by Abby Green
Antonio’s mouth firmed. ‘Looks like it. There’s nothing to stop this deal going ahead now. I don’t think you’re going to say no, are you?’
In a low voice she said, ‘You know I can’t. I don’t have a choice. It’s up to my father.’
Afraid he’d hear the emotion, she forced a lighter voice. ‘Your sister will be pleased to have the focus put back on how well the Chatsfield brand is doing.’
Antonio’s eyes looked very dark. ‘You know that’s always been my main priority.’
Orla’s insides curdled to hear him say that but she forced herself to respond as lightly as possible. ‘I’m sure the rest of your siblings will appreciate your help in restoring the Chatsfield brand.’
It was crazy and ridiculous to feel so betrayed by someone who was patently never going to have her best interests at heart. But she did. For the first time in her life. Even her father had never truly appreciated her full worth or what she did for him but it had never impacted her like this. And that revelation was … huge.
Orla thought of how Antonio had taken control of her mother that day and how it had made her feel and she hated him for giving her that illusion of support, protection. Unable to stem the tide of emotion rising inexorably upwards, Orla felt her eyes fill but didn’t turn her head quickly enough from that incisive black gaze.
His voice was sharp. ‘Orla?’
She couldn’t speak. She shook her head fiercely. But then she heard him unbuckle his belt and come out of his seat. She felt him crouching down at her knees.
Humiliation and self-recrimination burned her. She’d only had to hold it together for this flight and she couldn’t even do that.
‘Orla?’
His hand came to her jaw, turning her to face him. Tears were running down her face now, her chest jerking in a bid to keep the sobs back. He was just a big dark blurry figure.
‘Just leave me be, Antonio.’ Her voice was thick.
He was shaking his head, eyes glittering. Face pale. ‘What is it, Orla? Dammit, tell me.’
She shook her head and took his hand away from her chin. But he wouldn’t move.
‘What is it? The takeover?’
The anger left Orla as quickly as it had risen. She couldn’t possibly be more laid bare or exposed than she was now. This man had altered her DNA and she could no more deny it than stop breathing.
She shook her head and wiped at her tears. ‘No. It’s … us.’
Antonio went very still and said nothing for a long moment. His eyes burned so fiercely that they seemed like black coals in his face.
In a hoarse voice he said, ‘I didn’t know.’
Ice filled Orla’s veins. ‘Didn’t know what?’ she spat out, the anger rising again for allowing herself to fall apart so spectacularly. At Antonio’s stunned expression. At the confirmation that he’d felt nothing. ‘Didn’t know that I could be capable of changing? That within the space of a few days, I’d find myself wanting more?’
Orla wanted to look away but she couldn’t. He shook his head. ‘I don’t …’ He stopped and when he spoke again he sounded tortured. ‘I can’t.’
And suddenly Orla just felt incredibly bereft. Even as something else slid into place inside her—some very revelatory acceptance that she had changed on a deep level, and perhaps her priorities were different now, but that was OK.
‘I’ve seen things, Orla … things that no human being should ever see. I’ve witnessed things. I’ve killed people, all in the name of fighting the good fight. And I have a family that don’t even know me.’
She reached out and touched Antonio’s cheek with a trembling hand. ‘I know.’
He laughed but it was bitter. ‘You know me better than they do.’
But Orla took no comfort in that right now. She could see Antonio retreating to some place she couldn’t reach. She’d fallen for a man who wasn’t ready to be fallen for. And the pain was excruciating. She wanted to try and plead with him to let her in, to let her show him that she could help him. But she was too scared. She’d already exposed herself more than she could bear without actually telling him she loved him.
The pilot announced that they were beginning their descent into London and Orla’s heart broke in two. Antonio, still at her feet, just looked at her with a wealth of unfathomable pain in his eyes and said, ‘I’m sorry.’
All she could say was a quiet ‘Me too.’
And then Antonio got up and sat back down and buckled his belt and Orla flinched at the sound. She felt wrung out and empty.
When they emerged from the plane, Orla sent up silent thanks that she’d had the foresight to ask her assistant, Susan, to arrange a car for her.
She put her bag in the back and turned to see Antonio standing feet away, just watching her. He walked over to her and with every step Orla’s heart pumped harder. Maybe, just maybe—
He slid his hand under her hair, around the back of her neck. Her entire body prickled. Waiting. And then he just said in a rough voice, ‘Goodbye, Orla.’
And then he took his hand away and he was turning, striding, disappearing into the back of his own car. And then, gone.
Orla wanted to run after his car, screaming and shouting. Banging on the window for him to stop. For him to not be such a coward. Him! She could appreciate the irony. A man who had endured torture.
And perhaps she had to realise he wasn’t being a coward at all. He just didn’t feel as deeply as she did. And that nearly hurt more than anything.
As Antonio drove away from Orla, all he could see was her beautiful tear-stained face and hear her rough entreaty: us. It scored at his insides like a hot knife. With a pain worse than any torture he’d experienced.
He’d lied back in France. He’d been so incensed that she appeared to be cool and collected about going home that he’d told her he’d never lost sight of why they were there. But he had. Completely. For the first time in his life he’d lost his focus. He’d found himself on the shimmering edges of a dream that was so seductive … a dream he’d never allowed himself to come close to before.
Orla’s tears had opened up a million wounds inside Antonio. Wounds that he’d spent painstaking time covering up, healing over. He felt held together by a patchwork of scars as it was.
That one word, us, had gone off like a bomb inside him. Threatening everything in its wake. He didn’t know if he could be torn apart and built up again. It had happened already and he’d almost died.
Antonio felt a sense of desolation rise through him, the like of which he’d never experienced, not even when their mother had left them all those years ago. He felt tainted, bruised. Warped. Damaged. How could he seize a dream when he’d turned his back on it so long ago?
CHAPTER NINE
‘LUCILLA? Dammit.’ Antonio cursed and cut off the connection again when the automated voice came back: The person you are trying to reach may be out of coverage or have their phone powered off.
What was going on with his sister anyway? Antonio had only had the briefest and most cryptic of messages from her saying something garbled about having to leave England for a few days and that he should do whatever he thought best with regards to the hotel takeover.
Whatever was best? Antonio’s mouth twisted. Whatever was best for him was to walk away and forget he had ever heard the name Kennedy. And in particular, Orla Kennedy. The past week had seen Antonio grow progressively more and more irritated. Snarling at anything that moved near him. His car was stuck in horn-beeping London traffic and it was starting to rain. Matching his mood perfectly.
He’d not slept all week. His nights interspersed with torrid dreams and worse, nightmares of his time in the Legion. Nightmares he hadn’t had to battle with for over a year. It was as if he was sliding backwards into a morass of darkness.
It didn’t help to acknowledge the small voice that reminded him that when Orla had shared his bed, he’d slept better than he could ever remember sleeping. After one particularly vivid nightmare only last night, A
ntonio had slept fitfully again only to have a tantalising dream of Orla taking him by the hand and feeling a sense of peace so profound steal over him that when he’d woken in his anonymous Chatsfield suite, he’d felt possibly lonelier than he’d ever felt in his life.
His car finally pulled up outside the London Kennedy hotel and everything in Antonio tensed, even as the chasm inside him lessened slightly. Orla. He would see her again. In minutes. He knew he shouldn’t be relishing this sense of anticipation, but he couldn’t help it. For the first time all week, that sense of peace he’d felt in his dream last night touched him again, soothing him.
Clenching his jaw as if he could deny it, Antonio got out of his car and walked into the main foyer. But as soon as he entered he knew Orla wasn’t there, wasn’t anywhere in the vicinity. It was immediate and visceral, that sixth sense he’d developed around her presence. He stopped in the middle of reception. Everything had a more muted air. People didn’t seem to be smiling so much. It was less. Empty.
He saw a young buck in a uniform at the concierge desk where old Lawrence usually was. Something surged up within Antonio and he strode over to ask curtly, ‘Where is Lawrence?’
The young concierge visibly gulped at the look on Antonio’s face. ‘Er … I believe he’s out sick, sir…. Can I help?’
Something tangled and black was rising up within Antonio as he turned and went to the reception desk. One of the junior managers recognised him and rushed over, breathless. ‘Mr Chatsfield, you’re early—’
Antonio all but snarled at the man. ‘Has anyone thought to check up on Lawrence? To make sure he’s all right?’
The manager blanched and stuttered, ‘Well … no, we didn’t think—’
‘Well, see to it that someone is sent over to his place immediately and let me know how he is.’
The manager blanched even more. ‘Yes, yes, of course. I mean, I’m sure someone has thought to—’
But Antonio had already turned away. If Orla was here it would have been the first thing she’d done. Probably going over to check on the man herself. Dammit. Where was she?
Just then Tom Barry appeared, the Kennedy Group solicitor. All smooth charm. ‘Mr Chatsfield, if you’d like to follow me, everyone is in the conference room.’
Grim-faced, Antonio followed but he already knew what he wouldn’t see when he stepped into the room. Orla, in one of her prissy but oh-so-sexy suits. A defiant look on her face. Her hair up and begging to be tumbled down. And that chasm in his chest expanded again.
After an hour of listening stony-faced to negotiations over the minutiae of keeping the Kennedy Group brand name intact under the Chatsfield umbrella, Antonio had had enough. Resolve firmed in his belly, and for the first time since he’d seen Orla last, he felt slightly sane again.
He stood up and everyone stopped talking. Orla’s father, Patrick Kennedy, glanced up in surprise. He was an attractive ebullient-looking man but he also looked exhausted. And beaten.
Antonio said in a tone that brooked no argument, ‘I want everyone to please leave, except for Mr Kennedy and our two solicitors.’
When everyone had filed out, Antonio sat down again and addressed Orla’s father. ‘Sir, if I may speak frankly?’
Orla’s father nodded, hesitant.
‘The fact is, I don’t really give a damn about whether or not we take you over any more. But I do give a damn about something else, and that’s what I’d like to discuss.’
Orla was on her hands and knees under the desk in her office which held the printer, fax machine and a myriad assortment of equipment. She cursed volubly when the plug wouldn’t go where it should.
‘Mary,’ she called out, ‘I think we need to get Brian the spark back in. There’s another dodgy plug here.’
‘I’m not a trained electrician but even I can tell you that it’s not the best idea to force something into an electrical socket if it doesn’t want to go.’
Orla stopped dead. His voice. From right behind her. The plug was still in her hand. Her whole body went cold, and then hot. It couldn’t be. She was dreaming him up during the day now, as well as the long empty nights.
Cursing herself for this treacherous hallucination and fully expecting to see their handyman or one of the suppliers behind her, Orla emerged out from under the desk and slowly straightened up. And turned around.
Antonio stood in the small modest office, effortlessly dominating the space. Dressed in a dark suit and light shirt. Hair thick and unruly. Jaw unshaven. Utterly masculine, utterly gorgeous. Orla blinked. She felt nothing. But she was dimly aware that her numbness was shock and it was holding a veritable flood of emotion and physical reactions at bay.
Somehow she managed to speak. ‘What are you doing here?’
His eyes were intense on her. Black. ‘The terms of the agreement with your father have changed.’
Orla automatically glanced at her mobile phone on the nearby table and reached over to press a button. No calls. She looked back up; sensations were starting to break through the numbness. Incredible hurt. Pain. Desire.
‘I haven’t heard from him.’
‘Because I asked him to let me come and tell you in person.’
Orla could feel reaction making her limbs turn to jelly. She crossed her arms. ‘So you came all the way to one of the remotest parts of Ireland to pass on this information? What game are you playing, Antonio? I would have thought all the i’s were dotted, and t’s crossed by now.’
His face was implacable. ‘Why weren’t you in London to see the deal through with your father?’
Orla blanched and avoided his eye. There was something almost accusing in his tone. She wasn’t about to tell him of her resolve not to be a part of the signing of the deal because she hadn’t been able to bear the thought of facing him across that table again. Cold, remote. After everything that had happened.
She looked back. ‘Because I decided it was best to come here to get a head start on renovations for this hotel.’ Her mouth went into a bitter line. ‘There was no need for me at the London end—everything was in place to sign off our business … which I presume is now done?’
But Antonio shook his head slowly. ‘No, Orla, it’s not done. At least, not the way you think. We did sign an agreement, but now you still own the hotel in New York, and the ones in London, and Dublin.’
Orla felt the blood drain from her face. ‘But … what? How?’
Antonio’s expression became enigmatic, unreadable. ‘Because we proposed a new deal to your father. We’ve decided to become investors … and he’s agreed to sell off all his remaining assets in favour of his main flagship hotels. Thus giving the Kennedy Group a chance to regenerate.’
Orla couldn’t stay standing; she felt for the chair behind her and sat down weakly. Antonio’s eyes narrowed on her and he cursed softly. Just then a matronly woman appeared and her eyes widened to see this virile specimen of manliness in the office.
Orla could have laughed at Mary’s expression if she’d been able to breathe. Antonio rapped out, ‘Can you bring us some brandy?’
Mary blinked and glanced at Orla and then rushed off, clearly seeing the need for the drink. Orla looked at Antonio, who stayed standing.
He spoke her whirling thoughts out loud. His voice disturbingly soft. ‘It’s your plan, Orla. What you wanted to happen. A chance to save the group.’
She shook her head. Was she dreaming? She wanted to pinch herself but then Mary was bustling back with a tumbler of brandy and handing it to Orla. Mary disappeared again and pulled the door behind her. Orla took a swift sip, her hand trembling slightly. The drink burned her throat and settled in her stomach, steadying warmth radiating outwards.
Antonio didn’t disappear. She wasn’t dreaming.
‘But how? Why?’ She couldn’t seem to string a sentence together.
Antonio started to pace back and forth as if standing still too long was caging him in like an animal.
‘Our priorities have changed. We’re no
longer interested in a takeover. Investment in a viable successful business is more attractive to us right now.’
Orla stared at Antonio suspiciously. There was something off about his words … and yet he was here, in her office, in the deepest part of the west of Ireland. Why would he have come all this way? Her heart sped up but she refused to even go there mentally.
He stopped and pinned her with his black gaze. It dropped momentarily and Orla’s breath hitched. She became acutely aware of her black silk shirt and black skirt. Dammit. She must look like some kind of a widow in mourning. But when she’d left London last week she’d thrown all the clothes she’d worn in France into the back of her wardrobe and had pulled out her most severe work clothes.
‘You need to come back to London with me.’
Panic seized Orla’s innards at the thought of going anywhere with this man. She shook her head, stood up again. ‘No, I need to stay here and get the hotel ready for refurbishment.’
A familiar steeliness came over Antonio’s features and Orla’s belly quivered.
‘Did you hear anything I just said? The deal is off. We’ve got a new deal. One that keeps the Kennedy Group afloat.’ His jaw clenched. ‘But I’m not signing the final papers until you witness them.’
‘Antonio …’ Even just saying his name made Orla feel dizzy.
‘I have a plane waiting at Kerry Airport.’
She opened her mouth again but he shook his head. ‘Either you come with me now, Orla, or this deal is off and you’ll be left with nothing.’
At last, something she could cling on to when it felt as if the world had gone mad. Orla straightened her spine. ‘What is it about you Chatsfields? Do you get your kicks from playing with people as if they’re little beetles running around a chessboard?’
His eyes flashed and to Orla’s chagrin it looked as if one corner of his mouth tipped up slightly. He was laughing at her! Galvanised, Orla marched around the desk to stand in front of him, putting her hands on her hips.
‘If you think that you can just barge in here—’
The half-smile faded from his mouth. ‘Did you know that Lawrence was in hospital?’
