10 comments/ 14182 views/ 16 favorites Across Enemy Lines Ch. 01 By: hayalet Monica lay motionless on her belly, breathing the scent of the heather. Clumps of long grass obscured her vision and she shifted slightly, straining to see through the trees. She clutched her weapon tight and shivered. "I can see it," she said, her low voice carried away by the bitter wind, which pinched at her exposed skin. Fran wriggled forward so her elbows met Monica's. "Can you see any of the enemy? I haven't got my glasses on." Monica gritted her teeth and scanned the area. There was a clearing ahead where a red flag flapped and beckoned. There was no sign of life around. "I think we're the only ones left alive." "Oh goody," said Fran. "Shall we just go over and get it then? I'm starving. When did they say dinner was?" It was the last thing Monica would have dreamed of doing at the weekend, crawling around in the dirt playing soldiers with a lot of middle aged business people, exclusive retreat or not. It was a weekend she had earmarked for her latest assignment, sacrificed in the interests of corporate bonding and networking. Even James Grant, her own boss, had wriggled out of it claiming allergies to everything in the countryside, and giving her the responsibility of being his "eyes and ears." Still, they had been flown up in Mr Scott's private jet, which in itself was worth coming for. "So this is how the other half live," Fran had remarked, sipping champagne and looking down on the thick blanket of clouds. Monica nodded. I will have this one day. She thought of Mr Scott, multi-millionaire and owner of the company, lounging in his own bedroom just meters away. That was first class on this plane, the ultimate luxury. She was about to reply when there was a loud roar and two men burst out of a clump of thorny bushes to the left. "Go for it Ken!" the younger one shouted. "I've got you covered!" The older man was red faced and sweating as he limped ahead. The barrel of his rifle was trailing along the ground. "I've ripped my trousers!" His fingers tugged at the material and he looked about helplessly. The younger man's eyes widened. "Just get the flag!" As he stepped forward, two hidden defenders leapt out, firing indiscriminately and roaring. Ken was splattered with red. His younger companion began blasting blue bolts all around. All four were soon covered in paint, and arguing over who had "died" first. Monica nudged Fran, who smiled and nodded. Keeping low, they crept around the clearing, keeping an eye on the group of men. "Well, we're all dead then." One of the defenders capitulated. He shivered and pulled up his hood. " Let's go on back, I'm freezing." They walked off, slinging their weapons over their shoulders. Monica saw her chance and darted forward to seize the flag. She held it for a second, looking all around. When she saw Fran give the thumbs up, she broke into a grin. "Let's go then!" Humming, they made their way back to base without incident. Fran picked some grass out of her hair. "That was fun," she said. "Wish I'd had the chance to shoot someone though." Their team's base hut came into view and Monica felt a surge of anticipation. Soon she would be luxuriating in a hot, scented bath back at the hotel. There would be a buffet dinner, some drinks. Then she could get on with what she came for- meeting people, building up her contacts. The stuff of corporate life. "Ouch!" Fran exclaimed suddenly. Her fingers groped at her shoulder, and when she looked at them, they were dripping red. "I've been shot!" Monica turned and started running for the hut. It was only about thirty meters away. She ducked and weaved, hoping the shooter would have to move too, to keep up. She hated to lose. But so close to victory, she felt the thud of a pellet between her shoulder blades and let out a cry, sinking to her knees in frustration. "I'll have that flag, please." The man's voice was husky and yet strangely familiar. Pushing her goggles back, she looked up, and her mouth fell open with shock as she held out the tattered piece of cloth in a shaking hand. He was tall, broad shouldered. Clear, olive skin, hidden under the streaks of paint all over his face. The wind parted his brown hair, blew it forward, parted it again. As he pushed back his own goggles, her eyes met a bright blue gaze. A dimple appeared in his left cheek as he grinned, pulling the flag from her grasp. "Charles?" she gasped at last, her jaw slack with disbelief. His eyes left her face and traveled up and down her body. She felt the touch of his gaze like a whisper on her skin. His eyes were like the ocean, just as she remembered. "Monica Stewart," he said. His expression was unreadable. "I think you've lost." He pulled a blue flag from his pocket and waved it at her. The dimple appeared again. "If you want to win, I'm open to negotiations...over dinner, of course." She could hardly speak as she stood up, running her sweaty palms against her trousers. "I already have plans for dinner, thank you." Her voice was cold as she strained to be polite in front of Fran, who had caught her up and was eyeing him up unashamedly. "Let's go, Fran." As she walked away, Fran's eager questions faded to background noise as she remembered the man who had walked away from her without ever looking back, shattering her heart like a mirror. Sometimes she could still feel the pieces, sharp memories, fighting inside her. ===== The hotel bath was just as she imagined; an old-fashioned enamel tub as the centerpiece of the bathroom, golden taps gleaming. Monica dimmed the lights as she slipped off her dressing gown. She had already scrubbed the day off her skin, and was looking forward to some pure relaxation. She poured some scented oil into the hot water, closing her eyes and breathing in the steam, trailing her fingers into the water as she slipped back into the past. She had been going home to visit her parents, he had been on his way to his best friend's stag night. He had gazed at her over the top of his newspaper until she flushed. When he spoke, he had the air of a man who was used to being obeyed, and it both attracted and repelled her with equal force. The dimple she remembered was more pronounced, the face thinner. As the train approached her stop, he leaned close to her, and his fingers drummed on her knee as she lost herself in those blue eyes. "I don't think I'm quite ready to let you go, little bird," he said, grinning. "Come with me to the stag night. The chaps won't mind at all, I'm sure." "A stag night? I don't think so." She laughed and stood up as the train slowed, dropping her bag, the contents spilling over the floor. Her gloves fell out of her pocket as she scrabbled everything back in, blushing. Holding her breath, she handed him one of the personal business cards she kept, with her number scrawled across the back. "You can call me though," she said, drinking in the image of his face before scurrying outside onto the platform. Her hopes of his phoning weren't high; it just doubled the pleasure when he did. The Sunday night before returning to London, they went for a walk in the park at sunset. He had bought her an ice cream and kissed her breath away on the steps of her parents' house. When she returned to London, he didn't call for a couple of weeks and she fought off the disappointment with tubs of ice cream and lots of late nights at the office. Then one night, he was on her doorstep with a bunch of red roses. He'd been in Australia visiting some friends. "Didn't I tell you about it?" he said, stepping up, brazenly sliding his hand around her waist. "I missed you every day." She could manage nothing more than a moan as his lips descended on hers. His kiss was rough and stubbly, his lips soft, and when his tongue slid into her mouth, she was lost. He scooped her into his arms, and she trailed her fingers against the hard muscles in his chest as he kicked the door shut behind them and headed upstairs. Their lovemaking had been swift and furious. His body was hard and hot under her grasping fingers and when she came, it was like her body blew apart in ecstatic shards, reformed only in his eyes. Six months later, she had met his parents. That was the day she found out who the real Charles Halpern was. His father, Charles Henry Halpern. When she saw the family home, her breath had caught in her throat. A huge, Georgian mansion, nestling in the countryside outside Canterbury. She felt foolish for wondering in the car if she should call his father Charles or Mr. Halpern. The sour-faced butler who took her coat at the door referred to him as "his Excellency." Charles hugged her and told her to call him "dad." But when she saw the wintry old man, she could barely speak with sudden nerves. She felt his eyes roam over her cheap dress, her too-blonde hair, her pink fingernails, and she started feeling out of her depth. The food was served on china plates and she ate with antique silverware. Charles's parents hadn't liked her a lot. They didn't want him to "marry down", as his mother put it once. The friction had increased and it soon became clear that his parents were trying to edge the gold-digger out of their son's life. Monica was furious at the assumption. Her career was everything; she would make her own way in life, not rely on some man to keep her. But much to her dismay, Charles started to crumble. Gradually, he stopped taking her to dinner at the family home. He broke dates to attend family functions. He became distracted and moody. One day, she couldn't stand it any more. They'd been at the park when the argument broke like rain through humid air. "I won't discuss my family matters with you!" he'd shouted, striding off towards the car park. She went after him, trotting to keep up with his long strides. "Well I'm tired of being treated like some sort of blight! You can talk to them or you can find yourself another girlfriend. The choice is all yours." That seemed to shock him for a minute. "You wouldn't dare," he said, pulling open the car door. "Get in, I'll take you home. We'll talk about it tomorrow." But tomorrow never came. She never heard from him again. His choice had been clear, and final. Dragging herself back to the present, she slipped into the hot water and sighed, feeling her muscles relax and tingle. She cursed her luck. Of all the people she could have met that weekend, why did it have to be Charles? He had even asked her to dinner with an ease that was breathtaking in its effrontery. Damn him! She slid her head under the water, totally submerging herself and hearing nothing but the hum of the heating and the beating of her own heart. She got out of the bath just as it started growing tepid, and dried off, helping herself to the coconut oil supplied by the hotel. As she rubbed it into her skin, she eyed her clothes for the dinner. Her black dress was simple and elegant. The shoes, classic and low-heeled for comfort. Both from well respected designers, and expensive at that. She had come a long way since the day Charles's father had looked upon her clothes with contempt. Winding her wet hair up in the towel, she applied mascara to her lashes and dabbed on some lip gloss. Then she shook her golden hair loose, and dried it gently, taking advantage of its natural curl. The dress slid over her head, clinging to her breasts and hips. She stood back and eyed herself critically, wondering if Charles Senior really would approve, or if it was the person inside the clothes who he had really considered cheap. She was surprised at how bitter she felt against the old man, even after so long. Lifting her handbag, she pulled a black shawl around her slender shoulders and cast one last look in the mirror before she faced the world. She looked calm, poised, professional. Her purse bulged with business cards. She was going to sip a glass of red wine and mingle, making contacts. As for Charles...well, he was no longer important in her life. And he'd made it abundantly clear he felt the same about her. Just as she was descending the stairs, her way was barred. Her heart sank as she looked up into his face. The blue gaze was cool. "Monica," he said. His voice was soft, and his eyes slid down to her cleavage. Her cheeks burned as she felt her body react. "Charles," she said, pressing her lips together and nodding an acknowledgement. He brushed a finger down her cheek, studying her, saying nothing. Her skin remembered his touch like a burn. She could not meet his eyes. "Let me past," she said, gritting her teeth. "I want to talk to you," he said. "Will you sit with me at dinner?" She forced herself to remember the days that turned into weeks and months with no word from him. The withering of hope. The rages, the despair. And finally, acceptance. "I think the time for talking is past, don't you?" she said, and pushed past him on wobbly legs, hoping she could make it to Fran's group without stumbling. When she finally found the courage to look at him again, she was shocked. He was standing on the edge of a group, making perfunctory comments, his eyes rarely leaving her. The look of anger on his face was unmistakable and hit her like a whip. As she forced her attention to what Fran was saying, she felt sweat prickle between her shoulder blades. Why on earth would he be angry? And what right did he have to be angry with her, after what he had done? ===== The buffet was delicious, adorned with foods Monica had never tasted before. There was roasted pigeon, grouse and venison, vegetables steaming in silver serving dishes, arranged so beautifully it was almost a shame to mess up the display by eating them. Her appetite had deserted her, and she picked at her food, listening to her colleagues chattering, grateful that Charles had been seated out of sight. "I've heard that DIS is in some trouble," Nick said, leaning on his elbows and raising his eyebrows at Monica. "Mr Scott might be interested in that information." Monica looked at her enthusiastic young assistant. "Where did you hear that from?" Mr Scott would indeed be interested. She looked around the room for her boss, frustrated. Why did he come to these events, if he was going to spend his time in his room? She listened to Nick closely as he told her what he had learned that afternoon while shivering in a clump of bushes. DIS had only three shops nationwide but did a substantial share of its business online, which was an area Mr Scott wanted to investigate further. As they made their way into the lounge, Fran nudged her. "So you haven't told us how you know Charles Halpern? Whatever the story is, I'm sure it has nothing to do with business." Monica flushed. "It was a few years ago now, we were ...together for a while, but he dumped me and I never heard from him again." It was painful to put such a huge experience into such small words. She sipped at her wine, barely tasting it. Fran's eyes softened and she gave Monica's hand a squeeze. "Well," she said, "You'd better tighten up a bit, because he's heading this way." Gulping the last of her wine, she ducked past Fran and Nick. "Time to powder my nose, I'd say." The bathroom was plush and fragrant and Monica closed her eyes as she locked herself into a cubicle, welcoming the safety. She breathed deeply, trying to calm her thumping heart. This was getting ridiculous. She would have to tighten up, as Fran said. Here she was, the consummate professional, hiding in a toilet because her ex- boyfriend was outside. She shook her head. She wouldn't give in to the lure of his eyes, the way his designer clothes clung to his lean body. Gripping her shawl as if it was a suit of armor, she steeled herself to go outside. Then she heard the doors swinging open to a draught of laughter and chatter. "You know, Lydia, I've just been talking to the most insufferable man!" Monica heard a chuckle coming from the second woman, and the clatter of make up being dumped out onto a hard surface. "I assume you're talking about Charles Halpern?" Her heart skipped a beat and she stood, frozen, listening hard. "I've known the man since he was in nappies. And there they are, buying up all the shares in our company, as if I don't know what that means. Then to top it off, he didn't even remember who I was! And that other one who's always hanging around said it must be because the years haven't been kind to me! Have you ever heard such...!" There was an intake of breath. "That's below the belt indeed. That snake at his shoulder is Rupert Cross, the slimy bastard. You'd better watch how you tread if he's sniffing around. He loves a hostile takeover. He's made them millions doing that." Rupert Cross! He was the one whose stag night Charles had been going to, on the day they met. Monica remembered little of him, except that he had often been at Charles's home, and seemed exceptionally friendly with Charles senior, if such a thing were possible. Back outside, she helped herself to another glass of wine and spotted the men whose "deaths" she had witnessed at the red flag earlier that afternoon. Soon they were deep in conversation, and their cards were in her purse. Interesting people, but not the real decision makers of the company. She was about to wind it up and move on when she heard a voice at her shoulder. A strong hand gripped her elbow and turned her away from the group. "I'm afraid Miss Stewart and I have some unfinished business to deal with," he said, smiling politely. Her mouth worked wordlessly as she allowed herself to be escorted through the room, past Fran and Nick who pretended not to notice. "You can't run from me, Monica, " he hissed, pulling her up the stairs and into a darkened doorway. His strong hands pinned her wrists above her head and he pushed his body against hers. "Remember earlier? I shot you down, and I'll do it again." What was his game? There was no mistaking the passion darkening his eyes. So why had he abandoned her? "Charles I don't understand..." she began, but his free hand brushed against her cheek and her breath caught in her throat as one long finger traced the outline of her lips, dipping into her mouth, playing catch with her tongue for a second before resuming its travels south. Past her chin, brushing her collarbones, pausing to dip in to the hollow at the base of her neck. She felt as if the oxygen was being sucked out of the air as his fingers dropped lower still, dipping into the slack fronted dress. Roughly pushing the material aside, exposing her breast. Looking down, licking his lips as her nipple hardened under his gaze. "Tell me you don't want me," he murmured, releasing her wrists and bending down, kissing all around the darkened peak then taking it into his soft, wet mouth, His tongue was dancing, laving, bathing the hot little nub and she sighed with pleasure, her hand settling on his head. As she stroked the soft hair, it felt as if the years had never passed. The pleasure from her nipple was burning through her body, melting her insides. But then he released her, pulled the material back over her breast. His face was flushed and his eyes looked almost black in the dim light of the hallway. "Tell me!" he whispered. She stared at him, mute, the memory of his tongue echoing through her long-untouched body. Of course she wanted him. She had always wanted him. She could only nod, and it was enough for him. Hoisting her into his arms, he carried her through the door and into his bedroom, just as he had carried her the first time. The memory twisted at her heart, but his lips soothed it away. His tongue filled her mouth, his scent making her dizzy as he pushed her legs apart. His thumbs teased at her nipples and he ground his erection against her until she almost lost her mind. "Oh please!" she gasped, no longer caring what he thought or said, almost drunk with pleasure as he pulled up her dress, tore at her tights. With one thrust he was deep inside her and she cried out, blind, her fingers running over the muscled back, re-discovering a beloved landscape. He pounded her until she screamed and bit into his neck, her body turning to jelly as waves of sensation shot from her groin to her brain. Then he let out a groan and collapsed on top of her, shaking. She felt his heart pounding in time to her own, his breathing harsh and hot in her ear. Across Enemy Lines Ch. 01 "Charles, why..." she said, but he raised his sleepy head and put a finger over her mouth. "Let's not spoil tonight by talking," he said, and laid his head against her chest. She held him, closing her eyes, allowing herself to dream the impossible, just for a short time. ===== A faint buzzing noise stirred her out of her dreams. Charles's arm was lying across her body and she looked at his sleeping face, the lips parted slightly. He was beautiful and she sighed. Why did things have to be so complicated? The noise grew louder and she realised it was her mobile phone, vibrating against her lip gloss. Wriggling out from Charles's limbs, she went into the bathroom to answer it. Her eye caught the bedside clock. 6am! What was Nick thinking? "Monica, you'd better come now," her assistant said. "We're meeting in the lobby in fifteen minutes." She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, her hair tousled and mascara smeared. The faint blush of love bites on her shoulders where Charles had marked his territory. "Fifteen minutes?" Nick sounded frantic. His voice dropped to almost a whisper. "Whatever Mr Scott has heard, he's so angry, Monica! I have to go, get packed. See you in the lobby." The line went dead. Monica looked back at the bed where Charles slept. Tears welled in her eyes as she gathered her things. She paused at the door, looking back at the angelic face one last time. "This isn't finished," she whispered, letting the door click shut behind her. ===== After a quick wash, Monica shoved her stuff back into the bag and smoothed her hair. Without makeup she looked younger, more vulnerable. She tied her hair back and frowned. What on earth could her boss have heard to warrant a meeting so early in the morning? They assembled around the table in the dining area to the smell of freshly ground coffee. Monica took a sip, feeling the bitter taste jerk her brain to a higher level of activity. Fran was grinning like a cat. As Mr Scott came over to take his seat, she whispered, "Where did you sleep last night?" "Tell you later," Monica said, but judging by the satisfied look on Fran's face, she didn't need to be told. Mr Scott rubbed his hands together and cleared his throat, and the women sat back, focusing on him immediately. "I'll keep this short," he said. "It's come to my attention that certain parties are looking to take us over. While we've been sitting back on our laurels after the merger, it seems our successes haven't gone unnoticed." He sat back, frowning. "Any of you know anything about Rupert Cross and Halpern Industries?" Monica's skin went icy and she gulped her coffee. The heat made her eyes water. "I heard Cross is big into hostile takeovers," she said. "Last night I overheard some women talking about it in the bathroom." "That scumbag is getting this company over my dead body," Mr Scott said. "This is a matter for the board to deal with, of course. And some of them... I'm telling you now because..." He ran his hands through his hair. "They've tried this before. But this time... anyway, I wanted you to know. In case any of you want to find another job." There was a silence. Monica sipped the coffee again. Was Mr Scott looking out for them? Or was he trying to offload his best and brightest, to make the company less attractive for Halpern Industries to acquire? Either way, she had no intention of looking for another job. It had been a hard, lonely slog to get to where she was and if there was any chance of saving her job and staying with the company she loved, then she was in until the death. The thought of Charles as her boss...well, it was unthinkable. "Is there anything we can do to help?" Fran's voice was timid. Mr Scott considered her question. Finally he said, "Yes, there is. I want dirt on Cross. And Halpern too, that slime ball. Anything at all you can find out that can help us. They still haven't got a controlling interest, so we have time. Just get out there and find out what you can." All eyes swiveled towards Monica. She kept her gaze on the old man's face, trying to keep the blood from rising to her cheeks. So everyone knew where she had been the night before. Sleeping with the enemy. Well, if there was dirt to be found, she was determined to get it, one way or another. Charles played a dirty game. He was going to find out that he was not the only one who knew the rules. Across Enemy Lines Ch. 02 Author's note: apologies for the delay- been on holidays- also for any inaccuracies to those of you who are business experts. I'm certainly not!  Luckily this is a romance and not a how-to of hostile takeovers. * Monica pushed her glasses up onto her forehead and rubbed at her eyes with her knuckles. Her back was starting to ache and she was exhausted. It was almost eleven o'clock and the office smelt of the stale coffee that had been sitting in the percolator for the last three hours. "No luck?" Fran's voice was weary. Monica sipped her tepid coffee and wrinkled her nose. "Whatever we're going to find, the internet's not the way," she said. "Everything about Halpern Industries seems legit. Not a sniff of scandal, financial or otherwise. Any luck on Cross?" Fran shrugged. "He seems pretty good at keeping in the background. It's always Charles out there in the limelight, and him lurking around in the background. Although here's a fascinating fact... Cross's wife owns some sort of designer cake business, quite near here, actually." She sighed. "I'd murder my gran for something sweet right now." "You and your sweet tooth." Monica pulled her glasses off her head and out of her hair and thought about Rupert Cross. Pale blonde hair, even paler blue eyes and quivering nostrils that always seemed to be sniffing slightly-sour milk. He had a face that just missed being handsome or interesting; blandness ruled his features and nondescript business suits which he tried- and failed- to brighten up with Paul Smith ties. A fragment of memory came to her just then, of Charles's birthday all those years ago. His parents had thrown a lavish bash at their country mansion in his honour, and invited journalists from the Tatler for good measure. There was a marquee in the garden, a string quartet of musicians playing in the Victorian bandstand, and the flower beds were in full bloom. Tuxedo-clad staff wandered through the clumps of guests with silver trays of triangular sandwiches- cucumber, cress and Italian ham- and flutes of champagne. An elderly woman, who'd apparently been Charles's nanny, had taken him by the elbow just a few feet away and was pinching Charles's cheek and commenting on how tall he was. Monica sipped at her champagne and wished she'd worn different shoes. Her stilettos were sinking into the lawn and her ankles were aching with the effort of remaining upright. She closed her eyes and turned her face to the sun for a moment, and listened to Charles's easy laugh. He was so good at these occasions; she was so awkward. As she leaned forward to put her empty glass onto the table, her heel caught on the grass and she stumbled. Flushing, she looked around the garden to see if anyone had noticed, but the only eyes that were staring in her direction were the steely ones of Charles's father. He and Rupert Cross had laughed together then, behind their hands, clearly at her. Just one of the many small humiliations from her previous life that she tried so hard to forget. And yet Rupert had seemed to be there for most- if not all- of them. "Do you remember a couple of women at the retreat?" she asked Fran suddenly. "I didn't actually see them..." She flushed as she remembered that she had been hiding in the toilet at the time, then searched her memory. "Older women, one of them was called...Linda? Lydia?" Fran frowned. "Could be Lydia Goldman. She's general manager of DIS. I don't remember anyone else of that name. Didn't talk to her though." "Might be worth getting in touch with her," Monica said. A quick search brought up the contact details for Lydia Goldman, and she dashed off a quick email, a brief outline of the situation and a request for a meeting. Another yawn forced its way out, so huge she thought her jaw would break. "I'm calling it a night." Fran looked around the office. "Just you and me here," she said. "So much for the "stronger" sex." Her fingers punctuated her sentence with imaginary quotation marks. Monica smiled. "There was a football match on," she said. " To be honest, we'd have been better off watching it than sitting here all night. Come on, let's get out of here." "Halpern Industries is having its annual Entrepreneurship Awards at the Hilton next week," Fran said, clicking her browser shut and switching off her computer. The chimes of Microsoft saying goodbye was a welcome sound. "Great," Monica's voice was flat. She was far too tired to get interested in anything, even an event that Charles would be attending. She stifled a yawn. "See you in the morning." When she got home, she slid her shoes off and wiggled her toes before easing into her pink fluffy slippers. The light was blinking on her answering machine and she hit play as she went into the kitchen. There wasn't much food. A fridge full of condiments and one lonely cabbage that looked a bit worse for wear. The remains of her homemade chicken soup moldered behind the cabbage, but she closed the door and pretended not to see it. She started to fill the kettle and froze when she heard a familiar voice filling the hallway after the beep of the machine. "Hello Monica." She could almost hear him smiling. "Finally, I wormed your home number off one of your underlings. You're a hard woman to track down. I was wondering if you'd like to do dinner tomorrow. We've got a lot to talk about." He cleared his throat. "I quite fancied catching up properly, in fact." The message ended with the digits of his personal mobile. "Yes, we have a lot to discuss," she said to the kettle. "Like why you're trying to ruin my life, again. God!" She ran her hands through her hair. The tiredness she'd felt was gone. She didn't want to do dinner with Charles, no matter how much he quite fancied it. But still, she found herself replaying the message and saving the phone number into her mobile. It might be useful, she told herself. For business reasons. Or just to know who was calling, so she'd have the option not to answer. Even though- the more she thought about it, the more obvious it became- he'd been using her at the retreat, probably hoping for some inside information to help with his takeover plans. And like a silly schoolgirl, she'd fallen for his charms all over again. She wouldn't make the same mistake twice. She poured herself a cup of tea and padded up to her bedroom, her pride and joy. It took up the whole top storey of the apartment block, with sliding doors that led out onto the balcony which she'd adorned with potted plants and creepers and wicker chairs. Her king-sized bed was wonderful to lounge in. The cream walls were bright and yet soothing; the different browns of her duvet covers made her think of chocolate layer cake. Yet she had not shared it at all since she'd had the place renovated. Too many late nights at the office, not enough free time. She adored her home, but suddenly something seemed missing. Maybe she should get a cat. But she had no garden. Keeping an animal trapped inside would be cruel. She peeled her suit off and slipped out of her underwear, naked against the coolness of the silk sheets. Setting her tea on the bedside table, she took out her book, but her eyes drifted over the words and fixed upon the empty wall ahead, where they played like a projector all the memories that Charles' voice had triggered. Their last day as a couple, before he had walked out of her life. She'd long since stopped wondering why, but now... she couldn't help doing it again. ===== After she'd handed him the ultimatum that had been simmering in her mind for so long, she'd stormed home, hands shaking with anger and frustration. She ran a bath and sat looking into the water. There was no point getting in. She was too angry to sit still for long. Pulling her hair into a ponytail, she dragged her jogging shorts out of the laundry basket and got dressed again. When she stepped outside, the air was cold against her burning cheeks and she took deep breaths, watching the moon break free from the trees and light up the street ahead. Feet pounding against the pavement, the Walkman in her ears just a distraction. As she sweated the anger out of her system, she felt despair start to cloud her head. How could she possibly win against Charles's parents? And even if he did stand up to them and marry her, as he'd told her countless times he was building up to do, did she really want that life? She imagined the weekends down at their country home, soaking up the insults and forcing her mouth into a polite smile. The dinner parties with the Halperns' aristocratic friends, the silent sneers. You can take the girl out of the council house, but... She remembered the peeling wallpaper of her childhood bedroom, her father slumped in front of the TV. The clank of hidden whiskey bottles behind the sofa when she sat down. Of course she wanted to be wealthy, to have a life far from the one she grew up with. But not like that, nothing more than a rich man's wife, the decoration on the cake. When she'd got home that night, she found a message from Charles on her answering machine. "I have to catch the train tomorrow, to Edinburgh. It's business, but...." His voice, strange and hoarse. "Please, let's talk about this. Meet me at the station at ten. Let me at least buy you a breakfast and explain." The next morning she got up with the sunrise and took a long bath, jasmine-scented candles flickering on the corners of the enamel tub. She tried not to feel too excited. But she was so sure everything was going to work itself out, she took time over her makeup and hair, putting on the floaty summer dress Charles liked, the one with the tiny tear at the back that no one noticed because of the pattern. She slipped her feet into sparkly sandals and tried not to sprint to the train station. It was a beautiful day. The station was crowded and she stood near a stand selling fresh coffee, breathing in the aroma, holding herself back from buying one because Charles would be there soon and they would share it, just as they would share it for the rest of their lives. Her hope was so powerful that it turned every man into Charles that morning. It just took the hint of a smile, or a pin-stripe business suit on a hard body, the passing scent of expensive aftershave... and she'd spin around, only to be disappointed. In the end she bought a coffee and sipped at it, tucking her hair behind her ears, staring at the Victorian clock on the wall of the station, losing count of how many trains had gone by, not noticing when the coffee had gone cold. Just watching the clock and waiting for Charles, while the commuters buzzed past, everyone going somewhere, except Monica. Waiting and watching while announcements were made about the latest delays, leaves on the line, the wrong weather, errant sheep. Watching and waiting until her gaze dropped to the ground, her eyes starting to prick with tears. She did not look at the clock again. = = = = = Monica woke early and showered quickly, digging her fingers into her soapy scalp to try and shake the beginnings of a headache. The sky outside was dark with clouds, the over-cheery weather forecaster promising thunderstorms as if that was something to be excited about. A message had appeared on her Blackberry sometime while she'd been showering; Lydia Goldman had replied to her email and was suggesting a "chat" over coffee in her office at ten. That meant going the whole way across London, and her car was still at the garage. Monica felt her mood sink even further. Why was she letting everything get to her so much? Normally she relished a challenge. But when the challenge involved Charles... She pulled on a raincoat over her navy suit and stepped outside. The first spatters of rain hit her face and she squared her shoulders against the whirling wind and turned in the direction of the nearest station, thinking hard. She barely felt the jostling of the other commuters as she boarded the tube, staring beyond the bland gaze of her reflection at the dark walls of the tunnel rushing past. What would Mr Scott say if he heard she'd fallen into Charles's bed? She was sure that only Fran knew for sure, possibly Nick. They wouldn't say anything, or would they? Well, there was no point worrying about it. What was done was done, and all she could do now was move on, and if Mr Scott needed any proof where her loyalties lay, she would do what was necessary. Lydia Goldman's office was bright and full of yukka plants, and smelt of new carpet. Just as she sank into the soft leather chair, she felt her Blackberry vibrate. A senior staff meeting at 2pm to discuss strategies for fending off the possible takeover from Halpern Industries. Lydia Goldman herself was not what Monica had expected. She'd sounded quite young, from Monica's vantage point in the toilets at the retreat, but she was at least fifty. Her silver grey hair was short and she wore no makeup save for a bit of gloss and a hint of blush. She smiled at Monica and buzzed her secretary to bring in some coffees. "So," she said, when the drinks were served, and they'd made some small talk about the weather and the retreat and the stupid paintballing exercise. "I hear we have something in common. I have a proposal for you that could help us both. Would you like to hear it?" Monica sipped at the hot, bitter liquid and smiled back. "Definitely." = = = = = That afternoon at the senior staff meeting, Monica felt as if she was on fire. The meeting with Lydia Goldman had been a treasure that had dropped into her lap; she could scarcely believe her luck. Charles wouldn't get his way now, not if she could help it. "As you can see from the figures," she said, fixing her glasses firmly on her nose and gesturing to the PowerPoint slide on the screen, "DIS has run into some serious debt, and they're looking for a white knight, so to speak. I've done some introductory calculations and..." she shuffled her hastily-printed notes, " the level of debt- which would eventually drive them into administration- can be absorbed in the long term. According to these figures, we can take the hit, sell off the underperforming shops and concentrate on the online sales, an area which you, Mr Scott, have previously expressed an interest in. They do of course have some stipulations regarding staff, and there's a lot of thrashing out to do. Bottom line, my proposal is this; with this merger and the acquisition of debt on this scale, we'll look a lot less attractive to Mr Cross and Halpern Industries, and may save ourselves in the process." She sat down, her hands shaking. Mr Scott leafed through the figures. "Excellent proposal, Monica, and in such a short time too I'll certainly look into it in greater detail, it'll just take a bit of time. All of you bear in mind, we are by no means out of the woods, so keep the ideas coming. Cross just needs another shareholder to buy into his scheme, and then..." He frowned, then gathered the papers together and flicked on the light. "We'll meet again on Monday. Same time, if that's ok for everyone." Fran followed Monica out of the room and slapped her on the back. "See!" she said, grinning. "That retreat was worth it, paintballing or not." Monica thought of Charles, the roughness of his hands, the heat of his kisses. "Maybe." Over the next few days, Monica threw herself into work. With the rumours going around of a potential hostile takeover, the share prices had dipped slightly, and she still had some work on the quarterly budget to finish. It helped her to focus, to forget Charles and the irritating Rupert Cross, all the scheming and dealing that went on behind the scenes. Now that Mr Scott was involved, she had little further contact with Lydia Goldman. It was out of her hands, but she was proud of herself for making such an impression at the meeting, and grateful to Lydia Goldman for her proposal. To thank her, Monica popped in to a cake shop on her way home that Friday, to order a gift for Lydia. Nothing too fancy, just a gesture of thanks. She remembered the biscuits the older woman had scoffed throughout their meeting and settled on a neat red box full of big gooey chocolate chunk cookies, decorated with gold leaf, destined to melt in the mouth over a fair-trade coffee, which the shop- it looked more like a boutique- also provided in a "Pick-Me-Up" hamper. She stood in the corner of the shop, looking over the display cabinet while the assistant prepared the gift. Handmade sweets- so delicate that it seemed almost a shame to eat them- lined the display; gingerbread men, frosted candy flowers and little characters from children's stories. It looked like a forest of delights, and she was thinking of buying something for herself when she heard a familiar voice behind her. "Why, Monica Stewart!" Rupert Cross said. "Fancy seeing you here in my wife's shop." Her heart pounding, she forced a smile. "Just getting some cookies," she said. "How are you doing?" Rupert's thin lips pressed together in something resembling a smirk and he rubbed his hands. "Oh, very well indeed," he said. "You've been a busy little bee, I hear. Nice work with Goldman. I guess the retreat turned out very well for all of us." She looked at him, keeping her expression bland. "Yes, it was very productive." "Productive, yes." He was still smiling, and it sent a shiver through her stomach. The sales assistant cleared her throat and pushed a gift box onto the counter. "Your cookies are ready, Miss Stewart." Glad of the excuse to look away from Rupert's icy smile, she fished in her purse for her credit card. "Thank you." Rupert was standing so close behind her that she could feel his breath on her ear. "Enjoy your cookies," he whispered. "That old fool you work for, he can't see a good deal when he's got one. This is business, not personal. He'd do well to remember that." "Oh please," Monica scoffed. "This isn't the Godfather." "Because," he went on, as if she hadn't spoken, "if you want it personal, then I can make it personal. Charles has this idea that you two can work together, that he can be your boss. I'd hate to see him disillusioned...again." She spun around, suddenly furious. "What do you mean, again? Are you threatening me?" But he just kept on smiling and tipped a wave to the assistant. "See you next week, Laura." Then he walked out into the wind, leaving Monica staring after him, puzzled and half-ready to run after him and tear the smirk off his face with her fingernails. She thought about what he'd said, and shivered. He knew a lot more than he should. Maybe someone at DIS had been talking, or worse still, someone from her own company. Or maybe he was just bluffing. Whatever the case, a bad feeling stirred deep in her gut. It seemed that Charles wanted back in her life, whatever the cost. She only wished she knew why. Tucking the gift box under her arm, she went out into the street. Rupert Cross's blue Jaguar was rounding the corner ahead. She stared after it, feeling the wind on her face, wondering what on earth he- and Charles- were going to do next. = = = = = She found out on Monday morning. Sitting at the kitchen table, she took a bagel and sawed it in half, ready for toasting. The sky was sunny, and hazy cloud made the sun blur and darken. Her muscles were pleasantly tired by her morning run, and she was looking forward to a hot shower when she noticed a message on her Blackberry. There was an email in her work inbox. A large group of names at the top; a mailshot to all staff from "John Smith" on a Hotmail account. With a photo attachment, a small, grainy picture shot off a mobile phone. The title of the email was Conflict of interest? Her hands leapt to her mouth as the attachment opened, and she saw herself on the screen, pressed against the wall, eyes half closed. Charles pressing against her, his fingers playing with the strap on her dress. Lips inches apart. The look on her face, as if she was drowning in something very pleasant. Across Enemy Lines Ch. 03 Mr Scott's office was a spacious suite at the top of the building, decorated in blues and wood, wind breathing in from the open window. Monica could hear the sound of cars rushing by outside, the call of gulls. There was a cup of coffee in front of her on the desk, untouched. Mr Scott cleared his throat. "I assume you know why you're here." Her mouth formed a thin line. "Conflict of interest?" The image on the email attachment loomed large in her memory. It didn't take a rocket scientist to work out who 'John Smith' was, or why he'd sent it. Business, not personal, Rupert had said, as if he was Charles' consigliere. She'd have been furious, if she wasn't so mortified. Walking across the floor in front of her colleagues that morning, absorbing their shocked and amused gazes, it had been the worst experience of her life. Next to being dumped by Charles, of course, but now when she thought of him she wanted to smash his face in, break that idle grin he always wore as if nothing in the world could bother him. "Look, I'll be honest. There's someone leaking information to Halpern. Cross has been on the phone, and let's just say... he knows a lot more than he should." "So of course, you think it's me." "That's not an old photo, Monica. It was taken at the retreat, quite recently in fact." She gritted her teeth. "OK, yes, Charles and I used to be together, a long time ago, when I was a student. And yes, something happened at the retreat. But I swear on my life, I'd never leak information to Charles or that scumbag Cross, or do anything to damage this company. I've given ten years of my life to you, I'd never throw it away on a..." Cheap fuck. That was all it had been. Charles hadn't even asked her to divulge any company information, but then she'd snuck off before he'd had the chance. Maybe he'd thought there was plenty of time, that he'd make love to her again and order breakfast in bed, and worm something out of her then. Mr Scott folded his arms. "I'm not saying I don't believe you," he said. "But you understand, I can't let you be involved in this business anymore, this takeover bid. You should've told me this at the start. I'm going to find it very hard to protect you now. Once the shareholders get wind of this... I'll come under pressure to let you go. I'll do my best of course, but you've kind of tied my hands." She stared at him miserably. "I understand." "So. Just get back to your work. Those figures you turned in for the quarterly budget, there's a few little things that don't quite add up, I've highlighted them on the spreadsheet. You can get started with that." She pulled her jacket around her as if it was a suit of armour that would deflect the stares of her colleagues. "I'll get to it." The office was noisy with the sound of photocopiers and printers and the whispers underneath. Her skin prickled as she imagined all eyes turning to the traitor. That was what they were thinking, she was sure of it. She knew she had nothing to hide, but nevertheless slunk over to her desk and pulled the yukka plant to the side to shelter her from the gossip. It had grown tall since she'd been given it on her promotion, and she'd been tending its leaves with milk, making them shine. Charles had taught her that tip, a long time ago. As her computer booted up, she lifted her phone to check her voicemail. Three new messages, all from yesterday, before the fateful email had been circulated and ruined her life. Her hands clenched into fists for a second, then she forced herself to relax. The first was a quick message from Lydia Goldman, thanking her for the cookies. The second was a call from the gym, asking her if she wanted to renew her membership. And the third... she almost hung up at the sound of his voice. "Monica! I was hoping to see you. I guess you didn't get my message on your home number? Anyway I'm free tomorrow lunchtime, if you fancy meeting up." Charles cleared his throat. "I'd like to see you." Furious, she slammed the phone back into its socket. Of course Charles would like to see her. What better opportunity to show her he'd put her in her place? Humiliated in front of her entire company, another obstacle in the way of the takeover removed with one simple email. How easy it had all been for Charles! And what a fool she'd been. Then she became aware of someone hovering beside her. "What," she growled. "I'm busy." It was Nick, holding a brochure. "Look," he said, his ears turning pink. "I just wanted to say... well, you know everyone's seen it. I know what it's like to have your heart broken." She stared into his green eyes, aghast. "So what are you saying? That makes it ok to go around blabbing company secrets to any man who worms his way into your pants? And you think that's what I've done." He shook his head. "God, no. That didn't come out the way I meant it. Like I mean... sometimes you do stupid things when you're in love. It doesn't mean you lose all common sense. I know it isn't you who's been talking. I was just trying to... be supportive." "I'm not in love." Monica was slightly mollified. "But thanks." He smiled. "Fran and I are going for sushi for lunch, if you want to join us." She remembered Charles' invitation and bit her lip. Should she go? The damage had already been done. See what he had to say for himself after everything, why the hell not. "I have plans, but thanks." Sitting back in her desk, she studied Nick's handsome face, his black hair still untouched by grey, his skin fresh and unlined with years of work-induced stresses, late nights and coffee. "Who broke your heart?" His face fired red, and she regretted her question. "Sorry, it's none of my business." He cleared his throat. "Well. It's an ongoing process. But I'll be ok." "Well, when you get a bit older you'll look back and kick yourself, trust me. Don't waste your time. It's a cliché, but it's too precious to throw away on assholes." He flashed her a pained smile and went back to his desk, and she frowned at her reflection in the computer screen. Lunch with Charles. She should tell Mr Scott, just to be on the safe side. Full disclosure, wasn't that what people were always talking about? And maybe she could use the meeting – lunch – to her advantage. Charles was easy to reach. She dialled his direct line and he answered on the second ring. "Halpern?" Why did he always sound so damn pleasant and friendly? "It's me. Monica. Just returning your call. You wanted to meet?" There was a silence. "To be honest," he said eventually, "I didn't think you'd want to." Oh really. Because of a certain email? She gripped the receiver in her hand as if she was choking the life out of it. "Well, I've got nothing else on." Thanks to you. "Smashing!" There was a surge of enthusiasm in his voice. "Let's say Café Boulevard at one? I'll have my chap book us a table by the garden." Arrangements made, she hung up, chuckling to herself. Who the hell nowadays said smashing, or talked about their secretary as their chap? Only Charles, the idiot. She touched her finger against her smile and then cleared her throat and forced a frown. The asshole. Lunch with Charles. Once upon a time she'd have danced around the table, her silly heart pounding blissfully. But now... Clearing her mind of all thoughts, she opened the spreadsheet Mr Scott had sent back and got to work. = = = = = Café Boulevard was an exclusive restaurant on the ground floor of the five star Garrison Hotel, overlooking a key garden that belonged to the three-storey Georgian homes behind. She sat at the table, fingering the crisp white tablecloth and watching a little girl playing in the garden on a tricycle as the sun cast shadows over the grass from the thick-trunked trees all around. A cool breeze from the air conditioner wafted down the back of her neck but she was still hot from her walk. She fanned herself with the menu and checked her Blackberry. Charles was late. She smiled to herself. Some things never changed. Yawning, she checked her reflection in her compact. Just a hint of gloss on her lips, a touch of blush, her lashes thickened with black mascara. It was enough. At thirty three, she was finding the old adage less is more to be very true indeed. She slipped her stilettos off under the table and started leafing through a copy of the Tatler to pass the time. Advertisements for cosmetic surgery clinics, photos of smiling students in black mortar boards, wedding photos of all London's best and brightest just wanting to be seen. Well, Café Boulevard was a good place to be seen too, not that Monica cared about such upper class nonsense. Of course Charles would, he always had. He probably shopped at Waitrose to be seen there too. Or wait... his chap did. Charles had never known how much mundane things like groceries cost, only that they were there for his consumption and pleasure. Then her eye caught something that made her do a double take. It was a photograph taken at a racing track beside the winning thoroughbred. A slim, beautiful woman with blonde ringlets spilling over her bare shoulders, tanned in a cream dress and standing beside a tall man in a black suit. The caption underneath read Alice Chapple-Leigh and Dale Swindon, with the 'low down' underneath in a short paragraph. Alice Chapple-Leigh, daughter of racing track owner and breeder Frederick Leigh, finds happiness at last with Dale Swindon, one of Farlborogh Children's Hospital's top surgeons. Ms Chapple-Leigh, formerly the fiancée of business mogul Charles Halpern, is seen with her father's latest winner... Her eyes jumped back to the previous words and she felt her face start to redden with shock. Charles had been engaged? She took a sip of her water and stared at Alice's smiling face. If it wasn't for the other woman's slightly protruding teeth, she and Alice could have been sisters. She fought down the surge of irrational jealousy. It wasn't as if she'd led the life of a nun since Charles, although her boyfriends had been few and far between and none of them had amounted to much. Charles had every right to date whoever he wanted. And besides, Alice had clearly moved on, so there was nothing to worry about there. Wake up, Monica! She checked her make up again and chastised herself for being so stupid. None of that mattered. Charles – either directly or indirectly – was screwing up her professional life, and she meant to take action. She remembered the email and felt her cheeks prickle. Rupert Cross was going to get what was coming to him, for sure. Seeing Charles would mean she could cut out the middle man, and maybe get some helpful information because it was personal now, Rupert had made it so. Then she heard a familiar voice making some flirty conversation about the weather with a twittering waitress. Charles had arrived. He looked over at the table and flashed Monica a smile. She took in his sparkling blue eyes, his brown hair shorter than she remembered and sculpted into a spiky style, his broad shoulders. He was dressed in a dark grey suit and a pale pink silk shirt, and she couldn't help smiling. Only Charles could top that outfit with a Snoopy tie and still look damn gorgeous. "Hey," he said, and sat down. "Have you ordered? I hear the mussels are good." "Mussels," she repeated faintly, then shook herself. "I think I'll have the steak." "Ah, a good bit of meat." He winked at her and beckoned the waitress over. "Two steaks, well done." He still remembered, and her heart softened for a moment. Then she thought about the email and frowned. The waiter came over, unbeckoned, with a bottle of champagne and an ice bucket. She stared at him and then looked at Charles. "What are we celebrating?" "Oh, nothing," he said, grinning. "Isn't every day a celebration?" "Oh please. You sound like an American greetings card." "Ever the romantic, Monica." She felt his foot brush against hers under the table, but she was sure as hell not backing off and jumping at his touch like a schoolgirl so she pretended not to notice and watched the waiter pouring the drinks. "So what was it you wanted to talk about?" She sipped at the champagne and felt the fizz flare and die on her tongue. He shrugged and smiled that lazy smile that still made her heart pound, no matter how much she tried to stop it. "I just wanted to see you," he said. "Isn't that enough?" "So much so that you're prepared to launch a hostile takeover of my company?" There was a silence. "Well, now you come to mention it." She was suddenly furious. "Do you have any idea what you're doing?" "Look, apparently it's a sound proposal. It's good for us and it's good for you. And yes, the idea of working with you had crossed my mind." "What do you mean, apparently?" He looked at the table, and there was a strange expression on his face. "I don't pay much attention to the day-to-day things anymore. Do we have to talk about business? I was rather hoping we could have a chat, about normal things." "So basically you haven't got a clue what's going on in your own business. That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard." All the old jealousy was starting to seethe inside her. She'd worked so hard, studied so much, done so many late nights at the expense of her relationships. Charles had just had everything handed to him on a plate. It wasn't fair. She gnawed her thumb and looked out at the garden, not trusting herself to speak. "My father died last year," he said, playing with his napkin. "Sort of got me thinking, what's it all about, really." All her anger disappeared like a burst balloon. "Oh Charles, I'm sorry." Then he smiled and met her eyes. "You never liked him." "He never liked me." She felt her cheeks start to redden. There was a silence. "No, I suppose he didn't." Monica's head was whirling. If Charles didn't take any interest in the day-to-day business anymore, then it was very possible he'd had nothing to do with that hateful email at all. And she hoped desperately that that was the case, because despite her anger, her humiliation, when she looked into those eyes something shifted in her chest. She remembered what she'd told Nick that morning. I'm not in love. Had she ever been out of it? And she couldn't bear to find out the truth, that if he'd had anything to do with it at all she'd be back to the weeping girl at the train station, broken all over again. Then the waiter came over with two plates of food and set them down with a flourish. The steak lay thick and juicy on top of a puff of mash and glistening with gravy. A broccoli floret sat to the side, rings of onion hung on top under a garnish of parsley. Her stomach grumbled and she realised she was starving. And Charles' foot was rubbing against her ankle. She drew her feet back under the chair and lifted her knife and fork. "This looks great," she said, and started hacking at the steak. Taking a bite, she savoured the tangy gravy for a second then said casually, "how's Rupert?" Charles looked surprised. "He's fine. Working very hard, as usual. Honestly, I don't know what I'd have done this last year without him. He's been a rock, a true friend." "So he's sort of taken the reins." "There's no one I trust more." She kept her eyes on the plate. How could Charles be so blind? But then he'd always been like that, blind, and weak. He hadn't fought very hard for her, and in the end, just cut her loose like a fisherman that had pulled in a catfish instead of a salmon. And then she found herself thinking about something else Charles had said; maybe the takeover might be good for her company. What was the harm at looking at the proposal? Mr Scott had been sketchy with the details, maybe it was time to... But no! What a ridiculous thing to consider. She didn't want her company to be swallowed into the huge conglomerate that was Halpern Industries. The lines had been drawn and she'd taken her side. Now she had to see it through. "You know Monica, you have a nice little business. And I'm tired of this whole the new Richard Branson nonsense. It would be nice to work in a normal job for once, not to have to be responsible for everything all the time. And working with you would be rather pleasant, I imagine. You're so driven, it's one of the things I used to ..." His voice tailed off and he finished the last of his steak, staring at her as he chewed. She looked at him, shocked. "Well," she said, finding her voice. "I'm sure Mr Scott would give you a job, if you applied for one." He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin and looked at her with a twinkle in his eye. "Maybe." His foot was touching hers again; this time she didn't pull away. "You know, I've got a room upstairs." "Have you, now." She finished her steak and drained the last of her champagne. "Presumptuous as always, Charles. I have to go back to the office." "Do you, now." She gritted her teeth. "Yes." "Well, let me get this." He threw down his napkin onto the plate and stood up. "A pleasure, as always." They walked in silence over to the bar where Charles paid up, and Monica took a mint from the bowl. She unwrapped it and popped it into her mouth, her head a battleground of conflicting thoughts. She didn't want to think about business anymore, the takeover, the repulsive Rupert Cross. The humiliation of the morning seemed far away, faint under the buzz of the champagne. She followed Charles into the lobby, looking around at the white walls, the plush sofas, the golden mirrors. Guests were milling around the reception and in and out of the door, chatting to the bellboys who were wearing fancy red uniforms edged with gold. The buzzing from her Blackberry shook her out of her daze. It was Mr Scott, and she frowned. He knew where she was, why couldn't he just wait until she got back? "Sorry Charles," she said. "I have to take this." She moved away from him, into the quiet side corridor beside the dark golden doors of the elevator. "Hello?" "Monica." There was a hum of chatter in the background. "Any developments?" She sighed. "Well from all we've talked about, it seems Charles is just the figurehead of the organisation these days. Cross is the one behind it, the takeover and the email too, no doubt." She told him about the conversation in the bakery and listened to his silence. "Well," he said eventually. "The banks aren't so keen to fund Cross now we're taking on DIS, and that's bought us some time. On the other hand, they've now acquired more than 45% of our shares. So... if you can find anything at all from Halpern that would help us, that would be... great." "So you trust me now, is that what you're saying?" She looked across at where Charles was standing, adjusting his Snoopy tie in the mirror. If Mr Scott was pressing her for information like this, things must be getting desperate at the top level. She watched Charles grinning at himself and picking some green out of his teeth, and felt a sense of despair. "Look, the most important thing right now is stopping this mole Cross has from allowing him to access non-public information – which he's certainly using to his advantage - and if he's prepared to try and destroy your reputation like that, then it would seem to me that you're the last on the list of suspects. That's assuming he sent the email of course. There are a lot of people in this company too who'd like your job, don't forget that. Anyway, I'll see you later." She slipped the Blackberry back into her bag, gobsmacked. She'd been so taken up by her age-old dislike of Charles' best friend that she hadn't even considered the possibility that the email could have come from someone else. It could just be a simple case of plain, simple jealousy, an opportunist who saw a way to clear an obstacle out of their path up the company ladder. And practically the whole of the senior staff had been at the retreat, anyone could have taken that photo.