Jessie Keane - Ruthless

‘Shall I pour the champagne, sir?’ asked the butler.

‘No. Thank you. I’ll see to it.’

The butler departed.

Alberto took off his coat and watched at her as she stood taking it all in.

‘I didn’t know you had a suite here,’ she said, slumping down on a damask-covered sofa.

‘I stay here sometimes. In the circumstances,’ he said, picking up the chilled bottle of Laurent-Perrier from the ice-bucket, ‘it seemed a better idea than taking you home. You know how to open champagne? You twist the bottle, not the cork.’ The cork popped obligingly out, and Alberto filled two flutes.

‘I don’t think I can drink anything,’ said Layla.

‘Yeah, you can,’ he said, and brought the two glasses over, placing them on the table in front of the sofa. ‘Take a sip. I’m going to ring your mom, let her know you’re OK.’

He went off into another room. Layla was shivering now. She realized she must have been in a state of shock, causing her mind to take off, out of her control. She opened her bag, saw the knife. Precious was dead. Would she, could she, have used it? She’d already crossed a line; already killed someone.

Shuddering, she reached for the champagne and sipped it. It was fresh, light, and warming. She sat back, nursing the glass against her chest, and closed her eyes.

‘Your mom’s fine with it,’ said Alberto, coming back into the room, startling her. ‘Apparently Bri told her I picked you up at the end of the square. He didn’t believe you when you told him you were meeting me, so he followed to make sure you were OK.’

Layla nodded, sat up straighter, sipped a little more champagne. ‘I can’t believe she’s dead,’ she said in a small voice.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, and sat down beside her, taking her hand.

Layla would rather have fallen apart in front of anyone than Alberto. His hand was so big and warm. Hers felt frozen. He smelled so good, too – that expensive cologne he always wore. She glanced at him. He was watching her with those light laser-blue eyes. He was tanned from the American sun. He loved the water as much as she did. He had raced a yacht in the Americas Cup, he was a skilled yachtsman.

He was just so damned gorgeous , she couldn’t cope with this. She was devastated over Precious, couldn’t take it in. She must look a mess right now – she could almost hear Precious lecturing her about reverting to her old shabby-Layla ways: no make-up, hair scraped back.

‘Why’d you bring me here? Why not take me home?’ she asked him, more to fill the silence than because she wanted an answer.

Her glass was empty. Alberto leaned over, grabbed the bottle, refilled it.

‘It seemed better, that’s all. There are some things we haven’t discussed, things we need to talk about, and I didn’t want to do that with your parents in the next room.’

‘Oh.’ Layla took another swig of the champagne. It was working, soothing her, relaxing her. She had stopped shivering.

Except now she was thinking of how he had blown her out. Recalling the excitement when Precious’s plan had worked so beautifully, followed by the bitter, horrendous disappointment when he had called to cancel. What did he think she was, some sort of lame charity case? Was he doing this because he felt sorry for her?

She swigged back the champagne, emptying her glass again.

‘Steady with that,’ he said.

‘Why? Are you frightened I’ll show you up?’ she snapped.

‘No.’ He was half-smiling. ‘I’m frightened you’ll puke all over this couch.’

‘Are you going to refill this?’ She thrust the empty glass at him.

‘Not yet, no.’ Gently he took the glass from her hand and set it beside his. Then he turned to look at her. ‘We have to talk. Seriously.’

‘I can’t talk. I can’t even think ,’ she moaned, rubbing a hand tiredly over her eyes.

‘Layla. Pay attention.’ He opened his mouth to speak, then sat back with a sigh. ‘Shit. This has happened at the worst possible time.’

‘What has?’

‘You and me.’

‘There is no you and me. You made that perfectly clear on the phone, remember?’

He didn’t reply to that. Instead he said: ‘You know you asked me if it was going to be a London date, or a Manhattan one?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, it made me think. Layla… I’ve known you almost since you were born.’

‘That’s an exaggeration.’

‘Only a slight one. How old are you now? Twenty-three?’

‘Twenty-two.’

He groaned. ‘Layla, I’m thirty-nine years old. That’s…’

‘I can do the maths.’ Oh, she’d done the maths, about a billion times. ‘I know all that. And I don’t care.’

Alberto was shaking his head. ‘You know what I am.’

‘I don’t care about that.’

‘Hear me out, OK? I want to give you the full story. When I got back from Essex, after your dad saved my life – and I’m telling you, if he could see us now, he’d reconsider that decision in a heartbeat – it blew my mind when I saw you. You’d changed so much.’ He paused, half-smiling, and ran a hand through his hair. ‘When you were a little girl, you were always searching me out – you loved to be around me. Then you hit puberty and you couldn’t get far enough away from me. Suddenly you appear again and it’s, like, Pow! When I saw you that day in the Shalimar, when you’d changed your hair, it was as if I was seeing you for the first time. Everything was different, everything was altered. Not just the way you looked, the way I felt about you.’

‘I couldn’t deal with it when I was younger,’ said Layla. Her voice shook. ‘I’d get embarrassed around you. I felt awkward. And I don’t think I can cope with you blowing me out now, either. I’ve had a tough day. So if you’re going to do it, let’s get it over with and then forget it, OK?’

‘Shit, will you shut up? I’m laying myself on the line here. It would never be a casual Manhattan dating thing with you, Layla. I don’t want to date anyone else, I have no plans to do that. But this…’ He raised a hand, waving it in the air. ‘All this has happened at a bad time. That’s why I cancelled. I can’t ask you to commit yourself to anything with me, not now. It wouldn’t be fair. So I have to say, if you want to date other people, then that’s OK.’ Then Alberto shook his head. ‘Fuck it. No, it’s not. It’s not OK at all. But it’ll have to be. Because I can’t ask anything of you.’

Layla was watching him, her mouth half-open in shock.

‘Well, say something,’ he prompted.

Layla closed her mouth with a snap. Sat back. Thought about what he’d just said.

‘I don’t want to see anyone else,’ she said at last. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Oh.’

‘Oh? Is that all you can say?’ Layla jumped off the couch and glared down at him. ‘Look. If you’re talking about laying things on the line, then here it is. Flat out. I’ve been in love with you for ever. Like always. So don’t dance around me, don’t give me excuses. Don’t tell me what an old man you are, or that you’re in a dangerous line of work, because I don’t give a fuck about any of that.’

Alberto was silent. Abruptly, he stood up. Grabbed her arm, pulled her in tight against him. Layla’s eyes opened wide. She was suddenly painfully aware of their closeness, of his strength. That people were in awe of him; that he was the godfather. Golden, beautiful, powerful and deadly Alberto. She was in awe of him too. She always had been. Maybe that was the problem.

‘You know what?’ said Alberto, close enough for his breath to tickle her cheek.