CHAPTER TWO
ROOTEDTOTHESPOT, Orla watched Duarte turn on his heel and stride off, her heart hammering and a cold sweat breaking out all over her skin. The floor beneath her feet seemed to be rocking and the room was spinning.
Oh, God, he was furious. He clearly didn’t tolerate mistakes and she couldn’t blame him, because neither did she. In fact, she hadn’t made a single one since her engagement, which had come to an end four years ago. And even before that she’d done her level best to avoid them. Mistakes equalled failure and failure was not an option in her world.
As an overlooked, average middle child squashed between an older sister who sang like an angel and a brilliant athlete of a younger brother, she’d fought hard for her space in the family. She’d worked like a demon to get the best grades at school and siphon off some of the parental attention her more talented, more successful siblings attracted so easily. And it had worked. So well, in fact, that striving for excellence, for perfection, had become embedded in her DNA. Her sense of self-worth depended on it, she knew, and she couldn’t imagine ever approaching a task with the expectation of anything less.
But she hadn’t allowed her childhood insecurities to surge up and swamp her for years, and she certainly wasn’t about to start now. Her blood chilled at the very idea of it. So it didn’t matter at this precise moment how the mix-up here had happened when her company went to great lengths to ensure a project ran as smoothly as possible. An analysis of what had gone wrong would have to wait.
Nor was her opinion of Duarte’s reaction to the situation of any relevance. She might think that his response was totally over-the-top when firstly, she’d never let him down before, secondly, there was still time to fix things, and finally, he had the unexpected bonus of a freshly gleaming home, but he was the client. He was clearly furious that she’d screwed up—although he couldn’t possibly be as angry with her as she was with herself—and it was her job to reverse that. To get herself unfired. And not just because she had two decades’ worth of hang-ups to battle. After years of grafting to prove her talent, her worth and her indispensability, of single-mindedly focusing on reaching the top, she’d finally been allowed to buy into the business. She had no intention of giving Sam, co-owner and joint CEO of Hamilton Garrett, any reason to regret that decision. Duarte earned them millions in fees and commissions—almost as much as all their other clients put together—and she would not be the one to lose him.
It wouldn’t be easy but nor was it impossible. The coldness of his tone—worse than if he’d shouted at her, in fact—wasn’t encouraging, but all she’d have to do, surely, was handle him the way she handled anyone who was reluctant to give her what she wanted. People always saw things her way in the end, and he’d be no different.
Taking a deep breath to calm the panic and channelling cool determination instead, Orla grabbed her trainers and strode out of the bedroom. She raced around the balcony that looked over the ground floor on all four sides of the house, until she came to the top of the wide, sweeping stone staircase.
‘Wait,’ she called, spying Duarte heading along a corridor, and hurrying down the steps. But he didn’t stop, he didn’t even show any sign he’d heard her, so she tried again. Louder. ‘Conde de Castro. Duarte. Please. Stop. I can explain.’
He threw up a dismissive hand. ‘No.’
‘I’ll do anything. Just name it.’
‘It’s too late.’
It couldn’t be. That wasn’t an option. ‘How can I make this right?’
‘You can’t.’
She could. She would. She just had to figure out what he wanted. A discount, perhaps. Didn’t everyone love a bargain, even wildly successful billionaires? ‘I’ll waive your fees for the next three years. Five. No, ten.’
‘Your fees are a rounding error to me,’ he said bluntly, continuing to power ahead with long, loose strides while she, still barefoot, remained hot on his heels. ‘And if you think I’m continuing with my membership of your organisation, you are, once again, very much mistaken.’
Right. Not that, then. ‘I’ll make a donation to a charity of your choice.’
‘You couldn’t possibly match the sums I already donate.’
That was undoubtedly true.
Damn.
‘I’ll have someone else handle your account,’ she offered, ignoring the odd sense of resistance that barrelled through her at the thought of it because desperate times called for desperate measures.
‘No.’
Well, good. But on the other hand, not good. In the face of such intractability, she had little to work with here and she could feel the panic begin to return, but she banked it down because she wasn’t giving up.
‘Could you stop for a moment so we can talk about this?’ she said, fighting to keep the desperation from her voice and thinking that while his back view—broad shoulders, trim waist—was a fine sight, it would be a whole lot easier to persuade him to see things her way if they were face to face.
‘There’s nothing to discuss.’
‘Have we ever let you down before?’
‘You’ve let me down now.’
‘Your conference isn’t for another three weeks. There’s more than enough time to prepare.’ Just about.
‘That’s not the point.’
Then what was the point? None of this made any sense. Yes, she’d made a mistake, and she winced just to think of it, but objectively speaking, it was hardly the end of the world. So what was going on? At no point during the course of their relationship had Duarte come across as in any way eccentric. His requests were by no means as outrageous as some. Quite the opposite in fact. She’d always considered him entirely reasonable.
So could it be that he was just stubborn? Well, so was she. She stood to lose not just his business and her partner’s respect and confidence in her but also quite possibly her emotional equilibrium, which relied on her continually succeeding at everything she did, and that wasn’t happening.
‘There must be something I can do to persuade you to change your mind,’ she said, breathless with the effort of keeping up with him and adrenalin-fuelled alarm. ‘Something you want.’
‘There isn’t.’
There was. Everyone had at least one weakness, and Duarte wasn’t that godlike.
Think, she told herself as she continued to hurry after him. She had to think. What did he want that he didn’t already have that only she could get him? What would he find irresistible? Impossible to refuse?
Desperately, Orla racked her brains for what she knew about him. She frantically sifted through a mental catalogue of interviews and articles, revisiting the phone conversations they’d had, grasping for titbits of information, for something, for anything...
Until—
Aha!