Ruthless (14 page)

Enter Annie Carter.

Fabulously beautiful with her flawless olive-toned skin and her heavy fall of chocolate-brown hair. How could any man resist her?

And so Layla had become ‘related’ to Alberto.

Only not by blood.

Into her brain came another image. It made her frown. Annie and Alberto, together. Smiling and talking in that verbal shorthand they seemed to share. Layla could understand why her father was suspicious about the relationship. He had always been crazily possessive where Annie was concerned. Sometimes, the sheer heat between her parents had been so palpable it was embarrassing. Max had gone apeshit every time Annie insisted on shooting across to New York. Claiming it was business that took her there, not the fact that
Alberto
was in New York. No wonder Dad had ended the marriage and taken off abroad.

Their divorce had left a bitter taste for Layla. As a teenager she had half-blamed herself, and even now she desperately missed having Max here full-time. It had become a source of festering resentment between her and Annie, a solid wall that had grown higher, more impregnable, with each passing year. The fact was, Layla believed that if Annie hadn’t spent so much time in the States, her marriage to Max wouldn’t have ended. And Layla couldn’t forgive her for that.

Layla’s upbringing had at times been almost unbearably lonely, with no brothers or sisters and her dad half a world away. Only Mum had been constant in her life: and Layla had pushed her away.

She hadn’t offered to pick her mother up from the airport. Why should she? There was always a chauffeur-driven car, a private jet, a flotilla of minders, fixers and flunkies hovering around to attend to her mother’s every wish.

Layla was nothing like her mother.

Never would be.

She thought back to all the times her mother had abandoned her, just as she’d left Max, going abroad on ‘business’. Or the times Annie had sent her away, to stay with Auntie Ruthie or Jenny and Josh Parsons or
anybody,
so long as she was out of her mother’s way.

Growing up, Layla had always known that she came second in the great scheme of things. First came Annie’s career, the New York club she owned, the business. There was no doubt about it – her mother was a cold-blooded, controlling bitch.

But sometimes – though she hated to admit it – Layla wished she could have just a fraction of Annie Carter’s gloss and glamour, a little of her
chutzpah
.

She quickened her pace, broke into a fast run.

Fuck it
.

She was Layla Carter. She was dependable. She was bright and honest.

Wasn’t that enough?

30

Layla ran hard, feeling exhilarated and by the end of it, very tired. And it was then that she saw the big man with the mop of flying red hair coming from the edge of the park towards her,
running
towards her. And the set expression on his beefy face told her his intentions were unfriendly.

For a moment she froze in total shock.

Then, gasping in a startled breath, Layla turned on her heel and fled.

‘Hey!’ he shouted.

She didn’t stop. Her muscles were aching, her chest was aching with effort, but she kept her legs pumping, making for the end of the park that led out on to the road that would take her home. She could hear his heavy footsteps pounding the ground behind her, could hear his breathing. He was gaining on her.

Shit
.

What the hell was happening here?

Panic made her step hard on the gas. There was no one about, no one to help. She had no option but to keep running. She could feel herself flagging though. Could feel her energy draining away. Too much heavy food and too much alcohol last night. And fear was making her chest tight. She was struggling to breathe. Fighting to draw oxygen in, feed her aching, exhausted muscles.

Run. Just run dammit
.

She was fit. She was young. She was strong.

Come on. You can do it
.

Layla glanced over her shoulder – and felt a bolt of terror shoot up through her entire body.

He was only a couple of metres behind her, and accelerating. He was reaching out to grab her.

Layla jinked like a thoroughbred refusing a fence, swerving left, out of his reach. He stumbled forward, swearing, wrong-footed.

She ran on, fear giving her extra speed, a voice inside her head repeating,
I can’t keep this up
.

Would she make it home, get to her front door?

And – oh Christ – where was the door key? It was in her trainer where she always put it. She was going to have to stop, get it out, stick it in the lock, open the door . . . and he was so close.
Too
close.

Her pulse was hammering. She was sweating and straining and her legs felt like lead. She was tired. Nearly done for. And having been wrong-footed once, he had stepped up the pace, determined not to let her escape him next time.

This was what happened to people, they were snatched and never seen again.

A memory stirred: a cellar, a knife, hostile strangers who had hurt her.

No. Not again
.

He was close behind her as she tore out of the park and on to the pavement, so close that she could hear his every breath. Any minute now, and he would make another grab for her. The road they were on was lined with parked cars. If he succeeded in dragging her into a car, that would be it.

She could see the house now, the big William and Mary mansion with its dark blue door. Lengthening her stride, she willed herself to keep going. Every step jarred her body, and he had closed the gap still further, his hand was snatching at her shoulder. Sobbing with panic, she was almost at the bottom of the steps, but he was snatching at her, she could feel his fingers on her shoulder, trying to get a grip.

Layla knew that she would never make it up the steps, would never get the key in the door.

She was finished.

Except . . .

She stopped dead. Dropped to her knees, curled into a tight ball. Felt a huge impact on her back, heard a loud ‘Feck!’ and then her pursuer went flying over the top of her.

Irish?

She couldn’t even pause to consider that. Scrambling to get her trainer off, trembling fingers fumbling to fasten on the key, she saw him hit the pavement hard. There was a dull thud and she heard all the breath go out of him in one almighty
whoosh
.

Gripping the key tightly, she dropped the trainer. He was getting to his knees, cursing with a steady monotony that unnerved her. She stumbled to her feet. He was glaring at her with murderous eyes. There was blood around his mouth. He spat out a tooth, broken in the impact when he hit the pavement.

He lurched towards her, grabbed her ankle.

Layla shrieked and hit his face with the key. He let out a yell. Released his grip. She bolted up the steps, flung herself at the door. Tried to get the key in the lock. Her hands were shaking so much she couldn’t get the damned thing in.

And he was coming up the steps
.

She could hear him, so close now, she had nowhere left to run.

Panting like a hunted animal, she found the keyhole at last, turned the key, pushed,
shoved
the door open and fell inside, then smashed the door back, hard as she could against his body.

He was too big for her, too strong
. . .

He was pushing the door open, she was trying to get it shut, they were both heaving and swearing and straining.

Layla still had the key in her hand. She took a sobbing breath and reached round the door and stabbed him straight in the eye with it. He screamed and floundered back, losing his footing.

Layla slammed the door shut.

Locked it. Slapped on the chain.

She slid, quivering and panting, down the wall beside the door and sat there on the cold marble of the hall with one trainer on and the key in her fist. He hammered on the door once, hard.

Layla scuttled away from it with a shriek of fear.

Then there was silence.

What the hell was that?

Slowly she pushed herself to her feet. She wasn’t going out to collect her other trainer. No way. She limped up the stairs, shaking like an old woman, heading for the shower.

‘What the fuck happened?’ Dickon asked when his companion flung the driver’s door open and fell into the seat.

Rufus slammed the door shut and sat there, blood trickling down his face, one eye scrunched shut.

‘Little fecker got away,’ he gasped, touching a hand to his watering eye. ‘How does my eye look? Hurts like buggery. She hit me. Is it OK?’

‘You were meant to grab her – what went wrong?’

‘She was too fecking fast.’ Too fast and too clever. He wasn’t about to say
that,
though. He had some pride. He was mopping at his bloody mouth with a handkerchief. ‘Shit, I’m bleeding.’

‘She hit you, did she? So you were close enough to grab her.’

‘Look,’ snarled Rufus, ‘it didn’t work out, that’s all. We’ll do it next time.’

‘Yeah, but next time she’ll expect it.’

‘Shut the feck up, will you?’

‘And I tell you,
she
ain’t going to be happy about this.’

That evening, Layla opened the front door, peering nervously up and down the road before venturing on to the steps. No one ran at her, no one shouted. She sprinted down and grabbed the trainer, shook the rain from it. As she did so, a tiny green paper four-leaf clover fell out, and fluttered to the ground. She picked it up. Stared at it. And then she raced inside, locked the door and put the chain on.

31

Annie Carter’s old friend Dolly Farrell was in her flat above the Palermo club, court shoes kicked off, pale-pink suit jacket with the big shoulder pads flung aside, skirt unbuttoned, feet up on the sofa, taking a well-earned mid-evening break when she got the call.

‘Damn that thing,’ she said as the phone started ringing.

She loved her job and she’d been doing it for a long, long time. Back in the day, she’d managed all three of the Carter clubs, but these days it was just the Palermo. Her old mate Ellie Brown was in charge at the Shalimar, with her husband Chris, while Gary Tooley was overseeing the running of the Blue Parrot.

The clubs had seen their fair share of re-inventions over the years. They’d gone from old-world nightclubs to discos, and now they were lap-dancing venues. Trade was good. Because the prices were high, the punters were, on the whole, very well behaved. But Jesus, couldn’t a girl get a moment’s peace. . .?

Dolly swung her legs to the floor, patted her big blonde (just a little grey in there now) up-do and picked up the phone. And heard Layla telling her something unbelievable. So maybe she hadn’t heard her properly.

‘
What
did you just say?’ Dolly clamped the phone more firmly to her right ear and covered her left to stifle the din coming up from the club below, where Whitney was belting out ‘I Wanna Dance With Somebody’. ‘Speak up a bit Layla, can’t you? The line’s bad and the music’s doing my head in.’

‘I
said
,’ repeated Layla, ‘that there was a sort of incident today, Auntie Dolly. In the park.’

‘Wha— An incident? What sort of incident?’

‘A man tried to grab me.’

Dolly sat down sharply, her stomach tight with anxiety. She wasn’t Layla’s aunt, not really; Layla was her goddaughter, but she’d been calling her ‘Auntie Dolly’ since she was small. ‘
Grab
you?’ she echoed, stunned.

‘I got away. Only just, though.’

Dolly took a breath. ‘You told your mother about this?’

‘She’s in the States, due home in a few hours. I didn’t want to worry her.’ Layla was about to mention the shamrock, but stopped herself. That was one weirdness she didn’t feel inclined to share. Dolly might
really
freak out if she did.

‘You told the police?’

‘No.’

‘You alone in the house?’

‘Rosa’s here.’

Like
that
was reassuring. Rosa the housekeeper was ancient, deaf and panicked at the least provocation. ‘Does she know what happened?’

‘I couldn’t tell her that.’

‘I’ll give Steve a ring.’

‘No. Don’t. It was probably just some pervert . . .’

‘Just some pervert?
’ Dolly snapped. ‘And is that something to be taken lightly? I’ll call Steve, he’ll—’

‘No. Don’t. I wanted to talk to someone, that’s all, so I phoned you. Please don’t go calling Steve.’

Dolly rolled her eyes in exasperation. She loved Layla to bits, but the girl was so straight it made your teeth ache. She admired her for making her own way in the world, for working hard at being her own person – and putting up with the taunts that went with the territory.

It couldn’t be easy for her. Layla utterly rejected the sort of life her parents led. She refused to work in the family business, even though her dad would have liked her to. It seemed to Dolly that Layla’s whole life so far had been about distancing herself from her parents. Not that surprising, given that Annie had once been in court for running a posh knocking shop. And her father was Max Carter, who was . . . well, never mind.

She didn’t like the sound of this ‘incident’ one bit. Much as Layla tried to, she couldn’t escape her family connections. And in her parents’ world, there were times when muscle was called for. This seemed like such a time to Dolly.

‘Promise you won’t call him,’ said Layla. ‘Promise me.’

‘Are you going to tell your father about this?’

‘Yeah. Maybe. I don’t know.’

‘
Layla
.’

‘I don’t want trouble.’

Sounds like you got it anyway,
thought Dolly.

‘Tell him,’ ordered Dolly.

‘I don’t—’

‘Layla!’ Dolly’s voice was sharp. ‘Wake up and smell the bloody coffee. You are who you are. Which means you got to be careful. So tell him. OK?’

Layla sighed. ‘OK.’

‘Tell him.’

‘OK, I will.’ She wouldn’t.