A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

She imagined there’d be deep rumblings of discontent and much sputtering of cigar smoke and Scotch beneath the lighted chandeliers in the Great Salon. But she also knew her grandfather had acted with calculated intent when he’d bequeathed half of the club’s ownership to his only grandchild. Gordon Royce had known his errant son could not be trusted with sole proprietorship. Rewriting his will to leave fifty per cent of the shares to Emily—the granddaughter he’d wished had been born a boy—had surely been an undesirable but necessary course of action in Gordon’s mind.

Not that her grandfather had been able to overcome his misogynistic tendencies altogether. He’d gone to significant lengths to ensure the Royce name would live on through a male heir.

It was terribly ironic—that her grandfather should manipulate her life from beyond the grave when he’d shown scarcely a flicker of interest in her while he’d been alive.

Emily closed her eyes a moment. Her mind was wandering. She needed to harness her thoughts, to wrestle her brain around the problem and come up with a solution. She needed time to think. Alone. Without the sinister presence of the man who sat in the upholstered chair on the other side of her desk.

She stood slowly, her features composed, her legs steady only through sheer force of will.

‘I think you should leave now, Mr Skinner.’

She spoke with all the authority she could muster but her cool directive failed to have any visible impact on her visitor.

His head tilted to the side, his thin lips stretching into a humourless smile that sent an icy ripple down Emily’s spine. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘I was just starting to enjoy our conversation.’

Emily didn’t like the way he looked at her. Carl Skinner—one of London’s most notorious loan sharks—looked old enough to be her father, yet there was nothing paternal in the way his gaze crawled over her body. She fisted her hands by her sides. Her pinstriped skirt and white silk blouse were smart and conservative and not the least bit revealing. There was nothing for him to feast his filthy eyes on, she assured herself—except maybe for the angry colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Our conversation is over.’ She gestured towards the single sheet of paper he’d produced with a smug flourish when she’d questioned the veracity of his claim. It lay upon her desk now, the signature scrawled at the foot of the agreement unmistakably her father’s. ‘I’ll be seeking a legal opinion on this.’

‘You can have a hundred lawyers look over it, sweetheart.’

Emily tried not to flinch at the endearment.

‘It was legally binding when Royce signed it seven days ago,’ he continued. ‘And it’ll be legally binding in another seven days when I collect on the debt.’ He leaned back, his gaze roving around the interior of her small but beautifully appointed office, with its view overlooking one of Mayfair’s most elegant streets, before landing back on her. ‘You know, I’ve always fancied myself as a member of one of these clubs.’

Emily almost snorted. The idea of this man rubbing shoulders with princes and presidents was ludicrous, but she endeavoured to keep the thought from showing on her face. Skinner’s business suit and neatly cropped hair might afford him a civilised veneer but she sensed the danger emanating from him. Insulting this man would be far from wise.

‘Mr Royce’s debt will be settled in full by the end of the week.’ She injected her voice with a confidence she prayed wasn’t misplaced. If her father’s gambling debt wasn’t settled within the week, the alternative—Carl Skinner getting his hands on a fifty per cent shareholding of The Royce—was an outcome far too horrendous to contemplate. She would not let it happen.

‘You sound very certain about that, little lady.’

‘I am.’

Skinner’s lips pursed. ‘You understand that assurance would carry more weight if I heard it straight from your boss?’

‘My boss is not here,’ she reminded him, instinct urging her now—as it had twenty minutes earlier when he’d turned up without an appointment demanding to see her father—not to reveal her surname. She’d introduced herself simply as Emily, Administration Manager and Mr Royce’s assistant, and agreed to meet with Skinner in Maxwell’s absence only because instinct urged her to hear what he had to say.

She coerced her cheek muscles to move, pulling the corners of her mouth into a rigid smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my assurance, Mr Skinner,’ she said, walking around her desk as she continued to speak. ‘Thank you for your visit. I believe we have nothing more to discuss at this point. I do have another appointment,’ she lied, ‘so if you don’t mind...’

Skinner rose and stepped in front of her and Emily’s voice died, her vocal cords paralysed by the violent lunge of her heart into her throat. Her legs froze. He was standing in her space, two feet at most between them, and she wasn’t used to such close physical proximity with another person. Especially someone she didn’t know and had zero desire to. ‘Mr Skinner—’

‘Carl,’ he said, and took a step towards her.

She stepped backwards, glancing to the right of his thick-set frame to her closed office door. Her palms grew clammy. Why hadn’t she thought to leave it open?

His smile returned, the narrow slant of his lips ten times more unsettling than before. ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony, Emily. This time next week I could be your boss...’

Her eyes widened.

‘And I’m not big on formality. I prefer my working relationships to be a little more...relaxed.’

Nausea bloomed anew and she fought the instinct to recoil. She tried to tell herself his sleazy innuendo didn’t intimidate her, but the truth was she felt horribly unnerved. She inhabited a world dominated by men but she wasn’t familiar with this kind of unsolicited attention. For the most part she was used to being invisible. Unseen.

She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let me offer you one more assurance, Mr Skinner,’ she said, her heart hammering even as common sense told her he couldn’t pose any physical threat to her person. Her admin assistant, Marsha, unless she’d gone for her morning tea break, would be sitting at her desk right outside Emily’s door, and Security was no further away than one push of a pre-programmed button on her desk phone. ‘Not only will you never be my boss,’ she said, a sliver of disdain working its way into her voice now, ‘But you will never, so long as I have any say in the matter, set foot on these premises again.’

No sooner had the final word leapt off Emily’s tongue than she knew she had made a grave mistake.

Skinner’s expression had turned thunderous.

Terrifyingly thunderous.

And he moved so fast—looming over her, his big hands clamping onto her waist like concrete mitts as he pinned her against her desk—that she had no time to react.

An onslaught of fragmented impressions assailed her: the sight of Skinner’s lips peeling back from his teeth; the dampness of his breath on her skin as he thrust his face too close to hers; the overpowering reek of his aftershave which made the lining of her nose sting.

Panic flared, driving the beginnings of a scream up her throat, but she gripped the edge of her desk behind her and smothered the sound before it could emerge. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she hissed. ‘Or I will shout for Security and an entire team of men will be here in less than ten seconds.’

For a moment his grip tightened, his fingers biting painfully into her sides. Then, abruptly, he released her and stepped away, his sudden retreat setting off a wave of relief so powerful her legs threatened to buckle. He ran a hand over his hair and adjusted the knot of his tie—as if smoothing his appearance would somehow make him appear less brutish.

‘Seven days, little lady.’ His voice was gruff. Menacing. ‘And then I collect.’ He jutted his chin in the direction of the paper on her desk. ‘That’s a copy, of course. You can assure your lawyer that I have the original tucked away safe and sound.’ He sent her a hard, chilling smile then showed himself out, leaving her office door standing open in the wake of his exit.

Emily sagged against her desk, just as Marsha rushed in.

‘My God!’ the younger woman exclaimed. ‘What on earth happened in here? The look on that man’s face—’ She stopped, her eyes growing rounder as they took in Emily’s slumped posture and the pallor she knew without the aid of a mirror had stripped the colour from her cheeks. ‘Emily...?’

Rousing herself, she pointed a trembling finger over Marsha’s shoulder. ‘Call Security. Tell them to make absolutely certain that man leaves the building.’

Marsha hurried back out and Emily moved on shaky legs to the other side of her desk. She picked up her phone, pulled in a fortifying breath and dialled her father’s mobile number.

The call went straight to voice mail.

Surprise...not.

She slammed the phone back down, frustration, fury and a host of other feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge building with hot, bitter force inside her.

Her eyes prickled and the threat of tears was as unfamiliar and unwelcome as the nausea had been.

What had Maxwell done?

Her lips trembled and she pressed them together, closed her eyes and pushed the heels of her hands against her lids.

She knew what he had done.

He’d borrowed a monstrous sum of money to enter a high-stakes poker game and put up his fifty per cent shareholding of The Royce as collateral.

And then he had lost. Spectacularly.

She wanted to scream.