‘You can buy me all the white chocolate nougat I can stomach, tell me I’m the best journalist in Australia and massage my ego for hours, but I write the truth, Vaughan. You won’t sway me for a moment.’
‘I wouldn’t dream of trying. And, no, I’m actually not asking you along to do a hearts-and-flowers piece on me. The truth would be refreshing enough!’
Amelia stared at him thoughtfully for a moment. His answer had almost convinced her, but there was one thing she needed to get out of the way—one thing she needed confirmed before she accepted the assignment. And if it sounded presumptuous, then so be it. There was no denying the sexual sparks cracking in the air around them, and to disregard them could only be to her detriment. By ignoring the sparks she could be fanning the flames, which was a dangerous game indeed—especially with such a skilful player as Vaughan.
‘Would you have asked Carter?’
‘Carter’s after a different angle. His mind’s stuck purely on business.’
‘So is mine,’ Amelia retorted sharply, but Vaughan just laughed.
‘I was actually referring to the different section of the newspaper that Carter covers. But if that’s what’s worrying you…’
‘I’m not worried, Vaughan. I just like to make things clear from the outset.’
‘Which you have,’ Vaughan replied easily, smothering a yawn before signalling for the bill. ‘And if it makes you feel any more comfortable I never mix business with pleasure—well, not recently anyway. It’s a definite new rule of mine. It makes things far too messy and complicated. Katy today is a prime example. Believe me, Amelia, if I want casual sex I can think of easier ways of getting it than having a journalist glued to my side for a week.’
And therein lay the problem. With two small words he’d affirmed what she’d guessed.
Casual sex.
Walking out onto the street, momentarily blinded by the flash of photographers, Amelia managed a wry smile at their wasted efforts. Curses would later fill the darkrooms of rival newspapers as her face came into focus alongside Vaughan’s, when they realised that not only did Vaughan Mason not have a hot date tonight, but she, Amelia Jacobs, had landed a wonderful scoop.
Refusing his offer of a lift, Amelia hailed a taxi, firmed up a time to meet him at the airport, then climbed into the back seat, managing a small wave as the taxi pulled off. But all the time her heart was hammering, her cheeks flaming at his throwaway comment.
Casual sex was all a man like Vaughan wanted from women, and she mustn’t forget it—not even for a moment.
CHAPTER THREE
‘NO PROBLEM getting away?’ Vaughan greeted her, and Amelia gave a crisp smile.
‘No problem,’ she confirmed—which was the understatement of the year!
Paul had practically died on the spot in delight when she’d told him—in fact, she was surprised he wasn’t here at the airport now, to wave her off, hiding behind a pot-plant and attempting to catch her alone so he could give her just one more piece of vital advice.
After she’d told her editor of Vaughan’s invitation the whole weekend had been a blur of vital advice—the questions she should ask, the subjects she should avoid. The only time Paul had been silent was when Amelia had asked him about the big story the paper was due to break on Vaughan.
‘Like I said, Amelia, it’s best you don’t know.’
‘Best for who?’ Amelia pushed. ‘How can I do an informed piece when my own paper’s holding back on vital information? If there’s something about to go down with the motor deal, surely I should be aware—’
‘It’s nothing to do with the motor deal,’ Paul broke in.
‘Personal, then?’ Watching Paul’s eyes dart away a fraction too soon, Amelia knew she’d hit the nail on the head. ‘Is he about to get engaged? Has he got some love-child…?’
‘Stop fishing, Amelia. Just do your work and I’ll do mine. I want your copy by two p.m. on Friday and not a second later. We’re going to use it this same weekend. Not,’ he added, with an utterly wasted reassuring smile, ‘that I want you to feel as if you’re under pressure.’
‘Just know that I am,’ Amelia retorted, relishing the task ahead yet terrified all of the same.
And now here she stood, in a boxy little suit, hair slicked back, and looking not too bad given she’d had approximately five minutes’ sleep the entire weekend. Her luggage was checked in, the newspaper was under her arm, her boarding pass was in her hand, and Australia’s most eligible bachelor was at her side.
Life was certainly looking up.
Better still if he whizzed her off to some scrummy first-class lounge for a decent cup of coffee to wake her up while they waited for their flight. But that hope was soon dashed when Vaughan told her that, given how she’d managed to get there on time, he’d checked them onto an earlier flight.
‘I’m going to get something to read. Do you want anything?’
‘No, thanks,’ Amelia answered, tapping the newspaper under her arm.
‘You’re sure?’ Vaughan checked, pulling a suitably bored face at her choice of in-flight entertainment.
‘I like to keep abreast—anyway, you don’t really have time to go to the newsagent’s, Vaughan. The six-thirty’s already boarding.’
‘So?’ he answered with annoying arrogance, striding off towards the newsagent’s.
And because it was all business passengers, because there were no irate toddlers or wheelchairs to board, the line of red-eyed passengers filed in quickly—leaving Amelia standing alone, avoiding the eye of an irritated air stewardess, who was chatting into the wall phone and tapping on the computer, and wondering just what the hell was taking Vaughan so long.
‘Miss Jackson?’ the air stewardess called, replacing the phone’s receiver. ‘I’m going to have to ask you to board now, please. The door’s about to close.’
‘It’s Miss Jacobs,’ Amelia corrected, hoping she sounded assertive. ‘I’m just waiting for my colleague. He shouldn’t be too much longer.’
‘Well, when he returns you can tell your colleague that he’s just missed his flight,’ the stewardess huffed, tapping into the computer with impossibly long nails. ‘The gate has just closed. I’ll see if there are any spaces on the seven a.m. What’s your colleague’s surname?’
‘Mason,’ Amelia answered, scanning the empty corridor, praying for him to appear, terrified the whole week ahead wasn’t even going to get past the first hurdle. ‘Vaughan Mason.’
It was like watching a soluble aspirin drop into a glass.
The pretty face, set in stone, suddenly fizzed into animated life. The impassive stance gave way and the air stewardess positively sparkled at the mere mention of his name. Gone was the bossy harridan tapping into the computer, instead she was actually moving—walking, in fact—over to the seriously camp air steward who was shooting daggers at Amelia as he appeared at the desk.
Make that two soluble aspirin, Amelia thought darkly as the air steward caught sight of his wayward passenger, carrier bag bulging, thumbing through a glossy magazine, not remotely in a hurry.
Vaughan made his way over.
‘Mr Mason!’ Amelia wasn’t sure who said it first, both steward and stewardess were talking in effusive tones, practically carrying him along the carpeted walkway as Amelia padded behind. ‘We didn’t realise you were travelling with us this morning—what a pleasure.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Vaughan asked as Amelia sat, still bristling, in her seat.
The plane taxied along the runway, and the sigh from the passengers was audible when the captain announced that they’d missed their slot and would have to wait another fifteen minutes before take-off.
‘Nothing.’ Amelia sniffed, and waited for him to push, to ask if she were sure, but when Vaughan merely dug into his carrier bag and pulled out another magazine Amelia chose to elaborate. ‘If you’d been anyone else, the flight would have gone.’
‘Probably,’ Vaughan conceded.
‘Yet you expected it to
wait,’ Amelia went on, warming to her subject. ‘You kept a whole planeload of people sitting here while you chose a pile of magazines…’ Anger mounting, she watched as he unwrapped a toffee and popped it into his mouth. ‘And a load of sweets. Don’t you think that’s rather arrogant, Vaughan?’
‘You clearly do!’
‘Yes,’ Amelia replied hotly, ‘I really do. Now, I know I’m here merely to observe, but, given that you’ve involved me, I think I have a right to say something here!’
‘Go ahead,’ Vaughan offered, but he sounded so bored Amelia half expected him to put on the eyepads located in the little goody bag they had been handed.
‘You change our flights because we’re early, and then, instead of boarding at the correct time, instead of being pleased we’d been accommodated earlier, you head off to the newsagent, leaving me standing like an idiot to make excuses for your thoughtless behaviour.’
‘Thoughtless?’
‘Yes, thoughtless.’ Her hand flailed, gesturing to the window, to the grey of the airport buildings as the plane taxied slowly along. ‘Just so that you had something to read, you’ve ensured that two hundred people’s schedules are put out for the day. I’d say that’s pretty thoughtless Vaughan.’
‘I guess it is,’ Vaughan sighed. ‘I just felt sorry for her.’
‘For who?’ Amelia frowned.
‘The girl at the newsagent. It was only her second day, and she’d run out of till paper. I said I didn’t want a receipt, but she insisted—said that she’d get into trouble if she didn’t give me one.’
‘Oh!’ Blinking back at him, Amelia almost apologised, even opened her mouth to do so. But the ghost of a smile twitching at the edge of his lips gave him away, and her mouth snapped closed as she almost swallowed his bare-faced lie.
‘Guess I’m just an arrogant bastard!’ He winked, with no trace of an apology, and turned back to his magazine, laughing out loud at the problem page and then wincing loudly, not even bothering to flick over the page, from a before and after shot of breast enlargement surgery.
The air steward hovered to double check that his seatbelt was done up, and Amelia struggled through the business section of her paper, reading the most boring article about gender balance in the workplace and longing to bury herself in one of Vaughan’s glossies.
But she’d die before asking.
‘Help yourself,’ Vaughan offered, as Amelia’s eyes wandered for the third time in two minutes to the magazine he was holding. He held it out to her. ‘I’m keeping abreast myself—though I have to admit it looks like bloody agony. Why do women do it?’
‘That’s a rather in-depth topic for six forty-five in the morning,’ Amelia bristled, and Vaughan rolled his eyes.
‘Just making small talk. Look…’ his voice lowered ‘…this could end up being a very long week if we don’t set a few ground rules: you want to see me warts and all; I want an honest piece written.’
‘Yes,’ Amelia agreed.
‘So get your own back at the end of the week. Toss in a spiteful, cutting line about how thoughtless I am, if it makes you feel better, but please, don’t sit next to me smarting. File it and save it for later.’
The rest of the flight was spent in rather more companionable silence. Amelia nibbled on a warm chocolate muffin, leafing through one of Vaughan’s magazines, as he in turn drank three impossibly strong coffees and read, with markedly more interest than Amelia, the business section of her newspaper, barely even glancing up as the plane made its descent.
The hotel was as impossibly decadent. Vaughan glided through check-in as silent bellboys whizzed away their luggage, and with one glimpse of the massive bed as she stepped into her king-size suite, Amelia wanted to peel off her stilettos there and then and climb right in.
‘All right?’ Vaughan checked, knocking sharply on her door and not even waiting for a reply before he let himself in. ‘I asked for adjoining rooms. I figured it would be easier to meet up that way.’
‘It’s fine,’ Amelia replied nonchalantly, while privately imagining Paul’s reaction when she put in her expense-claim form. ‘Oh, look!’ Peeling back the sheer curtains, she stared at the magnificent view below—there was not a glint of summer sky in sight; the entire complex faced in on itself, and the courtyard below was filled with early-morning Melburnians, pulling apart croissants and reading newspapers.
‘That’s a nice place to eat,’ Vaughan said, nodding downwards to where a massive grand piano was the focal point of the dining area. ‘Though I normally choose to eat on the balcony.’ He gestured to the four square feet of space adjoining hers.
‘We can wave to each other,’ Amelia suggested, then, taking a deep breath, figured it was time to set her ground rules. ‘Look, Vaughan, the last thing I want to do is crowd you. I’m thrilled you’ve entrusted me to do this piece, but if at any time over the next few days you need your space, then just say so.’
‘Likewise,’ Vaughan agreed, a flicker of relief washing over his face.
‘So…’ Amelia grinned as still he stood there.
‘So?’ Vaughan questioned.
‘I’d like to unpack, and get better acquainted with that divine shower…’ Her voice trailed off as Vaughan shook his head and glanced at his watch. ‘Later?’
‘Later.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘Much, much later.’
His staying power was formidable.
Even the chauffer-driven car constantly on call didn’t suffice for his impossible schedule. Half an hour negotiating traffic was a sheer waste of Vaughan Mason’s time, and if a helicopter ride across the city meant an extra few minutes could be crammed into his schedule, then that was the means of transport.
Amelia held her breath as she saw the Melbourne skyline from an entirely different angle, then barely had time to drag her fingers through her chopper-tousled hair before breezing into meeting upon meeting. She was completely aware that these meetings had been scheduled weeks if not months in advance, that a slice of Vaughan Mason’s acumen was an expensive commodity, but over and over he delivered—commanding the entire room, ramming home his points. Most surprisingly of all for Amelia, she was allowed in to each one.
If Vaughan had okayed it then apparently it was fine…
‘She’s doing a piece on me,’ Vaughan would shrug arrogantly. ‘Not you, Marcus.’ Or Heath, or any other poor soul whose business was being put through the shredder.
And she watched—watched the nervous, sweating faces around the boardroom tables as Vaughan, utterly composed, completely unmoved, sliced through their reams of excuses, their reasons, their attempts to justify the mess that had led them to this point, as easily as a hot knife through butter, cutting directly to the chase, exposing raw truths, absolutely ruthless in his assessments.
‘Some of these staff have been with us for years!’ Marcus Bates visibly reeled at the brutal proposal Vaughan had outlined, balking at the prospect of laying off so many staff. ‘We can’t just throw them onto the dole queue. Some of these people are in their fifties…’
‘Which means they’ll receive a decent pay-out,’ Vaughan pointed out, his voice like ice, watching as Marcus took a shaky drink of the cup of coffee in front of him, staring him down, until Marcus finally admitted to his directors the absolute, unsavoury truth.
‘We can’t afford to pay anyone out,’ he said, his voice a hollow whisper, his shirt drenched in perspiration and his face like white putty.
Amelia actually felt sorry for this man she had never till now even met, as she glimpsed the impossible weight of the truth he had been carrying for months, perhaps even years, and the silence seemed to go on for ever.
‘Finally,’ Vaughan said slowly, ‘we’re getting to the truth. The fact is you can’t even afford the coffee beans in your expensive machine.’
He stared around the table, stared at each nervous person in turn, and despite the smell of fear in the room Amelia could almost taste the respect as each pair of eyes looked to Vaughan for an answer, looked to
the legend for a last-minute reprieve.
‘The staff we lay off will be paid out,’ Vaughan responded finally, and an audible sigh of relief went around the room as Vaughan Mason took on the impossible and the you became we as he flicked through the mountain of papers in front of him, hurling a chosen few across the table. ‘And if that means you have to forgo your extended lunches and bring in your own cheese sandwiches for the next twelve months then it’s a small price to pay, given the direness of your situation—these expense claims are deplorable! I want every member of staff entitled to a company car driving the same model and vehicle, at least while I’m running this ship. Believe me, guys, I want every last teabag accounted for in this place…’
Despite the brand-new stilettos which had rubbed the skin off the backs of her heels, and despite the utter exhaustion of the whirlwind that had blitzed her life seventy-two hours ago, over and over he impressed. Over and over she pressed the button on her digital Dictaphone to record a genius at work, even while knowing it was useless. Unless you were there, unless you actually witnessed him at first hand, holding the floor, utterly commanding, then it would take more than a degree in journalism to capture his formidable presence—the might that was Vaughan Mason could never be confined to a single article.
Yet she ached to try, her fingers literally itching to pound her keypad, to somehow get down the jumble of thoughts in her mind, and she was infinitely grateful for that fact as, for maybe the twentieth time that day, she found herself in the confined space of a lift with him. Only this time it was gliding them back up to their hotel rooms.
The hum of the lift was a blissful contrast to the lively chatter of the Japanese restaurant Vaughan had chosen for Mr Cheng, and Amelia was infinitely grateful for the fact that she could force her mind to focus on the work ahead and push aside the nerve-racking yet vaguely delicious feeling of claustrophobia that had seemed to hit her at various moments through the day, and was now peaking with alarming ferocity as the evening gave way to night.
In the Rich Man's World Page 6
