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Douglas Shaw was a bully who thought nothing of destroying people’s lives and he deserved a lesson in humility. Leo didn’t trust the man and he didn’t trust his daughter.
He drained the soda and crumpled the can in his fist.
Shaw wanted to play games? Leo was ready. He’d been ready for seven years. And if the man chose to use his daughter as a pawn, so be it. Two could play at that game.
He threw the can in the wastebin, a slow smile curving his lips.
Si. This might be fun.
* * *
‘Go home, Helena.’
Helena looked up from the papers on her desk. Her boss stood holding his briefcase, his suit jacket folded over one arm, a look of mock severity on his face. It was after six on Friday and their floor of the corporate bank was largely deserted.
‘I’m leaving soon,’ she assured him. ‘I’m meeting someone at six-thirty.’
David gave an approving nod. ‘Good. Enjoy your weekend.’
He started off, but paused after a step and turned back. ‘Have you thought any more about taking some leave?’ he said. ‘HR is on the use-it-or-lose-it warpath again. And if you don’t mind me saying...’ he paused, his grey eyes intent ‘...you look like you could do with a break.’
She smiled, deflecting his concern. David might be one of the bank’s longest-serving executives and knocking sixty, but the man rarely missed a beat. He was sharp, observant, and he cared about his staff.
She made a mental note to apply more concealer beneath her eyes. ‘I’m fine. It’s been a long week. And the rain kept me awake last night.’
Partly true.
‘Well, think about it. See you Monday.’
‘Goodnight, David.’
She watched him go, then glanced at her watch.
She had to move.
The car Leo was sending was due in less than twenty minutes, and earning a black mark for running late was not the way she wanted to start the evening.
Shutting herself in David’s office, she whipped off her trouser suit and slipped on the little black dress she’d pulled from the bowels of her wardrobe that morning, then turned to the full-length mirror on the back of the door and scanned her appearance.
She frowned at her cleavage.
Good grief.
Had the dress always been so revealing?
She couldn’t remember—but then neither could she recall the last time she’d worn it. She seldom dressed up these days, even on the rare occasions she dated. She tugged the bodice up, yanked the sides of the V-neck together and grimaced at the marginal improvement.
It would have to do.
There was no time for a wardrobe-change—and besides, this was the dressiest thing she owned. She’d sold the last of her designer gowns years ago, when she’d had to stump up a deposit and a month’s advance rent on her flat. Keeping the black dress had been a practical decision, though she could count on one hand the number of times it had ventured from her wardrobe.
She turned side-on to the mirror.
The dress hugged her from shoulder to mid-thigh, accentuating every dip and curve—including the gentle swell of her tummy. Holding her breath, she pulled in her stomach and smoothed her hand over the bump that no number of sit-ups and crunches could flatten.
Not that she resented the changes pregnancy had wrought on her body. They were a bittersweet reminder of joy and loss. Of lessons learnt and mistakes she would never make again.
She snatched her hand down and released her breath. Tonight she needed to focus on the present, not the past, and for that she would need every ounce of wit she could muster.
