Текст книги "The Billionaire Banker"
Автор книги: Georgia Le Carre
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The Billionaire Banker
Book One
Georgia Le Carre
Table of Contents
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Twenty one
Twenty two
Twenty three
Twenty four
Twenty five
Twenty six
Twenty seven
Twenty eight
Twenty nine
Thirty
Thirty one
Thirty two
Thirty three
Thirty four
Book 2
The Billionaire Banker
Book 1 of the Billionaire Banker series
Published by Georgia Le Carre
Copyright © 2013 by Georgia Le Carre
The right of Georgia Le Carre to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyright, designs and patent act 1988.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the publisher, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
All characters in this publication are fictitious, any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
ISBN: 978-0-9576812-5-5
You can discover more information about Georgia Le Carre and future releases here.
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Dedicated to all who have love and passion in their lives, and
to those who are still searching…
You aren’t wealthy until you have something money can’t buy.
–Garth Brooks
One
Blake Law Barrington drops a cube of sugar into the creamy face of his espresso, stirs it with the dinky spoon he finds on the saucer, and glances at his platinum Greubel Forsey Quadruple Tourbillion. Acquired at Christie’s Important Watches auction last autumn for a cool half a million dollars.
Eight minutes past eight.
He has a party to go to, but tonight he will give it a miss. It has been a long day. He is tired. He has to be in New York tomorrow. And it will be one of those incomprehensibly dreary affairs, where he will invariably feel he has stepped back in time, and any minute Winston Churchill could walk through the door. He takes a sip—the coffee here is always superb—and returns the tiny cup to its white rim.
Summoning a waiter for the check, he senses the activity level in the room take a sudden hike. Automatically, he lifts his eyes to where all the other eyes, mostly male, have veered to. Of course. A girl. In a cheap, orange dress and a lap dancer’s six-inch high plastic platforms.
You’re looking for love in all the wrong places.
A waiter in a burgundy waistcoat bearing the bill has silently materialized at his side. Not taking his eyes off the girl—despite the impossible shoes she has a good walk, sexy—he orders himself a whiskey. The waiter slinks away after a right-away-sir nod, and Blake leans back into the plush chair to watch the show.
It is one of those exclusive restaurants where there are transparent black voile curtains hung between the tables and discreet fans to tease and agitate the gauzy material. There are three curtains between him and the girl and he experiences a flash of irritation that he is unable to see her face properly.
Minus the shoes she is perhaps five feet five or six inches. She has the same body type as Lady Gaga, girlishly narrow with fine delicate limbs, and her skin is the color of thick cream. His eyes travel from the waist-length curtain of jet-black hair to the swelling curve of her breasts and hips, down her shapely legs to those awful, bright-orange platforms. Very nice, but…
At twenty-nine, he is already jaded. Though he watches her with the same speculation of all the other men in the room she is a toy that no longer holds any real excitement for him. He does not need to meet her to know her. He has had hundreds like her—hot, greedy pussies and cold, cold hearts. It is always the same. Each one hiding talons of steely ambition that hook into his flesh minutes after they rise like resurrected phoenixes from a night in his bed. Safe to say he has realized the error of his ways.
But….
Something about her has aroused his attention.
She comes further into the room and even the billowing layers of curtains cannot conceal her great beauty or youth. Certainly she is far too young for her dining companion who has just barged in with all the grace of a retired rugby player. Blake recognizes him instantly. Rupert Lothian. An over-privileged, nerve gratingly colossal bore. He is one of the bank’s high profile private customers. The bank never does business with anyone they do not check out first and his report was sickening.
Curious. What could someone so fresh-faced and beautiful be doing with one so noted for ugly games? And they are ugly games that Lothian plays.
He watches three waiters head off towards the new arrivals and the fluid, elegantly choreographed dance they perform to seat and hand them their menus. Now he has her only in profile. She has put the menu on the table and is sitting ramrod-straight with her hands tightly clasped in her lap. She crosses and uncrosses her legs nervously.
Unbidden, an image pops into his head. It is as alive and wicked as only an image can be. Those long, fine legs entangled in silky sheets. He stares helplessly as she pulls away the sheets, turns her mouth into a red O, and deliberately opens her legs to expose her sex to him. He sees it clearly. A juicy, swollen fruit that he wants. Blake sits forward abruptly.
Fuck.
He thought he had passed the season of fantasizing about having sex with strangers. He reaches for his whiskey and shoots it. From the corner of his eyes he sees a waiter discreetly whisper something to Lothian. The man rises with all the pomposity he can muster and leaves with the waiter.
Blake transfers his attention to the girl again. She has collapsed backwards into the chair. Her shoulders sag and her relief is obvious. She stares moodily at the tablecloth and frowns. Then, she seems to visibly force herself away from whatever thoughts troubled her, and lets her glance wander idly around the room until her truly amazing eyes—he has never seen anything like them before—collide with his unwavering stare. And through the gently shifting black gauze his breath is punched out of his body, and he is seized by an unthinking, irresistible call to hunt. To possess.
To own her.
Two
It can have been only seconds, but it seems like ages that Lana is held locked and hypnotized by the stranger’s insolent eyes. When she recalls it later she will remember how startlingly white his shirt had been against his tanned throat, and swear that even the air between them had shimmered. Strange too how all the background sounds of cutlery, voices and laughter had faded into nothing. It was as if she had wandered into a strange and compelling universe where there was no one else but her and that devilishly handsome man.
But here she is prey.
The powerful spell is broken when he raises his glass in an ironic salute. Hurriedly, she tears her gaze away, but her thin façade of poise is completely shattered. Hot blood is rushing up into her neck and cheeks; and her heart is racing like a mad thing.
What the hell just happened?
She feels his gaze like a burning tingle on her skin. To hide she bends her head and lets her hair fall forward. But the desire to dare another look is immense. She has never experienced such an instant and physical attraction before. With broad shoulders, a deep tan, smoldering eyes, a strong jaw, and straight-out-of-bed, vogue-cool, catwalk hair that flops onto his forehead, he looks like one of those totally hot and brooding Abercrombie and Fitch models, only more savage and fierce.
Devastatingly more.
But she is not here to flirt with drop dead gorgeous strangers, or to find a man for herself. She presses her fingers against her flaming cheeks, and forces herself to calm down. All her concentration must go into getting Rupert to agree to her proposal. He is her last hope. Her only hope.
Nothing could ever be more important than her reason for being there with such a man as him. She looks miserably towards the tall doors where he has gone. This cold, pillared place of opulence is where rich people come to eat. A waiter wearing white gloves comes through the doors bearing a covered tray. She feels out of her depth. The orange dress is itchy and prickly and she longs to scratch several places on her body. Then there are the butterflies flapping dementedly inside her stomach.
Don’t ruin this, she tells herself. You’ve come this far. Nervously, to regain her composure, she presses her lips together and firmly pushes the sarcastically curving mouth out of her mind. She must concentrate on the horrible task ahead. But those insolent eyes, they would not go. She brings to mind her mother’s thin, sad face, and suddenly the stranger’s eyes are magically gone. She straightens her back. Prepares herself.
She will not fail.
Rupert, having met whomever he had gone to meet, is weaving his way back to her and when their eyes touch she flashes him a brilliant smile. She will not fail. He smiles back triumphantly. He comes around to her side and drops her a quick kiss, before slumping heavily into his seat. She has to stop herself from reaching up to wipe her mouth.
Rupert seems transformed. Expansive, almost jolly. ‘That’s one deal that came in the nick of time. It’s almost as if the heavens have decided that I deserve a piece of you.’ The way he says it almost makes her flinch with horror.
‘Lucky me,’ she says softly, surprising herself. She tells herself she is playing a part. One that she can vanish into and emerge from unscathed, but she knows it is not true. There will be repercussions and consequences.
He smiles nastily. He knows she does not fancy him, but that is part of the thrill. Taking what does not want to be taken. ‘Well then, don’t be coy, let’s hear it. How much are you going to cost me?’
Lana takes a deep breath. A bull this large can only be taken by the horns. ‘Fifty thousand pounds.’
His dirty blond eyebrows shoot upwards. ‘Not exactly cheap.’ There is something spiteful in his voice. ‘What do I get for my money?’
They are both startled out of their conversation by a deep, curt voice.
‘Rupert.’
‘Mr. Barrington,’ Rupert gasps, and literally flies to his feet. ‘What an unexpected pleasure,’ he croons obsequiously. Lana drops her head with shame. It is the stranger. He has heard her sell herself.
‘I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of your companion’s acquaintance.’
‘Blake Law Barrington, Lana Bloom, Lana Bloom, Blake Law Barrington.’
She looks up then, a long way up—he is definitely over six feet, maybe six two—to meet his stormy-grey stare. They are the most mesmerizing eyes she has ever encountered. She searches them for disgust, but they are veiled, impenetrable pits of mystery. She begins to tremble. Her body knows something she does not. He is dangerous to her in a way she cannot yet conceive.
‘Hello, Lana.’
‘Hi,’ she says. Her voice sounds small. Like a child that has been told to greet an adult. Perhaps, he has not heard her sell herself, after all.
He puts his hand out, and after a perceptible hesitation, she puts hers into it. His hands are large and warm, and his clasp firm and safe, but she snatches hers away as if burnt. He breaks his gaze briefly to glance at Rupert. ‘There is a party tonight at Lord Jakie’s.’ Then those darkly fringed eyes return to her. Inscrutable as ever. ‘Would you like to come as my guests?’ His voice is an intriguing combination of velvet and husk. It is as if he is addressing only her. It sends delicious shivers up and down her spine. Confused, by the unfamiliar sensations she tears her eyes away from him and looks at Rupert.
Rupert’s eyebrows are almost in his hairline. ‘Lord Jakie?’ he repeats. There is unconcealed delight in his face. He seems a man who has found a bottle of rare wine in his own humble cellar. ‘That’s terribly kind of you, Mr. Barrington. Terribly kind. Of course, we’d love to,’ he accepts quickly for both of them.
‘Good. I’ll leave your names at the door. See you there.’ He nods at Lana and she registers the impression that he is obsessively clean and controlled. There is no mess in this man’s life. A place for everything and everything in its place. Then he is gone. Rupert and she watch him walk away. He has the walk of a supremely confident man.
Rupert turns to face her again; his face is mean and at odds to his words. ‘Well, well,’ he drawls, ‘You must be my lucky charm.’
‘Why?’
‘First, I get the deal I’ve been after for the last year and a half, then the great man not only deigns to speak to me, but invites me to a party thrown by the crème de la crème of high society.’
‘Who is he?’
‘He, my dear, is the next generation of arguably the richest family in the world.’
‘The Barringtons,’ Lana whispers, shocked.
‘He even smells of old money and establishment, doesn’t he?’ Rupert says, and neighs loudly at his own joke. Rupert himself smells like grated lemon peel. The citrusy scent reminds her of Fairy washing up liquid.
A waiter appears to ask what they would like to drink.
‘We’ll have your finest house champagne,’ Rupert booms. He winks at Lana. ‘We’re celebrating.’
A bottle and ice bucket arrive with flourish. The only time she has drunk champagne before is when Billie and she dressed up and presented themselves as bride and bridesmaid to be, at the Ritz, and pretended Lana was about to drop forty thousand pounds into their coffers by cutting her wedding cake there. They quaffed half a bottle of champagne and a whole tray of canapés while being shown around the different function rooms. Afterwards, Billie thanked them nicely and said they would be in touch. How they had laughed on the bus journey back.
Lana watches as the waiter expertly extracts the cork. It leaves the bottle with a quiet hiss. Another waiter in a black jacket reels off the specials for the night and asks them if they are ready to order.
Rupert looks at her. The beef on the bone here is very good.’
‘I guess I’ll just have whatever you’re having.’
‘I’m actually having steak tartare.’
‘Then I’ll have the same.’
He looks at the waiter. ‘A dozen oysters to start then steak tartare and side orders of vegetables and mashed potatoes.’
‘I’m not really hungry. No starter for me,’ she says quickly.
When the waiter is gone, he raises his glass. ‘To us.’
‘To us,’ she repeats softly. It sticks in her throat.
She takes a small sip and tastes nothing. She puts the glass on the table and looks at her hands.
‘You have very beautiful skin. It was the first thing I noticed about you. Does it…mark very easily?’
‘Yes,’ she admits warily.
‘I knew it,’ he boasts with a sniff. ‘I am a connoisseur of skin. I love the taste and the touch of skin. I can already imagine the taste of yours. A skin of wine.’ He eyes her over the rim of his glass. She has tried her best not to look at the dandruff flakes that liberally dust the shoulders of his pin-striped suit, but with that last remark he has tossed his head and a flurry of motes have floated off his head and fallen onto the pristine tablecloth. Her eyes have helplessly followed their progress. She looks up to find him looking at her speculatively.
‘What will I be getting for my money?’
Lana blinks. It is all wrong. She shouldn’t be here. In this dress, or shoes, sitting in front of this obscene piece of filth hiding behind his handmade shirt, gold cufflinks and plummy, upper class accent. This man degrades and offends her simply by looking at her. She wishes herself somewhere else. But she is here. All her credit cards are maxed out. Two banks have impolitely turned her down. And there is nothing else to do, but be here in this dress and these slutty shoes… Her stomach is in knots, but she smiles in what she hopes is a seductive way. ‘What would you like for your money?’
‘Forget what I would like for the moment. What are you selling?’ His eyes have become suddenly hard.
‘Me, I guess.’
That makes him snort with cruel laughter. ‘You are an extraordinarily beautiful girl, but to be honest I can get five first class supermodels for your asking price. What makes you think you’re worth that kind of money?’
‘I’m a virgin.’
He stops laughing. A suspicious look enters his pale blue eyes. ‘How old are you?’
‘Twenty.’ Well, she will be in two months’ time.
He frowns. ‘And you say you’re still a virgin?’
‘Yes.’
‘Saving yourself up for someone special, were you?’ His tone is annoying.
‘Does it matter?’ Her nails bite into her clenched fist.
His eyes glitter. ‘No, I suppose not.’ He pauses. ‘How do I know you’re not lying?’
Lana swallows. The taste of her humiliation is bitter. ‘I’ll undergo any medical tests you require me to.’
He laughs. ‘No need. No need,’ he dismisses. ‘Blood on the sheets will be enough for me.’
The way he says blood makes Lana’s blood run cold.
‘Are all orifices up for sale?’
Oh! the brutality of the man. Something dies inside her, but she keeps the image of her mother in her mind, and her voice is clear and strong. ‘Yes.’
‘So all that is left is to renegotiate the price?’
Lana has to stop herself from recoiling. She knows now that she has committed two out of the nine sorts of behaviors her mother has warned her are considered contemptible and base. She has expected generosity from a miser and she has told her need to her enemy. ‘The price is not negotiable.’
His gaze sweeps meaningfully to her champagne glass. ‘Shall we give this party a go first and bargain later, when you are in a better mood?’
Lana understands. He thinks he can drive the price down when she is drunk. ‘The price is not negotiable,’ she says firmly. ‘And will have to be paid up front.’
He smiles smarmily. ‘I’m sure we’ll come to some agreement that we will both be happy with.’
Lana frowns. She has been naïve. Her plan is sketchy and has no provisions for a sharp punter or price negotiations. She heard through the office grapevine where she worked as temporary secretary that her boss was one of those men who are prepared to pay a ten thousand pounds a pop for his pleasure and often, but she had never thought he would reduce her to bargaining.
While Rupert stuffs himself with cheese and biscuits she excuses herself and goes to the ladies. There is another woman standing at the mirror. She glances at Lana with a mixture of envy and disgust. Lana waits until she leaves, then calls her mother.
‘Hi, Mum.’
‘Where are you, Lana?’
‘I’m still at the restaurant.’
‘What time will you be coming home?’
‘I’ll be late. I’ve been invited to a party.’
‘A party,’ her mother repeats worriedly. ‘Where?’
‘I don’t know the address. Somewhere in London.’
‘How will you get home?’ A wire of panic has crept into her mother’s voice.
Lana sighs. She has almost never left her mother alone at night; consequently her mother is now a bundle of jittery nerves. ‘I have a ride, Mum. Just don’t wait up for me, OK?’
‘All right. Be careful, won’t you?’
‘Nothing is going to happen to me.’
‘Yes, yes,’ her mother says, but she sounds distracted and unhappy.
‘How are you feeling, Mum?’
‘Good.’
‘Goodnight, then. I’ll see you in the morning.’
‘Lana?’
‘Yeah.’
‘I love you very much.’
‘Me too, Mum. Me too.’
She flips shut her phone with a snap. She no longer feels cheap or obscene. She feels strong and sure. There is nothing Rupert can do that will degrade her. She will have that money no matter what. She has hardly eaten—just watching Rupert gurgle down the oysters made her feel quite sick, and how was she to know steak tartare was ground raw meat. She reapplies her lipstick and goes out to meet Rupert.
Three
‘Shall we go?’ Rupert asks, and before Lana can agree, imperiously clicks his fingers for the bill. They leave the restaurant and once outside, Rupert hails a black cab. It is such a warm evening that Lana carries her coat in her hands. Rupert gives the address to the cab driver and they climb in. Lana’s dress has ridden up her thighs, but when she tries to pull it back down, he puts his meaty, white hand over hers and in a firm voice orders, ‘Leave it.’
Embarrassed, Lana looks into the rearview mirror. The taxi driver is observing them. Wordlessly, she drapes her coat over her knees and turns her face away from Rupert, to stare out. Damn him. As she gazes unseeingly out she feels his hand slide under her coat and settle on her thighs. Biting her lip she tries to ignore the hand, but it is slithering up her thigh. When it is almost at her crotch she catches the offending hand in hers. She turns to him and looks him in the eye.
‘We don’t have a deal yet.’
‘True,’ he says, and retracts his hand, but the smile on his face is taunting and smug. He knows she needs the money.
The rest of the journey passes in silence while Lana’s stomach churns. She is so nervous she actually feels afraid she will lose the few vegetables she has eaten on the floor of the cab. Fortunately, the taxi turns into Bishop’s Avenue and they come to a stop outside a large, white, three-story Regency house. There are fancy cars parked bumper to bumper along the length of the street. Rupert pays the cab driver and they walk up a short flight of steps to a set of black doors. Rupert rings the bell and through the tall windows Lana sees the kind of people that she has only seen in magazines. Immaculately dressed and dripping in jewelry. She looks down upon her cheap orange dress in dismay. She pulls at the hem, but her efforts at modesty are counter-productive, as more of her cleavage falls into view.
‘Don’t worry,’ Rupert lies cheerfully. ‘You’ll do.’
A round man in an old-fashioned butler’s uniform opens the door. His manner suggests disdain. He can tell instantly they do not belong. Rupert haughtily informs him that they are guests of Blake Barrington. The man eyes register recognition. A glimmer of a smile surfaces. He nods politely and stands aside to welcome them in. Lana takes a deep breath, enters the grand hallway and stifles a gasp at her splendid surroundings.
From outside it did not appear so large and spacious. She has never been anywhere so beautiful. Now she understands what Rupert meant by the smell of old money. The walls are covered with museum quality paintings. She gazes up at the cherubs and Madonna-like women looking down at her with awe. They are so beautiful that she wants a closer look, but Rupert is guiding her firmly by the elbow towards a sort of anteroom where a young woman takes her coat in exchange for a ticket.
From two open doorways live classical music and voices emanate. A waiter carrying a tray of champagne stops in front of them. Lana has hardly drunk at the restaurant in an effort to remain sober and level-headed, but now she knows she must be drunk or she will never be able to go through her deal with the devil. A pasty white devil with dandruff.
Lana takes a glass, and with a restraining hand on the surprised waiter’s arm, drains the tall flute. The bubbles hit her at the back of her throat and make her eyes water. She returns the empty glass to the tray and snags another two.
‘Thanks,’ she says breathlessly, and the waiter, a young Mediterranean type, allows his dark, restless eyes to wander down to her chest.
Rupert watches her with feral, excited eyes. He wants her drunk. He has plans for her. He guides her by the small of her back into one of the rooms. Lana looks at the other women’s clothes. They probably cost more than she makes in a year. Lana feels many pairs of eyes on her. She is aware that she stands out like a sore thumb. She looks towards the string quartet and finds their eyes on her too. Damn that Barrington guy for inviting them here. She sucks her champagne glass dry. Another waiter passes and she pulls another glass from the tray.
‘Go easy,’ Rupert warns.
She turned towards him with a bright smile. ‘I thought you wanted me drunk and pliable.’
He takes her elbow and leads her deeper into the room close to a large palm plant. With his back to the party he says, ‘I don’t like fucking inert bodies.’
Her eyes widen. The champagne has already gone to her head. No time better than now. She feels courageous again. ‘OK, I’m ready to talk terms now. ‘Right, you don’t want inert bodies. What do you want?’
From the camel’s lips came cold breath. ‘Have you read Fifty Shades Of Grey?’
Almost all the other girls at the agency have read the book and she has been present while they have raved about it, but she has been confused by its popularity. Did women really have a secret desire to be owned by a powerful man? Could it be love when a man wants to tie you up and flog you raw? When she mentioned it to her mother, her mother had smiled and astutely remarked, ‘The Western woman sneered at the woman in the purdah and now she dons a dog collar and worships at the same altar.’ Lana looks into his pale eyes. ‘No, but isn’t it about a sick man who abuses his lover?’
‘Perhaps it is not a sickness, but a matter of taste.’
‘Is that what you want from me?’
‘Not quite. What I really like is taking a woman by force. A dangerous activity likely to end me behind bars, so I am willing to settle for consensual rape. You will meet me in parks and alleyways, or I will pick you up in my car from a street corner and you will pretend to resist while I overpower you and rape you. There will be a bit of pain and sometimes it will involve a little bleeding, but I will never mark your face or leave any permanent scars. And when I am finished I will leave you in the gutter to make your own way back. Would that be acceptable to you?’
Shocked to her core, Lana hears her own voice as if from far away say, ‘How many times would you expect this…service from me?’
‘Let’s say five times?’
She feels as if she is a stick-figured bird precariously perched on a thin wire. Rupert’s face is frozen into a cold mask. A businessman to the end. Ten thousand must be the going price. The champagne has made her feel quite light-headed. He is waiting for something from her. He has already figured that her body is her last option. Can she really agree to let someone rape her? Unable to speak she nods.
‘Perhaps I should let you lick the brim to taste the poison,’ he murmurs, and moves closer to her. Instinctively, she takes a step back on her tall shoes, and if not for the solid wall against her back, would have fallen. With the trailing fronds of a palm tree and his big body hiding her from the party his hand comes up to pinch her right nipple. So hard she gasps in shock and pain. He takes that opportunity to crash down on her open mouth, bumps his teeth against her lips, and pokes a pointy, muscular tongue into her mouth. His tongue tastes coppery and bitter.
Copious amounts of saliva pour into her mouth making her want to gag. The oysters she has not eaten but watched him eat flash into her mind. His tongue feels slimy and dirty. She wants to brush her teeth, rinse, spit, and rinse again with the extra-strong mouthwash that her father used to have in the bathroom cabinet. She truly needs to go somewhere and be sick, but pinned tightly by his strong ox-like body to the wall she finds herself totally unable to move. She feels his hand force itself between her thighs and slide up quickly. His rough, sausages-like fingers are already grasping the rim of her knickers and pushing the material aside. And there is not a single thing she can do about it. Tears gather at the backs of her eyes and begin to roll down her face.
Suddenly he removes his mouth and looks down at her. Her face is white with horror and she is gasping for breath. He brings up a hand and touches her face. Her distress seems to please him. Her suffering is his pleasure. She is playing the part perfectly. If she had enjoyed it, it would have spoilt it for him.
‘For most part the symptoms of excitement and fear are so similar most men cannot tell the difference. I can,’ he whispers close to her ear, his thick fingers moving into the folds of her flesh. ‘I am going to finger-fuck you amongst all these high and mighty people and none of them will ever know.’
She is filled with loathing for him. Her brain scrambles for escape. ‘Don’t you care,’ she whispers back, through horrified lips, ‘what these people will think of us? Of you? I thought you were pleased to be in the company of the crème de la crème of society.’
His laugh is harsh and sudden. ‘Did you see anybody come to greet me or talk to me? I am as invisible as you are, probably more so. Nobody is looking at us, because nobody cares about us. We are the outsiders.’
Desperately, she pushes the palms of her hands against his chest.
The nausea threatens at her throat. She must be sick ‘I need the toilet,’ she gasps.
He hesitates for a second and then he smiles. It is the smile of a man who is too pleased with himself. ‘It’s not very posh to say toilet. This lot call it the loo. Go on, then,’ he says, and steps aside.
The first thing her shocked, ashamed eyes meet is Blake. There is a blonde in a long red dress wrapped around him, but he is staring at Lana with an expression on his face she cannot fathom. His eyes are blazing.
Lana snaps her mouth shut, squares her shoulders, and pushing herself away from the wall takes a step forward. Her knees feel shaky and she is afraid she will fall, but she does not. She needs to get away. Away from the scene of her humiliation. She feels heads turning to watch her, disgusted expressions and whispers. She stumbles away towards the door. She can hardly control the rising nausea.
She doesn’t dare open her mouth to ask anyone where the loos are, but she spots two young women disappearing down a corridor and she rushes after them. They lead her to a cloakroom and she pushes past them, ignoring their offended cries of ‘Hey’. She runs into one of two cubicles and falling to her knees violently throws up the bits of vegetables she has eaten and the champagne. One of the girls asks if she is all right and she chokes, ‘Fine’. She hears them go into the other cubicle and lock the door.
