Tom lay face down in his bed, his head thumping with a vengeance. He groped around on the bedside cabinet, happy to find a half-full can of Tennent’s Super. That would do nicely.
Gingerly propping himself up against the headboard, he winced at the warm, flat beer. Tom dragged the back of his hand across his mouth and sparked up a cigarette, balancing the overflowing ashtray on the duvet.
He glanced at the clock. Almost midday already, although that was hardly surprising, considering he’d had very little sleep last night.
Tom’s forehead creased like a concertina. Unfortunately, the reason for his lack of sleep wasn’t down to anything interesting, such as a woman. By rights, with the amount of beer he’d put away last night, he should have been in a coma, but that hadn’t happened either.
Which way next to move with his plan was the thing that had kept him tossing and turning. Now he’d set the wheels in motion with Jock putting about the rumours, he needed to progress that, but who should he start with?
Tom took another long swig of warm beer. It was a genius idea bringing both Stoker and Reynold into the conundrum. He knew how prats like that worked – full of ego and kudos. Both men would rather saw their own legs off than have unsavoury rumours circulate about them.
Tom grinned. Yes, he could pull in double the wedge doing it this way, rather than twisting the blade in just one of them.
If he’d only been paid a fairer price in the first place, then there would be no need for this. Neither would he have spent the last thirty years simmering about being turned over.
Three grand? Three piffling grand was all he’d got. Three grand in exchange for such a prize? Not that he’d wanted it, but that wasn’t the point. It was the principle.
Okay, so that three grand had enabled him to carve out a life for himself up north. It had been enough to get nicely set up with his little business enterprises, but had he known at the time exactly who he was dealing with, then he’d have insisted on a payment of at least ten times that amount.
Tom grabbed the letter he’d painstakingly typed yesterday and reread it once again.
Yep, that would do nicely for a start. All he needed to do was to locate the correct address, and then once he’d got it, this would go straight in the post box.
This time, without fail, he would get what was owed.
The bustle, smell and atmosphere of the market momentarily freed Sam’s mind from her present worries. At least once a week, more if time allowed, she loved spending her lunchbreak mooching around the colourful market.
Even the walk from her office did her the world of good. Passing along New Street, past the Odeon then turning right at the Pallasades, it was then down through the subway to St Martin’s Church and the bustling market.
The smell from a small donut shop above the open-air market always made Sam’s mouth water, delighting her with memories of when her father took her to the funfair as a child. She loved everything about the stalls full of fresh fruit and vegetables, rolls of brightly coloured material and vast arrays of clothes, along with every type of goods known to man and the market stall holders all clamouring for business.
Perusing a stall stacked high with sumptuous-looking fruit and veg, Sam eyed the large trays of strawberries.
‘They’re 30p a punnet, love,’ the man smiled, busy bagging up oranges for another customer.
‘Go on then, I’ll have two please,’ Sam said. ‘And chuck in a banana and a couple of apples to make it up to a quid.’
‘Making a fruit salad?’ The voice came from behind.
Sam turned in the direction of the voice, stopping dead seeing it belonged to the stranger staring at her at the Orchid last night.
‘Doesn’t seem much of a celebratory dinner for someone set to inherit one of the city’s most prestigious clubs – aside from my father’s, of course,’ Seb grinned.
Sam moved to one side, aware the stranger’s lips almost brushed against her ear as he spoke; the sensation of his breath against the delicate skin of her earlobe creating an inward shiver rippling along the length of her spine.
She reached into her bag for her purse, praying the burning of her cheeks wasn’t colouring them. As her fingers fumbled with her purse, Seb handed money to the stallholder and took the white carrier bag of fruit.
‘You didn’t need to do that,’ Sam cried, flustered.
‘Relax! It’s only a quid. It’s not like you’re beholden to me! Besides, you were holding the queue up.’ Seb’s manner was easy, but his aim was not. At some point in time, this woman would be his rival on the casino scene, so he needed to weigh her up and see how the land lay.
He bit back a smile, pleased his initial assumption looked correct. Having Samantha Reynold at the helm of the Orchid would make bringing the Peacock into pole position a lot easier. There would be no more sharing first place once she took the reins. It would be a breeze. She might be beautiful, but she didn’t have a clue – that much was crystal.
Sam held out her hand to take the bag of fruit, refusing to allow herself to get defensive. Instead, she smiled sweetly. ‘Thank you. That’s very kind, Mr…?’
Seb raised an eyebrow. Was she playing him or was she so green she genuinely didn’t know who he was? Didn’t she know who her father’s rivals were? Did she know anything at all? This would be fun…
‘Stoker. Sebastian Stoker.’ Seb gestured to move from the market stall away from the crowds eager to buy their fruit and veg. ‘Shall we get out of the way?’
Reluctantly, Sam followed the man still conveniently holding her shopping and eyed his powerful frame as he approached a less crowded area away from the hubbub of the stalls. Sebastian Stoker? Was she supposed to know who he was?
Frustration simmered. The name rang a vague bell, but this was a perfect example. How could her father expect her to take over when she didn’t have the first clue about who or what anything was in this business?
Regaining her momentum, Sam took a deep breath, refusing to show embarrassment over her lack of knowledge.
Just pretend he’s a client, she told herself. She dealt with all manner of people in her line of work both competently and efficiently, so she would look at this the same way. She would not let this self-assured man make her feel stupid. No way!
‘What brings you to the market today, Mr Stoker?’ Sam asked, a smirk playing in the corner of her mouth. ‘Thinking of moving into the fruit and veg trade?’
Seb laughed, but his green eyes remained remarkably cold. ‘No, I don’t think so… Not yet, at least. I’m on my way to see someone. By the way, did you have a nice birthday? We met a long time ago and I would have re-introduced myself properly last night, but you were busy…’
‘Yes, thank you. It was a good night,’ Sam lied. Did he say they’d met before? When? Who on earth was he?
‘When do you think we will be seeing more of each other?’ Seb drawled, a lazy smile forming as his gaze moved purposefully slowly over Sam’s body. ‘Will you be present tomorrow night?’
Sam faltered. What was that supposed to mean? He wasn’t making a play for her, was he? ‘Tomorrow night?’
Trying not to snigger at Sam’s clear awkwardness, Seb grinned, his eyes twinkling with amusement. ‘Were you not aware myself and my father have a meet planned tomorrow night with your father?’
Sam inwardly cringed. Meeting? What meeting? No one had said anything to her. Whatever was it for? ‘I… erm…’
‘I take it the answer is no,’ Seb laughed. ‘No worries, but I’m guessing that when your father retires, our paths will cross more frequently, being as we’ll be in the same industry.’
The emphasis on the word ‘industry’ rapidly gave Sam the realisation she needed. How had she been so stupid? Stoker – Malcolm Stoker – she remembered now; the Stokers owned the Royal Peacock! Her father had mentioned this rival casino several times and she’d met all the Stoker boys a couple of times many years back.
Irritation bubbled at her ability of making herself out to be vacuous – just as, by the looks of it, this man presumed too.
Refusing to allow her mistake to colour the moment, Sam smiled graciously and reached to take the carrier bag from Seb’s hand. ‘My father’s retirement will be aeons away, Mr Stoker. He’s no intention of going anywhere for the foreseeable future, if ever! Knowing him, I think he’ll still be working until the cows come home.’
Her fingers brushed Seb’s hand as she took the bag and she ignored the tingle it left on her skin. ‘Thanks again for the fruit, but I must dash. I’ve only popped out on my lunch break and I’ve got a meeting with an important client shortly. It’s been nice to see you.’
‘Likewise,’ Seb said, admiring Samantha Reynold’s pert backside as she hurried off into the crowd. She was a tasty piece all right, yet that made little difference. It wasn’t like he couldn’t have his pick of beautiful women. The only thing of importance here was Samantha Reynold’s involvement in the business.
A grin formed across Seb’s face. Yes, he’d have no worries making the Peacock’s standing more prominent once old man Reynold was spending his time tending his garden. The only pressing concern now, along with the scrubbers from the Aurora, was how to hurry Reynold along in the direction of his dotage.
Checking his watch, Seb moved towards the subway, keen to see if his delivery was present, correct and ready to go.