In the Rich Man's World

by Carol Marinelli

  ‘Mr Mason,’ Amelia said loudly, burning with humiliation and anger, stupid, stupid tears pricking her eyes. ‘Mr Mason!’

  Navy eyes peeped open—navy eyes that stared directly at her, that ignited something she couldn’t at that moment identify. But it spun her further into unfamiliar disorder—her pulse-rate accelerating, her anger fanning as he had the audacity to stretch and yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

  ‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding remotely so, in the deep voice she’d heard during numerous appearances on the news and radio. ‘I must have dozed off.’

  ‘Oh, you didn’t “doze off”,’ Amelia retorted, scarcely able to believe the provocation behind her own response. The consummate professional, she usually smiled through everything—yet for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom here she was answering back when she should stay quiet, letting her subject know exactly what she thought of his appalling behaviour when she should just let it go. ‘You were asleep, Mr Mason. Sound asleep. Snoring, in fact, when we’re supposed to be doing an interview.’

  ‘I don’t snore,’ he said easily, throwing incredibly long legs over the edge of the couch and bringing himself to a stand, tucking in his shirt and then towering over her, somehow instantly regaining control. ‘Had you arrived on time the interview would have been over with by now…’ He glanced at his watch—or rather he didn’t glance. Glances happened in a split second, whereas Vaughan positively stared, letting out a long held-in breath as the second hand ticked loudly on. Twisting his mouth into the cruel smile she knew so well, he said, ‘And, had you arrived on time, Miss Jacobs, I can assure that you’d have found me awake.’

  It was Amelia running her fingers through her own hair now, colour flaming in her pale cheeks as she felt the oily mass that greeted her fingers, felt the unspoken derision in the flicker of his gaze as he dragged his eyes the length of her body.

  Her editor’s gaze had been derisive, and she’d dealt with it, Amelia reminded herself, but her body burned with shame as she felt Vaughan slowly take in her brightly painted toenails, her naked feet slipped into silver sandals. The faded jeans that had seen better days merited a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes, and she felt a scorch of further humiliation as he languorously lifted his gaze and stopped, she was sure, at breasts that moved unhindered as her breathing quickened. Breasts that were still damp and heavy from her bath, straining at the leash under her softly ruched top. Way, way too big for an outing into this office without the firm support of a bra. Even Paul had told her to her face that she was inappropriately dressed, but though it had stung it hadn’t really mattered. Nothing from Paul could begin to compare to the sting of Vaughan’s disapproval as his eyes finally sought her face.

  ‘Your appointment was for five.’ Staring down again at his preposterously expensive watch, he frowned with concentration. ‘It’s now nearly twenty past.’

  She should have apologised, Amelia knew—knew that was what she should do. Hell, it wasn’t as if Vaughan Mason was the first of her subjects to behave atrociously. She’d been left stranded at restaurant tables more times than she could remember when her interviewee had failed to show, had waited patiently for celebrity ‘naturally thin’ new mothers to return from the powder room between each course more times than she could count. She’d even had subjects fall asleep mid-sentence, come to that!

  So why was she overreacting now? Why wasn’t she swallowing this bitter pill with the sweetest of smiles and attempting to redeem what was left of this awful situation? Why wasn’t she attempting to implement some sort of rescue plan? But it was as if her foot was stuck on an emotional accelerator; she could almost smell the petrol fumes as her mouth opened and she revved up again.

  ‘I’m well aware of the contempt in which you hold journalists, Mr Mason.’ Holding up his bio with slightly shaking hands, she attempted to fix him with a firm stare of her own. ‘And I’m more than aware that I’d be flattering myself to imagine that fifteen minutes in my company might cause you even the slightest twinge of anxiety. But this happens to be extremely important to me, and to walk in and find you sound asleep…’ She struggled for eloquence, attempting to swallow the shrill ring that was rising in her voice, to finish her argument with some crushing words that would shame him into submission. But settled instead for the only two words that sprang to her dizzy, emotional mind. ‘How rude!’

  ‘I wasn’t sound asleep,’ he said, his cool, utterly controlled voice the antithesis of hers. ‘But funny you should say that when I was thinking exactly the same thing myself.’ His mouth twisted into that familiar cruel smile. ‘I was just thinking how rude it was of the newspaper to cancel at such short notice, how rude it was of them to send a replacement journalist without having the courtesy to first run it by me…’

  ‘Your PA approved it—’ Amelia started, but her voice faded mid-sentence as Vaughan overrode her.

  ‘Indeed she did,’ Vaughan clipped. ‘Though no doubt at the time she was expecting a rather more suitable replacement.’

  ‘So, were you expecting one of the bigger names?’ Amelia bristled, but Vaughan shook his head.

  ‘Oh, no, Miss Jacobs. I was told it was you that would be doing the interview.’

  ‘Then why…?’ Confused, she blinked back at him. Her mouth opened to ask what he meant, but quickly she closed it again, shame coursing through her as realisation hit home and she braced herself for a dressing-down Mason style. And Vaughan took great pleasure in confirming his displeasure at her attitude and attire, nailing his answer with a brutality that was as savage as it was legendary.

  ‘Rude!’ He said the word slowly, rolled it slowly out of full lips, his face impassive.

  Amelia’s cheeks flamed, and she swallowed hard under his scrutiny, wishing he would just get it over with so she could get the hell out of there. Clearly this interview wasn’t going to happen, but Vaughan wasn’t rushing. Her allotted time-slot might be well and truly over, but Vaughan Mason wasn’t in any hurry to finish, mentally circling her like a vulture over his prey as the single word resonated in the air.

  ‘Impolite, uncouth, inappropriate…’ His forehead frowned slowly. ‘Did my lying on the couch while I awaited your arrival offend you that much, Miss Jacobs?’ He didn’t await her answer; she’d never really expected him to. ‘We must have a different understanding of the word.’ He flashed a tiny smile that didn’t meet his eyes, in fact he barely moved his lips. ‘Rude is arriving in my office with wet hair and inappropriate clothes. Rude is barging in here completely unprepared…’

  ‘How do you know that I’m unprepared? How do you know that I haven’t got a list of pertinent—?’ Amelia attempted, but Vaughan shot her down in an instant, picking up a newspaper from his desk and waving it at her.

  ‘Had you read your own newspaper you’d know that I’ve been on the go non-stop for the last thirty-six hours. That before I went to Singapore I had a prolonged stopover in Japan, meeting with Mr Cheng and drinking endless cups of green tea while trying to broker a deal that will bring jobs and dollars to this country and hopefully save a flailing industry that most people have written off.’

  ‘I know about the motor deal you’re attempting,’ Amelia responded. ‘In fact I’ve been monitoring it closely. I know that in a few weeks’ time you’re hoping to…’

  ‘I move quickly, Miss Jacobs. And, had you been more professional from the outset, you might have been the first to find out…’ His voice trailed off and Amelia watched in something akin to disbelief as Vaughan appeared to flounder, giving a tiny shake of his head, as if he couldn’t quite believe what he had just revealed.

  ‘It’s about to go through?’ Her voice was an incredulous whisper, her green eyes widening as she processed this piece of front-page news; everyone had said it was an impossible feat, a war that quite simply couldn’t be won even if the David that faced Goliath happened to be Vaughan Mason. ‘You’ve actually managed to pull it off?’

  But it wasn’t onl
y Amelia’s mind that was working overtime. Amelia wasn’t the only one reeling at the snippet of information he had so easily imparted.

  Vaughan quite simply couldn’t believe it himself. Already embarrassed at being caught asleep, he could scarcely believe he had mentally relaxed twice in a row. His defences were eternally up, yet one moment in this woman’s company and he had felt them waver. Her sparkling green eyes had caught him completely off guard—eyes that seemed to stare not at him but through him, through to somewhere deep inside, where no one was permitted. He had given this woman, this stranger, this journalist an opening, a chance to destroy what he had spent months building, and Vaughan knew that he had to somehow retrieve it, had to somehow pull sharply back, get her the hell out of here just as fast as he could.

  ‘Repeat what I just said and I’ll sue.’ Direct, threatening and straight to the point.

  Vaughan felt himself retrieve the grip he had momentarily lost and watched her face pale before him, utter despair filling those expressive eyes as he snatched back the tidbit he had so readily thrown. ‘I think you should leave now.’

  Amelia opened her mouth to argue, then closed it again, perhaps realising it would be futile, and Vaughan let out a breath of relief as without further ado she headed for the door.

  And that should have been it. If it had been anyone else he was sure this rather uncomfortable exchange would be over by now, so why did she have to go and turn around? Why couldn’t she have just cut her losses and got the hell out?

  ‘I’m sorry.’

  For Amelia, the apology that had spilled from her mouth was as unexpected as it was genuine. She’d meant to just leave—had fully intended to slam the door on this insufferable man. But with a stab of cruel honesty she realised that her anger was misdirected, that the only person who’d blown her chance was herself. Tears that had no place if she wanted to escape with her last withering shred of dignity were held firmly back and she gave a small shake of her head in defeat.

  ‘I have been rude, appallingly so, and the truth of the matter is I’ve no idea why.’ She gave a tiny shrug. ‘You’re right. I have just come out of the bath and I’m woefully inappropriately dressed. I had the phone off the hook because I was working on an important piece.’ Amelia gave a dry laugh. ‘Well, it seemed important at the time. Then my computer got a virus…’

  Her voice trailed off. Vaughan Mason didn’t need details. An apology was the only thing needed now.

  ‘Had I had any idea prior to five p.m. that I’d be interviewing you, Mr Mason, then I’d have spent every available minute researching you and would have arrived in the smartest of suits. I had no right to barge in here all accusatory. I was just…’

  Again, she struggled for eloquence but gave in, words literally failing her, unable to justify even to herself what had just taken place, secretly hoping he’d put her out of her misery, end the torture she’d started and let her go meekly on her way. But Vaughan had other ideas.

  ‘Just what?’

  ‘Overwhelmed.’ Amelia chewed on her lip as she struggled to find the words. ‘I’m usually incredibly ordered. OCD is my middle name…’ He didn’t even laugh at her rather feeble joke. ‘Obsessive compulsive disorder…’

  ‘I know what OCD is.’

  ‘I pride myself on being prepared, and when I found out I was interviewing you I guess I just panicked. I’ve been trying to move into business reporting, and had I handled it better this really could have been a huge break for me.’ Forcing a brave smile, she offered her hand. ‘I’ve already taken up enough of your time. Once again, I really am sorry.’

  As his expression softened a shade she almost dared to hope that he’d refuse her hand and, with a nod of that immaculately cut hair, relent and gesture for her to come in. But that vague hope was doused before it had even formed: after only the briefest of hesitations Vaughan Mason’s warm, dry hand closed around hers.

  ‘What will you say? I mean, what will you write?’

  ‘My notice, probably, when I return to the office empty-handed.’ Amelia sighed, but emotional blackmail clearly didn’t move Vaughan Mason an inch. He just stood there as Amelia turned and pulled the heavy door open. ‘Congratulations, by the way.’ She saw the flicker of confusion in his tired eyes, realised only then just how exhausted he must be if a billion-dollar deal could so easily be forgotten. ‘On the contract.’

  ‘Oh, that!’ He gave a tight nod. ‘Thanks. Although it’s a touch premature. It’s far from in the bag, and, as I said—’

  ‘Off the record, or you’ll sue?’ Amelia second-guessed him and gave a wan smile. ‘Don’t worry; my next piece will be called “You heard it here last”.’

  She slipped out of his office and into the hallway. The elevator must have been expecting her, because it slid open before she even approached, killing stone-dead any lingering hope that he might change his mind, might pull open the door and call her back in.

  As if.

  As if Vaughan Mason would even give their altercation a second thought.

  Stepping out onto the street, she ignored the taxi rank and decided instead to walk. What was the point of rushing to the gallows?

  She could almost see Paul’s thunderous face when she told him what had happened. Could imagine her bank balance sliding into the red as she struggled to find another gig.

  The one major scoop of her life had practically been gift-wrapped and handed to her on a plate, and she’d somehow managed to mess it up.

  But it wasn’t just her lack of journalistic acumen causing Amelia’s feet to drag. Glancing back over her shoulder, she stared up at the ostentatious high-rise building, squinting into the low, late-afternoon sun at the black-tinted windows, remembering Vaughan lying asleep on the couch… And she was suddenly assailed with regret of a rather more personal nature.

  If only she’d dared kiss him!

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘PAUL said you were to go straight through,’ Clara greeted her. ‘And by the way he’s not in the sunniest of moods.’

  Perhaps he already knew. Amelia sighed, picking her way through the practically empty office and knocking wearily on his door. Perhaps Vaughan had wasted no time picking up the telephone and complaining to her senior about the poor replacement he had sent.

  Oh, well, if nothing else it would save her the indignity of repeating the debacle; living through it the first time had been bad enough

  As usual Paul was on the telephone.

  As usual he gestured for her to sit, with barely a glance, and sit Amelia did—nausea rising with every breath and the oppressive scent of a large bouquet of stunning orchids which adorned Paul’s desk doing nothing to help.

  ‘How did it go?’ Paul finally asked, hanging up the telephone and scribbling down a few notes. ‘Oh, and these came for you,’ he added when Amelia didn’t immediately answer, pushing the bouquet forward, watching her strained face as she fingered the pale pink waxy petals. ‘Most women would die to be in your position, you know? Most women would give their right arm to have Taylor Dean constantly sending them flowers and begging for forgiveness.’

  ‘No, Paul, they wouldn’t,’ Amelia sighed, wishing Taylor would just drop it, wishing his ego could finally admit that it was over and he’d realise that for once in his life he wasn’t going to be forgiven his sins.

  ‘What’s he got to say for himself this time?’

  Amelia didn’t need to read the card to find out—no doubt it was another ream of excuses, another plea for forgiveness.

  ‘So, how did it go with Mason?’ Paul asked again, returning to his notes. And, given that it was the second time he’d asked, given that Paul didn’t like to be kept waiting, Amelia knew that her tiny reprieve was over. The curtain was lifting and the final act was about to begin

  ‘Not very well.’ She watched the smile wiped from Paul’s face, watched as his pen froze over the paper and he instantly reverted from colleague to boss.

  ‘Which means exactly what?’

  Am
elia swallowed hard, peeling open the envelope from the bouquet for something to do. Taylor’s pathetic excuses were preferable to Paul’s harsh, direct stare.

  ‘He wasn’t really up to an interview. He was tired…’

  ‘Vaughan Mason’s never tired,’ Paul hissed. ‘Vaughan Mason isn’t a mere mortal who needs six hours’ sleep to function, like the rest of us…’

  ‘He was tired,’ Amelia insisted, pulling the card out of the envelope and glancing down at the writing—anything other than meeting her boss’s eyes. ‘He’s just flown back from Asia…’

  ‘Did you find out anything about the motor vehicle deal?’

  For a second she wavered. For a second integrity seemed a poor buffer against the harsh reality of a world without work. But unfortunately it must have been indelibly implanted, because after only the briefest of pauses she shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘So what exactly did you find out, Amelia?’ Paul clipped, with no smile to follow, no small talk to pad it out—it was a direct question that needed a direct answer. ‘That he looks beautiful asleep.’ Her voice was a pale whisper and she screwed her eyes closed. ‘You see, he was asleep when I got there…’

  ‘So?’ Paul thumped the desk. ‘You make the guy a coffee, wake him with a bright smile…’

  If only…

  She couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the card in her hand, listening as Paul took her on a virtual tour of a hundred ways to butter up a reluctant subject, his voice growing louder with each passing sentence. He was oblivious to the sudden shift in Amelia, totally unaware of the metamorphosis taking place before him, blind to the fact that the world had just tipped on its axis, that Christmas had come eleven months early, that Amelia was actually smiling—really smiling—back at him.

  ‘What did you get from him, Amelia?’ Paul’s voice was deadly serious, and at any other moment in time it would have had her shrinking in her seat.