Rival's Challenge

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.’