Fabulously beautiful with her flawless olive-toned skin and her heavy fall of chocolate-brown hair. How could any man resist her?
And so Layla had become ‘related’ to Alberto.
Only not by blood.
Into her brain came another image. It made her frown. Annie and Alberto, together. Smiling and talking in that verbal shorthand they seemed to share. Layla could understand why her father was suspicious about the relationship. He had always been crazily possessive where Annie was concerned. Sometimes, the sheer heat between her parents had been so palpable it was embarrassing. Max had gone apeshit every time Annie insisted on shooting across to New York. Claiming it was business that took her there, not the fact that Alberto was in New York. No wonder Dad had ended the marriage and taken off abroad.
Their divorce had left a bitter taste for Layla. As a teenager she had half-blamed herself, and even now she desperately missed having Max here full-time. It had become a source of festering resentment between her and Annie, a solid wall that had grown higher, more impregnable, with each passing year. The fact was, Layla believed that if Annie hadn’t spent so much time in the States, her marriage to Max wouldn’t have ended. And Layla couldn’t forgive her for that.
Layla’s upbringing had at times been almost unbearably lonely, with no brothers or sisters and her dad half a world away. Only Mum had been constant in her life: and Layla had pushed her away.
She hadn’t offered to pick her mother up from the airport. Why should she? There was always a chauffeur-driven car, a private jet, a flotilla of minders, fixers and flunkies hovering around to attend to her mother’s every wish.
Layla was nothing like her mother.
Never would be.
She thought back to all the times her mother had abandoned her, just as she’d left Max, going abroad on ‘business’. Or the times Annie had sent her away, to stay with Auntie Ruthie or Jenny and Josh Parsons or anybody, so long as she was out of her mother’s way.
Growing up, Layla had always known that she came second in the great scheme of things. First came Annie’s career, the New York club she owned, the business. There was no doubt about it – her mother was a cold-blooded, controlling bitch.
But sometimes – though she hated to admit it – Layla wished she could have just a fraction of Annie Carter’s gloss and glamour, a little of her chutzpah.
She quickened her pace, broke into a fast run.
Fuck it.
She was Layla Carter. She was dependable. She was bright and honest.