In the Rich Man's World Read online

  ‘Interesting evening?’ Vaughan asked, restless eyes scanning the lift numbers as he smothered a yawn.

  ‘Very.’ Amelia nodded. ‘Especially the dessert.’

  ‘I was talking about—’

  ‘I know you were.’ Amelia grinned. ‘Actually, I’m still reeling from the fact that they all let me in. You’d hardly think a journalist would be permitted in some of those buildings, let alone in the meeting rooms. Look at Noble and Bates—I mean, I know there’s been a few whispers, but why would they take the risk of allowing me in? Obviously I’m not going to name names, but why on earth would they allow a journalist in to hear that their business’s back is against the wall.’

  ‘But it isn’t,’ Vaughan answered as the lift door pinged open and they walked along the thickly carpeted corridor to their adjoining rooms. ‘At least not any more.’

  ‘You heard the figures, Vaughan!’ Amelia responded, hobbling along on heels that were seriously killing her now, not quite comfortable enough to slip them off in his presence!

  ‘I’m sure they’re far worse!’ Vaughan answered easily. They were at his door now, and she watched as he swiped his access card, pushing the door open and holding it that way with his wide shoulders. ‘Look, Amelia, today had nothing to do with trust or risk, at least not on Noble and Bates’s part. You’re right—there have been whispers, and they’re getting louder by the day and the directors know it. Their quarterly figures are about to be released and there are going to be a lot of shareholders baying for answers. Now they’ve got one.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Me,’ Vaughan answered without a trace of modesty, and somehow it suited him. ‘I don’t take on no-hopers and everyone knows that.’

  ‘But their figures are appalling,’ Amelia answered, genuinely confused. ‘Do you really think they can recover?’

  ‘My word, they’re going to. Especially given the fact that for the next three years Noble and Bates will be paying me ten per cent of their profits—and, given that I intend to keep right on living well, I’m going to make damn sure they’re healthy ones. My team and I will whip their sorry butts into shape, get rid of all the dead wool that’s been holding them back, and everybody knows it.’

  ‘Wood,’ Amelia corrected. ‘The dead wood.’

  ‘Wool.’ Vaughan gave a glimmer of a smile. ‘Growing up on a sheep farm taught me a lot of things, and one of them is that underneath that tired-looking old sheep is a little lamb waiting to skip off—and I intend to expose it.’

  And he would. Amelia didn’t doubt it.

  Confidence was contagious, and Vaughan Mason epitomised the word. The mere fact he was taking them on, the mere fact he was prepared to invest his time in the ailing company, would be more than enough to appease the shareholders.

  He’d never been wrong.

  Amelia’s mind raced for one exception to the rule, but admitted defeat almost instantly.

  ‘Lucky Noble and Bates, then.’ Amelia smiled up at him, but it faded midway. Nothing, nothing in his stance had changed—his shoulder was still blocking the door, his face was exactly the same as the last time she had looked—yet everything had shifted. Business was clearly over; senses were trickling in. Shifting her weight on her tired aching feet, self-conscious under his scrutiny, her voice was slightly croaky as she wrapped up what she was saying. ‘Having you to rescue them…’

  Again she shifted her weight, and Vaughan gave her the gift of another small smile.

  ‘New shoes?’

  Amelia grimaced. ‘They’re too small. They didn’t come in my size.’

  ‘Then why on earth did you buy them?’ Vaughan asked, clearly completely bemused.

  ‘I guess I fell in love.’ Amelia gave a tiny shrug. ‘It was either these or go without completely.’

  ‘And was it worth the pain?’

  Amelia thought of her bruised, raw, shredded feet, but without hesitation nodded. ‘Absolutely.’

  For a beat he hesitated too, and Amelia was sure that for that fraction of time he was thinking about asking her in, weighing up in that calculated mind of his the pros and cons of prolonging this long day. And she only knew that she couldn’t do it—couldn’t enter into that room and hope to retain a distant façade.

  ‘I’d better get on,’ she attempted, as still he stared down. ‘Paul will be screaming for my word-count.’

  ‘Shame,’ Vaughan said softly, but didn’t elaborate, walking into his room without a backward glance.

  The door closed gently behind him, leaving Amelia standing, mouthing like a goldfish at the smart mahogany woodwork, a retraction on the tip of her tongue, bitterly regretful that she hadn’t said yes to his offer.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  ‘WELL?’

  Somehow Paul managed to deliver twenty questions with a single word.

  ‘I haven’t actually written anything to send you yet,’ Amelia started, thankful for the hands-free phone so she could pace the room, as she always did when she was nervous; talking to Paul always made her nervous. ‘We’ve only just got in. But I’ve got lots of material.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘I’m not sure yet,’ Amelia answered feebly. ‘I’m still building a picture.’

  ‘If I wanted photos I’d have sent a photographer along with you,’ Paul retorted nastily. ‘I want words, I want facts, and I want details…’

  ‘Paul!’ Halting his tirade, even Amelia was shocked at the force behind her own voice. ‘This is my piece. My piece,’ she added, more so she could affirm it to herself than to Paul—assertiveness not really her forte at the best of times. ‘You’ll get your words and I can assure you they’ll be interesting—riveting in fact—but if you’re hoping for me to do a hatchet job on Vaughan Mason then you’re going to be sorely disappointed. If you want facts and details, then give me a permanent job in the business section of the paper instead of a painfully temporary freelance position in the colour supplement.’

  ‘Do this right,’ Paul responded, ‘and you’ll have your permanent job, Amelia. You know that as well as I do.’

  Her lack of response spoke volumes.

  ‘That is what you still want, I assume?’

  Amelia didn’t answer; she truly couldn’t. She had suddenly realised that she didn’t really know what she wanted any more—the dream she’d chased for so long was so close now she could almost reach out and touch it, so why was she stalling? Why was she closing her eyes and having second thoughts?

  ‘Just deliver a good piece and then we’ll talk about it,’ Paul concluded. ‘But in the meantime remember who’s paying that over-inflated hotel bill.’

  And she would, Amelia decided, pulling open her laptop and flicking it on. Now really wasn’t the most convenient of times to be having a career crisis!

  Locating the file she’d set aside for her article, Amelia fiddled with the margins for a full moment before attempting to start. Her fingers hovered over the keys for an inordinate amount of time, even though they’d been itching to get started before Paul’s call had stifled them.

  As good for her career as it might be, she didn’t want to waste even a second of her word-count on Noble and Bates—there were hundreds of journalists who’d be only too willing to step in and do that when the time came. Instead she wanted—no, needed to somehow divulge to her readers the subject she was spending time with, to transport them on a bleary Saturday morning to an alien world, to let them glimpse the man that was Vaughan Mason, allow them to glimpse the real person behind the hype…

  To keep on doing what she had been for six months…

  Wanted or not, a career crisis was exactly what she was having!

  Pulling open the French windows, she let the clatter of diners below fill the room, pleasantly masked by the skilful fingers of a pianist. Stepping out onto the balcony she stared down, closing her eyes and letting the music soothe her, trying to put Paul’s words out of her mind and focus on what it was she really wanted to do with her life.

 
‘Problem?’

  His voice was so close she literally jumped, turning, startled, to the balcony beside hers, where Vaughan sat nursing a huge brandy, totally relaxed in a massive toweling robe. His black hair was even blacker from the shower, and Amelia’s body shot into overdrive. Even an intravenous shot of hormones couldn’t have delivered a more potent effect. The mere sight of Vaughan away from the boardroom and in a clearly relaxed frame of mind was literally intoxicating. All she could manage was a feeble shake of her head.

  ‘If you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit anxious.’

  She felt a bit anxious, but right now it had nothing to do with Paul and everything to do with the man on the next balcony.

  The strategic waist-high Perspex wall between balconies was at least a semblance of a barrier, and it gave Amelia enough room to move mentally, feign nonchalance and give a small shrug.

  ‘It’s just a work issue.’

  ‘So, tell me,’ Vaughan offered, holding up the bottle, ‘and on this side of the fence, preferably. I don’t fancy shouting over Frank.’

  As Amelia gave him a slightly perplexed look he added, ‘Sinatra.’ And a smile broke on her pale lips as, sure enough, the pianist broke into a musical rendition of a very old favourite. ‘I’ve been here enough to know the pianist’s routine by now. Come over and talk about it.’

  ‘I’d say you’re the last person I should be discussing my work problems with,’ Amelia refuted, but of course Vaughan had an answer.

  ‘On the contrary. I’m probably the first person you should be discussing them with, given that no doubt I’m the root of the problem.’

  ‘That’s very presumptuous.’

  ‘But accurate,’ Vaughan responded, at her darkening cheeks. ‘Now, given that for the first time in living memory I’m offering some free advice, and given that however presumptuous it sounds I’m extremely good at what I do, then I’d take it if I were you.’

  ‘It is about you,’ Amelia admitted. ‘Well, sort of. So how can I possibly…?’

  ‘I can be very objective,’ Vaughan persisted.

  ‘I really need to have a shower,’ Amelia attempted as a last line of defence, but Vaughan dealt with that excuse just as easily.

  ‘It’s way before my bedtime.’ He flashed a wicked grin. ‘Go and have your shower and I’ll pour you a drink.’

  Which sounded simple.

  Which should be simple, Amelia thought, turning the knob in the shower and getting drenched in freezing water by a shower head that was surely as big as a dinner plate. But even a shower of icy water couldn’t douse the nerves that were jumping now. And why, Amelia wondered, was she shaving her legs when she’d only done them last night? Why was she squeezing every last drop out of the tiny bottle of moisturising lotion the hotel provided and rubbing it into every inch of her body?

  What should she wear?

  The never-ending question that bypassed men and perpetually plagued women was making itself heard. Her entire suitcase was filled with smart business suits and endless strappy little numbers which she had packed for formal occasions. Sophisticated chic had been very much the order of the day when she’d been packing; tête-à-têtes in Vaughan’s hotel room had definitely not been on the agenda. The only exception to the rule was a very skimpy pair of boxer shorts and a crop top that were strictly for bed.

  Alone!

  Punching in Vaughan’s room number, she made one of the most embarrassing phone calls of her life.

  ‘Would you believe me if I told you I have nothing to wear?’

  ‘It’s midnight, Amelia,’ Vaughan drawled. ‘We’ll be sitting on a balcony talking and drinking brandy. You hardly need to dress up for the occasion.’

  ‘Exactly,’ Amelia sighed. ‘But according to my suitcase dress up is all I can manage. Had you been asking me to a ball I’d be appropriately dressed—stunning, actually. Coffee in Chapel Street—no problem at all. But casual…’

  ‘Walk towards the bathroom Amelia.’ She could feel his smile and it made her lips twitch too. ‘Pull open the door and what do you see?’

  ‘Deodorant, toothpaste…’

  ‘Okay, close the door. Now what do you see?’

  ‘A towelling robe,’ Amelia wailed. ‘But I can’t come over dressed—’

  ‘We’ll be matching.’ Vaughan grinned down the phone.

  Even though she was draped from head to toe in inch-thick terry towelling fabric, even though not a glimpse of newly shaved, freshly moisturised flesh was on show, Amelia felt as naked and as exposed as if she were wearing only the bottom half of a bikini. Knocking on his door with a tentative hand, she wished she had her time over and had thought to rouge her cheeks or add a splash of lipgloss to her lips—even the dreadful jeans she had first greeted him in would be preferable to this!

  Damn!

  It was the only word that resounded in his mind as he opened the door.

  Damn, damn, damn!

  Straight back to go, straight back to the beginning of the game, when she’d spun into his office, gamine, hair damp, large eyes glittering in her wary face. Straight back to where he’d completely dropped his guard.

  Yet he’d seen more women dressed in exactly the same attire than he cared to remember, Vaughan reminded himself as he let her in. Had opened the door over and over to a terry towelling robe with a voluptuous woman inside—so why the panic now?

  Because normally the heavy scent of perfume was the first thing to greet him, followed by tumbling hair and a well made-up face. Normally Vaughan knew exactly what was on the agenda, but the signs were completely unreadable here.

  If Housekeeping had taken to installing buttons on the robes, then Amelia’s were done up the neck. The lapels were pulled tightly, the belt firmly double-knotted around her waist, and she was even wearing the slippers the hotel provided, unpainted toes peeping out. If nothing else they were something for him to focus on as he beckoned her inside, trying to ignore the sweet scent of shampoo and toothpaste and completely nothing else. Her eyes were utterly devoid of make-up, her hair still wore the marks of the comb she must have raked through it, yet for all her complete lack of effort, for all her hidden womanly charms, she was, quite simply, the most delicious parcel of femininity he had ever seen.

  As wary as a puppy being let inside for the first time, she stalked into the room, tail firmly between her legs, as if any moment now she expected to be shooed out. Yet despite the vulnerability and the absolute lack of warpaint, despite the almost child-like demeanour, Vaughan knew from the way his body responded that it was every inch a woman crossing his threshold tonight.

  Amelia wasn’t faring much better. Even though their rooms were identical, Vaughan had already stamped his identity on his—the lights were dimmer and the air, still damp from a no-doubt extended shower, was filled with his heavy cologne plus that unique masculine smell that had assailed her over and over in the lifts. Damp white towels littered the floor—Vaughan was clearly only too happy for someone else to pick them up—and his dresser was littered with his watch and heavy silver cufflinks, his wallet and mobile.

  But far more intimidating than the dim lights and the heady scent of maleness was the wide-shouldered man walking in front of her towards the balcony. Even his back view was somehow effortlessly divine—superbly cut hair, for once wet and tousled, belt loosely knotted around snaky hips and a glimpse of toned muscular calves peeping out at the bottom.

  She felt as if she were stepping inside somewhere decadent and forbidden, like a teenager entering a bar for the first time—painfully self-conscious, feeling as sophisticated as a gnat, almost waiting for a bouncer to appear, to tell her to leave, that she should never have been let in, that this was somewhere a woman like Amelia quite simply shouldn’t be.

  ‘Brandy?’

  He hadn’t poured it yet—they weren’t even outside—but she could see a second glass waiting by the bottle on the balcony. Amelia shook her head, deciding her wits were firmly needed about her person. ‘I’ll
just have a hot chocolate.’

  ‘I’ll ring down for Room Service.’

  ‘Please don’t.’ Pulling open a cupboard Vaughan hadn’t even known existed, she plugged in a tiny kettle, peeled open a sachet of powder and poured it into a mug, taking her time to make her brew before joining him outside.

  ‘This is a terrible idea,’ Amelia groaned, breaking the ice with her valid concerns. ‘Despite what you say, I can hardly hope for objective advice. You don’t even know what the problem is.’

  ‘Don’t tell me—let me guess.’ Vaughan waited a moment till she’d sat down. ‘The papers are asking for blood? “Forget the intimate portrayal, Amelia, we know you can deliver on that. You’ve got Vaughan Mason to yourself for a week and we want you to give us the dirt—give us a story that’s going to grab the headlines”.’

  She didn’t even feign surprise that he already knew, just nodded wearily.

  ‘So why don’t you? You know about the motor deal, you know about Noble and Bates—why don’t you give the paper what they want and make a bigger name for yourself in the meantime? You said in my office that you desperately wanted to move into business reporting—well, here’s your chance.’

  For an age she thought, forming an answer she hadn’t even properly run by herself.

  ‘I don’t know if it’s what I really want to do any more, Vaughan.’

  It sounded so straightforward, but as she tucked her legs under her, closing her eyes for a moment, he knew it was anything but.

  ‘My father’s a political reporter…’

  ‘Grant Jacobs!’ She watched as he made the connection. ‘Now, that really is a hard act to follow—he’s brilliant.’

  ‘Brilliant,’ Amelia sighed. ‘My father is a real journalist—or so he keeps telling me. He dashes off at a moment’s notice to some wartorn country, appears on horribly blotchy videophone news reports, talking about bombings and death and danger, and holds tiny famine-struck babies in his arms. For ages he hoped that I’d follow in his footsteps…’