Page 21

21

Layla

“Wakey, wakey, sunshine.” Luca’s voice is a whisper, a barely there one that I try to grab hold of. My senses slowly come back to life as the memories of last night wash over me along with the smell of coffee.

“Mmm-hmm.” I groan, rolling over and stretching, my muscles aching and my extremities feeling well and truly used.

Oh, God!

Last night.

The shower, the car, the club, the deal, Levi, Grandad, Katy.

The nightmare!

I open my eyes and sit up quickly, taking in the vast surroundings of Luca’s bedroom, trying desperately to calm my rapid heartbeat as images and memories from the night before threaten to engulf me.

The magnificent view of London shines through the floor-to-ceiling windows, rich silk curtains float down softening the room. Feeling the soft high thread count cotton duvet, I look at the little details. The luxuriousness of it. The dark panelling on one side, two chest of drawers and simple white, cream and gold abstract painting on the wall. Textured and beautiful.

“It wasn’t a dream then.” My voice is thick with sleep and a killer hangover, my head pounds like it has its own pulse. Luca sits at the bottom of the enormous bed, coffee cup in his hand, he’s back in a three-piece navy-blue suit with a crisp white shirt, his hair styled in its usual just fallen out of bed tousle.

He looks ridiculously hot.

I reach up and gently touch my neck, which feels bruised and tender. I wince.

That was a new…experience.

“You’ll be sore today,” he says flatly.

I peel one eye open, and my eyes meet his. Emotionless. But I can still feel his hand on my shoulder. Still hear his dulcet tones as he shared a part of himself that I like to think no one else knows.

I stare at him, trying to understand his complexities because right now I’m confused. His eyes track to my neck and a flash of something passes over the impenetrable mask of his.

Is he…smug?

“I’ve got you some clothes, get showered and dressed. I need to run some errands. You can come with me, then we’ll grab what you need from your flat.” He stands and I sit silently as he picks up the coffee that is on the bed side table and hands it to me. “There’s painkillers in the cupboard in the bathroom, it will help with the soreness and hangover.”

“What makes you think I’m hungover?” My voice is gruff, and I swallow.

“I don’t care either way.” He shrugs, and does that thing men in suits do, pulling his jacket together and buttoning up as he stands.

And I’ve forgotten my name. Why does he have to be so hot?

“You have twenty minutes.”

“Where’s my phone?” I bet Katy’s head is spiralling. I wrap the sheet round my body and blow the coffee, Luca just handed to me. I take a sip. It’s exactly how I like it. “I’d ask how you know how I take my coffee, but I fear I already know the answer to that question.”

It should scare me, the fact that he has been watching me closely enough to know how I take my coffee. Hell, a lot of what’s going on should scare me, but right now I’m just trying not to throw up.

He turns to leave. “Twenty minutes.”

I drink my coffee in quiet contemplation: I’m attracted to him there is absolutely no doubt of that. The sex is amazing, messed up, but amazing.

I huff to myself and throw the covers off, padding to his ensuite. Last night, I was terrified that he was going to kill me. This morning, the more rational part of my brain is back in control, reassuring me repeatedly that he needs me. I’m just not sure what part of him needs me. The business side, or the side that feels this connection between us.

The tiled flooring is warm under my bare feet. I turn on the tap feeling the water until it’s piping hot and steam billows and builds around me.

Stepping under the jets, the hot water bites into my back, feeling like a thousand bee stings, and I take a minute to breathe through the pain. I can’t control this situation, but I can control the heat.

Once it’s unbearable, I turn it down.

Imports and exports … It’s drugs or guns. Or, oh my God, what if he’s a human trafficker. I lather up and scrub my hair with his shampoo, smelling of sandalwood.

What if it’s not drugs and guns but instead, children? I watched a programme the other day about stealing and selling children…. What if that’s what he imports and exports?

A wave of nausea runs through me, and I silently hope it’s drugs.

I wipe at the condensation on the mirror and lean forward inspecting the marks on my skin, tender and red. I turn my head and see where his fingers dug in, the unmistakable marks of his fingertips.

Fuck.

I take two painkillers and I look at my reflection, pale and feral. I think that’s the perfect way to describe me. My hair is a bedraggled mess, my blue eyes are bleary but wide, and I genuinely look like I’m about ready to have some sort of breakdown.

The coffee in my stomach makes me nauseous and I dart to the toilet, throwing up the lid in the nick of time as I heave, the bile and vomit burning the back of my already destroyed neck and throat.

My hands shake, and I’m overwhelmed by everything I’m feeling. I’m on an emotional rollercoaster and I want to get the fuck off.

But do I?

I pull on the clothes he left out for me, which of course all fit perfectly. The black roll neck hiding any evidence of last night’s shower incident. That’s what I’ll call it. An incident.

A lapse in judgement.

Let’s park the fact that he gave me the most intense orgasm of my life. Followed by two more in the shower.

I pull myself together and join him.

We ride down in the lift in silence, I’ve got my clutch in my hand, my phone dead. I’ve no idea where my clothes are. But I do wonder whether he still has my underwear in his pocket, the sick fucker has had his hand buried there since we stepped into the lift and started our descent.

“What, no driver today?” I ask as he presses a key fob and the lights to a Range Rover bleep in the underground car park.

“Not for today.” He throws a look at me, his lips in a grimace.

“You know you’re the one that’s making me come with you, if you hate me being here, I can just go home.”

He doesn’t answer.

“I’d give you my address, but you don’t need it.”

“Did anyone ever tell you that sarcasm is the lowest form of humour, sunshine.”

“Did anyone ever tell you you’re a fucking lunatic.”

“I’ve got some business to take care of at the docks.”

“Ah yes, ‘business’.”

It’s 8 a.m. on a Saturday. London won’t be its usual chaos, but it will still be busy.

I’ve had about 3 hours of sleep and I feel like a walking zombie. He opens the car door, and I climb in. “How are you functioning?”

“I dozed.” He shuts my door and walks round the front of the car and climbs in. The seats are leather, and there’s a huge armrest that merges into the centre console putting some much-needed distance between us. I suppose that is the only conversation or acknowledgment I’m going to get about what happened last night.

“You’re coming with me to a gala dinner tonight, it will be our first opportunity to showcase our newfound love.”

“So romantic,” I reply, leaning forward and tapping the display.

“Oh, please do make yourself at home, darling.” He turns on the engine, the powerful purr echoing in the large car park.

“What did you say, sarcasm, lowest form of humour or something?” I find a radio station I can tune into, rather than listen to the silence that I’m sure will fill the expanse between us as soon as we start driving. I start to rummage in his glove compartment for a charger. “How far away are the docks?”

“Depends.” He shrugs. “Why does it matter?”

“I just want to know how long I need to sit in this close proximity to you.”

“I heard no complaints last night.”

“Fuck off.”

The bastard smirks.

“I want to punch that smirk off your face, you know.”

“Now, now, Layla. We really are going to need to work on your loving behaviour. You can practise tonight.”

“So, what is this gala for exactly? You don’t come across as the charitable type.” My phone connects and the charging symbol comes up. Thank God, I can message Katy to reassure her that I’m alive.

“What do you think this is?” He points between the two of us.

“This is a mess.” I repeat his action. “A really annoying one at that.”

He rolls his eyes. “It’s a charity event we hold every year for St Thomas' hospital. My Uncle supports them, and well it’s always good to have relationships with doctors. You’ll come tonight, as my date.”

“What am I going to wear? I’ve got your sodding handprints round my throat.”

“I’ll take care of it.” He leans over and pulls the material to see his handy work.

“Stop.” I bat his hand away.

His lips turn down and he nods to himself before pulling quickly onto the main road, the wheels screeching in the process.

“And let’s not add being dressed by a maniac onto the list of How Layla has lost the plot . I’m more than capable of buying a dress.”

“Whatever you want sunshine.”

The drive is filled with the usual silence I’ve become accustomed to when travelling with Luca. He’s quiet, pensive and I’m too exhausted to even attempt to argue with him…although being in this close a space, where he has nowhere to hide from me does give me an opportunity to ask—

“Why are you like the way you are?”

“What do you mean? Charming, charismatic, handsome, entrepreneur.” he asks glancing across at me as he pulls up to a traffic light.

“Dark, moody, dangerous, criminal. How’d you get into this life?”

“Life’s a game of poker. You can either accept the hand you’ve been given and bullshit your way through it. Or you cheat.”

“You got a shit hand of poker, so now you cheat?”

“Something like that.”

“You talk in riddles; you know that right? And it is by far the most frustrating thing in the world.” My stomach chooses that exact moment to rumble loudly.

“Hangry?”

“Fuck off.”

“What do you want?”

“A McDonald’s sausage and egg Mc Muffin, a giant Coke and two hash browns.”

A grin tugs at his lips.

“Careful, I almost saw that.” And I really wish I didn’t because when he smiles, it does things to me.

He glances at the clock, then cuts into the other lane as the light turns green.

“Christ, Luca.” I grab hold of the arm rest as he swings the Range Rover round the corner to a cacophony of car horns.

“What my woman wants, my woman shall get.”

“I’m not your woman.”

“Oh, Layla.” He reaches out and touches my cheek and I feel it everywhere. “You really fucking are.”