and leaving you in the shit.”

He turns from the window and opens his mouth to protest. He doesn’t apologise but he does move to sit into his desk chair opposite me, putting us on the same level when I sit, too.

“I’ve been thinking about it all morning,” I say calmly.

“I’m all ears.” His tone is as soft as I suspect it’s going to get.

“Stuart created the game. If we believe he isn’t involved, he still has certain unregistered intellectual property rights.”

“Does that help us?”

“Absolutely, as long as we can prove it. If Nick is demanding money, it tells me he doesn’t really want Black Diamonds. If he wanted to set up alone and put a new game on the market, he would, he has the knowledge to do it. He’s trying to threaten you that he can use whatever version of Black Diamonds he has to eat into your Jail Run profits. He’ll know that’s why
you
wanted Black Diamonds.”

“I think I’m following.” Given the speed the words are leaving my mouth, that’s nothing short of a miracle. “He thinks the threat of him having the game on the market is worth three million pounds to me.”

“Right. So let’s call his bluff. Let’s make it so he doesn’t have the threat of taking
his
Black Diamonds to market. Then he has nothing on you,” I continue.

Gregory’s eyes widen and he sits a little straighter in his chair. “How do we do that?”

“We fight him. In China, the US, Europe. We make a case against his registration of the game. We claim ownership. It’s not a cheap plan. It will cost you.”

“But it’ll be a damn sight cheaper than three million pounds.”

“Precisely.”

He leans back in his chair, his eyes distant as he processes the idea, his fingertips forming a steeple that rests against his chin. “And whilst you’re working on that, I’ll take pleasure in letting Francis know exactly who he’s getting involved with.”

“He’ll pull the funding?”

“I’m almost certain of it.”

Chapter Twenty-One

He’s propped up on one arm, his dark hair messed from sleep, a light dusting of stubble coating his chin. The white cotton sheet is wrapped around his waist and between his legs. He’s otherwise on display for my own personal viewing.

“This is a nice way to wake up.” My eyes run shamelessly over the perfect sculpture of man, falling on his eager crotch, a sight that heats the blood that travels to the tips of my breasts and between my legs.

“You know what I was thinking? I was thinking I’ve never met anyone like you.” His fingers trace the side of my body, moving away the sheet so his hand comes to rest on the small of my back. My body reacts, bending closer to his heat.

“I hope that’s a good thing.” The sound of my voice betrays my want.

“Mostly,” he says, with that half smile I adore. “No one else challenges me the way you do and no one else dares to tell me to check my attitude.”

“What can I say, sometimes you need an attitude check, Mr. Ryans.”

“As do you, Miss Heath, and you’re going to get it.” I moan greedily as he pulls my body against his, letting me feel his intention against my navel. His hand slides to the sphere of my arse, pulling my thigh across his and coming to rest in the crease between my thigh and calf. “You’re right when you say we work better as a team. We do, don’t we?”

I assume, on this occasion, he’s referring to the fact Francis wants out of his arrangement with Nick Henshaw and local counsel are already on the case of challenging Nick’s registration of Black Diamonds in the UK and Europe. All of which kills Nick’s chances of getting three million pounds out of GJR.

“If I said it, it must be true.” I’m feeling particularly cheeky and ready to play this morning, something that pulls his lips to a smirk, but his eyes are serious.

“I’ve never had that. This. I’ve never been part of a team. I’m always the man in control and with you...you throw me off balance. Some days I wonder if I’ve dreamt you. As if it’s taken me thirty years to realise what I need and you’re a figment of my imagination. You’re beautiful. Smart and strong. You’re so perfect I’m terrified of waking up and losing you.”

I hold my hand to his cheek and wait for him to open his eyes. “I feel the same and I’m not going anywhere, Gregory. You’ve changed me in so many ways. You’re the anchor in my new world.”

“
Our
new world.”

He drops his mouth to mine and rolls us so my back is on the mattress, my thighs locked around his hips, my body rising to make contact with his, desire turning to a wet, aching need between my legs.

He lowers himself, his weight resting against my pelvis, his forearms either side of my head, his fingers gently stroking my hair. “I love you so much.”

I brush his hair back from his brow and lock my fingers behind his neck. “I love you, too.”

He leans down, his tongue dipping into my mouth and teasing mine, the soft skin of his lips grazing my own. I drown in his touch, in his love, in him.

* * *

“Sorry to interrupt but can I take a car?” I make my way into the lounge in my skinny jeans and oversized jumper, eating a bagel on the move so that I’m not late for picking up Sandy.

Gregory and Jackson look up from the photographs and documents they’re studying on the coffee table. I don’t need to look to know that Nick Henshaw will be the star of that storyboard. They’re blindly trying to plot their next move, not knowing how Nick will react to the fact his plan imploded. This fight has only just begun. The one saving grace is that Gregory hasn’t opted for his usual first port of call and had Jackson bring in extra security. That’s something I can take comfort from. He thinks this will be a white-collar war rather than one that requires him to step into the ring.

The men have a silent conversation before Jackson stands and declares, “I’ll take you.”

I hold my hand up whilst I swallow. “No, thanks, Jackson, I’m good to drive.” I glare at Gregory. “I know you put me on the insurance, I saw the invoice on your desk. And before you dare to make a remark about my driving capabilities, let me remind you that you’ve never actually been a passenger in a car with me.”

He rests back against the leather of the sofa. “Two things.” He holds up one finger like a completely patronising arse as he speaks. “One, you don’t drive often.” He lifts another finger and I’d like to mirror that action, flashing my knuckles in his direction. “Two, you don’t have the first idea about driving one of
my
cars. Jackson will take you.”

Whilst I take his point on the supercar front—the paddle gears, no clutch, the car screaming out to go faster—I don’t appreciate his tone.

“Why would you put me on the insurance if I’m never going to be allowed to drive the cars?”

“In case.”

“In case of what? A rally opportunity on South Bank?”

“See. This is what I’m talking about.” He raises his hands and faces Jackson. “Baby, you drive rally cars in a rally.”

“Quit being a dick and just give me some keys.”

His eyes are bright when he looks back to me. He moves to the small safe in the corner of the lounge and types in his code then throws me a key.

“You can take the Range Rover. It’s a normal drive and it’s safe. Don’t play games. Don’t take risks. Don’t drive over the speed limit and—”

“Bugger off, Gregory.”

* * *

Sandy and I run from the Range Rover, coats over our heads to shield us from the torrential rain, not stopping until we reach the porch. I have to fiddle with the lock, yanking the door handle towards me as I turn the key. A sign of how infrequently the lock has been turned in the last five months. I push the door past a stack of mail, most of which looks like adverts and trash. I stopped the important mail after my father died. Sandy helps me scoop up the paper and envelopes into a pile on the dark wood side table in the vestibule.

We stand for a while, looking around what used to be a bright, happy home. It has a strange musty smell and even with the lights turned on, it feels dark and grey, like the colour has been drained from the furnishings and the paint on the walls. I run my finger along the side table and look at the thick grey circle that forms on my skin, a symbol of the past.

“I’ll put the kettle on,” Sandy says. “I brought a pack-up and luxury biscuits. It’s going to be a long day, sweetheart, best make a start straight away.”

“I didn’t even think of that, thank you. I’ll get the boxes from the car.”

Long
day doesn’t cover it.
One of the hardest days of my life
might come close. We started downstairs, the lounge, the kitchen, the dining room. The removal men will be packing up and disposing of everything we haven’t agreed to keep or leave to the buyers and there weren’t many personal items downstairs. I decided not to look at photographs, wrapping them in old newspaper and packing them into a box before memories could form in my head. Sandy started with the opposite approach, wanting to remember and talk but her smiles were cast in the shadow of tears and it took all my emotional strength to comfort her and drag us both through the god-awful morning.

Now we’re upstairs and I’m in the doorway of my father’s bedroom, staring at the empty space left by the removal of the special equipment he was given on loan from the National Health Service. The bed, the chair and commode, the drugs cabinet. All gone. In their wake, there’s the pungent smell of stale urine, a worn carpet and an overwhelming sense of death. I make my way into the room for one thing, the picture of my dad, Sandy and me at Brighton Pier in ‘94. We’re all smiling, holding candy-floss. My dad drapes his arms around our shoulders. The sun is beaming down on us. He’s young, well, happy. It was his favourite photograph of the three of us and he asked for it to be put by his bedside on one of his good days. My throat constricts as I trace his smile with my fingertips. I close my eyes, willing myself to get past this moment for me, for Sandy, and I press the glass frame to my lips.

“I love you, Dad,” I whisper against him.

The loft is the worst room. It was always going to be. But the reality is worse than the thought of it. My father kept so many things from my childhood that I’d forgotten even exist. Dolls, bears, drawings, pictures with glitter and wool that Sandy helped me make. School reports, trophies from athletics and dancing, swimming badges. I can’t bring myself to throw away these things because I see in each of them the tremendous sense of love my father had for me. I’m eternally grateful to have had a father who loved me and protected me.

Sandy talks about the stories behind the things we pack into the boxes and I smile outwardly, sometimes even respond appropriately to her comments, but I don’t give myself over to the memories. I hide behind an invisible wall of safety because I’m afraid that when the tears come, they won’t stop.

* * *

Sandy holds in her lap a small bag of belongings that she asked to keep as I drive her back to Lara’s house. I hardly speak as we make our way, nodding and shaking my head as she talks. This is Sandy’s way of coping, talking through it, but I can’t help her. I can’t get words past the pain in my chest, the ache in my stomach, the stinging sensation behind my eyes.

I love Sandy, possibly more than she’ll ever know, but I’m relieved when I turn onto Lara’s driveway and we approach the house because once I’m alone, I can let go of the desolation that’s screaming to burst out of me. I can break.

“Scarlett, hunny, come inside,” Lara calls from the doorway.

Lara, the wedding. I forgot.
I close my eyes, reboot and climb out of the car.

Miranda, another of Lara’s staff, brings tea and bite-size cakes which I take, both to calm my rumbling stomach and to comfort me through a conversation I have to endure when all I really want is Gregory.

Lara settles onto one end of a sofa and I sit next to her in a high-backed grandad chair.

“I wanted to show you this,” she says, opening a large leather-back album full of page after page of wedding snippings, drafting notes and sketches. “I’ve agreed the date with Gregory. Saturday the sixteenth of March.”

I know from the excitement in her eyes that she doesn’t mean next year. “Lara, that’s only a few weeks away.”

“I know but that’s more than enough time. I’ve planned a lot of events, Scarlett. I will make this the best day of your life.”

It will be but it will be because I’m marrying the man I am one hundred percent besotted with, not because Lara is planning what looks like the wedding of the century. She turns the pages through an extravagant champagne reception in her house, a huge marquee on her lawn. Bridesmaid dresses, sketches for bridal gowns.
Do I get a say in anything?
She talks through the layers of a five tier cake and the stature of the three hundred and fifty guests, as I work my way through the plate of cakes, washing down the sugar and fat with tea, trying to hold the dams in my eyes just a little longer.

I don’t want this.
I don’t want a big wedding with hundreds of people I don’t know. People who don’t care about
us
.

I’ve just cleared out my father’s house, the person who should be giving away his only daughter to the man she loves. My father should be giving me away knowing that Gregory will take over protecting me, that he’ll consume my thoughts, love me back in every way he can. My father is dead. He won’t get to tell me I look beautiful in my ivory dress, whether it’s true or not. He won’t be able to walk me down the aisle. He died alone, without me, not knowing how much I truly love him. He was murdered because of me.

I need Gregory.
I need him to hold me, to tell me everything’s going to be okay. To tell me he’ll fix this. I need him to reset me and help me find my equilibrium.

I drive through the darkness too fast, craving his touch and his soothing whispers in my ear. I need to forget and he’ll know that.

I’m breathless, panicked and lost by the time I get back to the apartment. I open the door and call his name. He isn’t here. He isn’t here and I need him.

I close the door and push my back against it before my body slides to the ground and my dams break. I clutch my knees to my chest and sob, audible, heart-wrenching tears that I might never be able to stop.

“Baby, Christ, I’m here. I’m here.”

He hooks an arm under my legs and I throw my arms around his neck, fisting the back of his black T-shirt, clinging desperately to the only thing in the world that can earth me. He carries me to the sofa and sits with me in his lap. He lets me cry, stroking my hair, kissing my temple, accepting me falling apart.

“I can’t do a big wedding, Gregory. I don’t want it. My father won’t be there.”

“Shhh, I’m here now. You’re fine, baby. I’m here.”

When my tears subside and my chest no longer chugs with every breath, I look at his stunning face, not self-conscious about the fact I must look a mess. He strokes my hair with both hands and two big, wide, sympathetic browns read me.

“Gregory.”

He kisses me without me having to tell him what I need, that I just want to get lost in him, have him take me out of my head.

His mouth is gentle at first, then he kisses me urgently, with a fierceness he knows I need, a kiss that has us both breathless. He stands and places me down to sit on the edge of the sofa. He kneels between my legs and when I raise up my arms, he pulls my jumper over my head.

His lips are back on mine, fast and furious, sucking, biting as he unhooks my bra. Our contact is lost momentarily whilst he pulls my bra down my arms.

He pushes my chest so I fall back against the sofa. Then he tugs my legs at the knees, sliding my hips forward. His eyes are heavy, showing his own desire as he unfastens my jeans and pulls them down in one move, casting the denim and my French lace knickers to the floor.

He eyes me now, asking permission.

“Yes. Please.”

He peels his black T-shirt over his head then pushes my legs apart, bending forward to kiss me chastely before moving his head between my legs.

“Gregory. Yes. Oh god, yes.”

He holds his hands against the inside of my thighs, applying pressure as he dips his tongue lavishly in and out of me, then across my swollen bud.