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A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

Page 3

by Angela Bissell


  ‘Carl,’ he said, and took a step towards her.

  She stepped backwards, glancing to the right of his thick-set frame to her closed office door. Her palms grew clammy. Why hadn’t she thought to leave it open?

  His smile returned, the narrow slant of his lips ten times more unsettling than before. ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony, Emily. This time next week I could be your boss...’

  Her eyes widened.

  ‘And I’m not big on formality. I prefer my working relationships to be a little more...relaxed.’

  Nausea bloomed anew and she fought the instinct to recoil. She tried to tell herself his sleazy innuendo didn’t intimidate her, but the truth was she felt horribly unnerved. She inhabited a world dominated by men but she wasn’t familiar with this kind of unsolicited attention. For the most part she was used to being invisible. Unseen.

  She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let me offer you one more assurance, Mr Skinner,’ she said, her heart hammering even as common sense told her he couldn’t pose any physical threat to her person. Her admin assistant, Marsha, unless she’d gone for her morning tea break, would be sitting at her desk right outside Emily’s door, and Security was no further away than one push of a pre-programmed button on her desk phone. ‘Not only will you never be my boss,’ she said, a sliver of disdain working its way into her voice now, ‘But you will never, so long as I have any say in the matter, set foot on these premises again.’

  No sooner had the final word leapt off Emily’s tongue than she knew she had made a grave mistake.

  Skinner’s expression had turned thunderous.

  Terrifyingly thunderous.

  And he moved so fast—looming over her, his big hands clamping onto her waist like concrete mitts as he pinned her against her desk—that she had no time to react.

  An onslaught of fragmented impressions assailed her: the sight of Skinner’s lips peeling back from his teeth; the dampness of his breath on her skin as he thrust his face too close to hers; the overpowering reek of his aftershave which made the lining of her nose sting.

  Panic flared, driving the beginnings of a scream up her throat, but she gripped the edge of her desk behind her and smothered the sound before it could emerge. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she hissed. ‘Or I will shout for Security and an entire team of men will be here in less than ten seconds.’

  For a moment his grip tightened, his fingers biting painfully into her sides. Then, abruptly, he released her and stepped away, his sudden retreat setting off a wave of relief so powerful her legs threatened to buckle. He ran a hand over his hair and adjusted the knot of his tie—as if smoothing his appearance would somehow make him appear less brutish.

  ‘Seven days, little lady.’ His voice was gruff. Menacing. ‘And then I collect.’ He jutted his chin in the direction of the paper on her desk. ‘That’s a copy, of course. You can assure your lawyer that I have the original tucked away safe and sound.’ He sent her a hard, chilling smile then showed himself out, leaving her office door standing open in the wake of his exit.

  Emily sagged against her desk, just as Marsha rushed in.

  ‘My God!’ the younger woman exclaimed. ‘What on earth happened in here? The look on that man’s face—’ She stopped, her eyes growing rounder as they took in Emily’s slumped posture and the pallor she knew without the aid of a mirror had stripped the colour from her cheeks. ‘Emily...?’

  Rousing herself, she pointed a trembling finger over Marsha’s shoulder. ‘Call Security. Tell them to make absolutely certain that man leaves the building.’

  Marsha hurried back out and Emily moved on shaky legs to the other side of her desk. She picked up her phone, pulled in a fortifying breath and dialled her father’s mobile number.

  The call went straight to voice mail.

  Surprise...not.

  She slammed the phone back down, frustration, fury and a host of other feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge building with hot, bitter force inside her.

  Her eyes prickled and the threat of tears was as unfamiliar and unwelcome as the nausea had been.

  What had Maxwell done?

  Her lips trembled and she pressed them together, closed her eyes and pushed the heels of her hands against her lids.

  She knew what he had done.

  He’d borrowed a monstrous sum of money to enter a high-stakes poker game and put up his fifty per cent shareholding of The Royce as collateral.

  And then he had lost. Spectacularly.

  She wanted to scream.

  How could he? How could he?

  No wonder he’d been incommunicado this last week. He was hiding, the coward. Leaving Emily to clean up the mess, like he always did.

  Bitterness welled up inside her.

  Why shouldn’t he? She was his fixer, after all. The person who made things go away. Who kept his image, and by extension the image of The Royce, as pristine and stain-free as possible. Oh, yes. Her father might be a selfish, irresponsible man but he wasn’t stupid.

  He’d finally discovered a use for the daughter he’d ignored for most of her life.

  Emily dropped into her chair.

  It wasn’t unusual for Maxwell to disappear. As a child she’d grown to accept his fleeting, infrequent appearances in her life, sensing from a young age that she made him uncomfortable even though she hadn’t understood why. As an adult she’d hoped maturity and a shared interest in The Royce’s future would give them common ground—a foundation upon which to forge a relationship—but within the first year after her grandfather’s death it’d become clear her hopes were misguided. The loss of his father had not changed Maxwell one bit. If anything he’d become more remote. More unpredictable. More absent.

  It was Emily who had run the club during his absences, assuming more and more of the management responsibilities in recent years. Oh, Maxwell would breeze in when the mood took him, but he rarely stayed at his desk for more than a few token minutes. Why stare at spreadsheets and have tedious discussions about staffing issues and running costs when he could be circulating in the restaurant or the Great Salon, pressing the flesh of their members and employing his innate silver-tongued charm?

  Emily didn’t care that her job title didn’t reflect the true extent of her responsibilities. Didn’t care that for seven years her part-ownership of the club had remained, by mutual agreement with her father, a well-guarded secret. She knew The Royce’s membership wasn’t ready for such a revelation. The club was steeped in tradition and history, mired in values that were steadfastly old-fashioned. Its members didn’t object to female employees, but the idea of accepting women as equals within their hallowed halls remained anathema to most.

  Emily had a vision for the club’s future, one that was far more evolved and liberal, but changes had to be implemented gradually. Anything fundamental, such as opening their doors to women... Well, those kinds of changes would happen only when the time was right.

  Or they wouldn’t happen at all.

  Not if Carl Skinner got his grubby hands on her father’s share of The Royce. There’d be no controlling Skinner, no keeping the outcome under wraps. It would be an unmitigated scandal, ruinous to the club’s image. There’d be a mass exodus of members to rival establishments. In short, there would be no club. Not one she’d want to be associated with, at any rate. Skinner would turn it into a cheap, distasteful imitation.

  Oh, Lord.

  This was exactly why her grandfather had bequeathed half of the club to Emily. To keep his son from destroying the family legacy.

  And now it was happening.

  Under her watch.

  She reached for the phone again, imagining Gordon Royce’s coffin rocking violently in the ground now.

  Her first call, to the bank, told her what she already knew—they were at the limit of their debt facility. Raising cash via a bank loan wasn’t an option. Her second call, to The Royce’s corporate lawyer, left her feeling even worse.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emily. The contract w
ith Mr Skinner is valid,’ Ray Carter told her after she’d emailed a scanned copy to him. ‘You could contest it, but unless we can prove that Maxwell was of unsound mind when he executed the agreement there’s no legally justifiable reason to nullify the contract.’

  ‘Is there nothing we can do?’

  ‘Pay Mr Skinner what he’s owed,’ he said bluntly.

  ‘We don’t have the money.’

  ‘Then find an investor.’

  Emily’s heart stopped. ‘Dilute the club’s equity?’

  ‘Or convince your father to sell his shares and retain your fifty per cent. One or the other. But whatever you do, do it fast.’

  Emily hung up the phone and sat for a long moment, too shell-shocked to move. Too speechless to utter more than a weak, distracted word of thanks when Marsha came in, placed a cup of tea in front of her and said she’d be right outside the office if Emily needed to talk.

  Alone again, she absentmindedly fingered the smooth surface of the pearl that hung from a silver chain around her neck.

  An investor.

  Slowly the idea turned over in her mind. There had to be members of The Royce who would be interested in owning a piece of their beloved club. She could put some feelers out, make a few discreet enquiries... But the delicacy required for such approaches and any ensuing negotiations would take time—and time was something she didn’t have.

  Whatever you do, do it fast.

  Ray’s warning pounded through her head.

  Abruptly, she swivelled her chair, dragged open the middle drawer of her desk and rummaged through an assortment of notepads and stationery until her fingers touched on the item she was seeking. She held her breath for a moment, then shoved the drawer closed and slapped the business card on her desk.

  She glared at the name emblazoned in big, black letters across the card’s white background, as bold as the man himself.

  Ramon de la Vega.

  A bloom of inexplicable heat crept beneath the collar of her blouse. She’d intended to throw the card away as soon as she returned to her office after her brief encounter with the man, but at the last second she’d changed her mind and tossed the card into a drawer.

  He had unsettled her.

  She didn’t like to admit it, but he had.

  Oh, she knew his type well enough. He was a charmer, endowed with good looks and a smooth tongue just like her father, except she had to concede that ‘good looks’ was a rather feeble description of Ramon de la Vega’s God-given assets.

  The man was gorgeous. Tall and dark. Golden-skinned. And he oozed confidence and vitality, the kind that shimmered around some people like a magnetic force field and pulled others in.

  She had almost been sucked in herself. Had felt the irresistible pull of his bold, male charisma the instant he’d stepped into her zone—that minimum three feet of space she liked to maintain between others and herself. She’d taken a hasty step backwards, not because he had repelled her, but rather because she had, in spite of her anger, found herself disconcertingly drawn to him. Drawn by the palpable energy he gave off and, more shockingly, by the hint of recklessness she had sensed was lurking beneath.

  They were qualities that didn’t attract her, she’d reminded herself sharply. Not in the slightest. And not in a man whose audacity had already set her fuming.

  She leaned back in her chair, her breathing shallow, her pulse feeling a little erratic. Was she mad even to consider this?

  Or would she be mad not to consider it?

  Forced to choose between Carl Skinner and Ramon de la Vega, she couldn’t deny which man was the lesser of two evils. De la Vega had a pedigree, not to mention an impressive business acumen. She knew because she’d done an Internet search and, once she’d got past the dozens of tabloid articles and photos of him with beautiful women, the long list of accolades lauding his accomplishments as both an architect and a smart, driven businessman had made for interesting reading.

  Before she could change her mind, she snatched up her phone and dialled the mobile number on his card.

  Two seconds later, she almost hung up.

  Maybe this needed more thought. Maybe she should rehearse what she was going to say...

  ‘Sí?’

  The breath she’d unconsciously bottled in her lungs escaped on a little whoosh of surprise. For a second time that day, her vocal cords felt paralysed.

  ‘Yes?’ he said into the silence, his tone sharper. ‘Who is this?’

  Emily shook herself. ‘Mr de la Vega?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good morning—I mean...’ She paused as it occurred to her that he could be anywhere in the world—in a different time zone where it wasn’t morning at all. She could have interrupted his evening meal. Or maybe it was the middle of the night wherever he was and he was in bed and... She froze, an unsettling thought flaring. Oh, no. Surely he wouldn’t have answered the phone if...?

  Before she could kill the thought, an X-rated image of entwined limbs and naked body parts—mostly naked male body parts—slammed into her mind.

  She felt her cheeks flame. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, mortified, even though he couldn’t possibly know her thoughts. Where was her bulletproof composure? Skinner’s visit must have unbalanced her more than she’d realised. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m—’

  ‘Emily.’

  Her breath locked in her throat for a moment.

  ‘That’s very impressive, Mr de la Vega.’

  ‘Ramon. And you have a very memorable voice.’

  Emily rolled her eyes. There was nothing special about her voice. There was nothing special about her. Ramon de la Vega was a silver-tongued fox, just like her father.

  She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Mr Royce would like to discuss a business proposition with you. Are you still interested in meeting with him?

  ‘Of course.’

  No hesitation. That was a good sign. She gripped the phone a little tighter. ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Can you be here?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Good.’ She kept her voice professional. Courteous. ‘We look forward to seeing you, Mr de la Vega.’

  ‘Ramon,’ he insisted. ‘And I look forward to seeing you too, Emily.’

  A flurry of goosebumps feathered over her skin. Had she imagined the sensual, lazy intonation to his voice that made her name sound almost...erotic? She cleared her throat. ‘Actually,’ she said, cooling her voice by several degrees. ‘You may call me Ms Royce.’

  Silence came down the line. In different circumstances, she might have allowed herself a smile.

  Instead she hung up, before he could ruin her moment of satisfaction with a smooth comeback, and looked at her watch.

  She had twenty-two hours to find her father.

  CHAPTER THREE

  RAMON DIDN’T BELIEVE in divine intervention.

  Only once in his life had he prayed for help—with all the desperation of a young man facing his first lesson in mortality—and the silence in the wake of his plea on that disastrous day had been utterly, horrifyingly deafening.

  These days he relied on no one but himself, and yet yesterday... Yesterday he had found himself wondering if some unseen hand was not indeed stacking the chips in his favour.

  And today—today he felt as if he’d hit the jackpot.

  Because the thing he wanted, the thing he needed after Saturday’s volatile board meeting, had just dropped into his lap.

  Almost.

  ‘Fifty-one per cent,’ he said.

  The indrawn breaths of three people—two men and one woman—were clearly audible across the boardroom table.

  Ramon zeroed in on the woman.

  Ms Emily Royce.

  Now, that was a surprise he hadn’t seen coming.

  Though admittedly it wasn’t a patch on this morning’s bombshell: Emily was not only the daughter of Maxwell Royce, she was a fifty per cent owner of the club.

  Soon to be a forty-nine per cent owner, Ramon amended silently
.

  ‘Absolutely not,’ she said, the incendiary flash of her silver-grey eyes telling him she wasn’t the least bit impressed by his proposal.

  His London-based lawyer leaned forward in the chair beside him. ‘We appreciate you’re in a difficult situation, Ms Royce—’

  ‘I don’t think you appreciate our situation at all,’ she cut in. ‘I think Mr de la Vega wants to take advantage of it.’

  ‘Emily.’ Ray Carter, the grey-haired lawyer sitting on her left, touched her briefly on the arm. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say.’

  Ramon watched her right hand curl into a delicate fist on the table-top. Knowing what he did now, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she felt inclined to punch the man seated on her right, nor could he have blamed her. No one privy to the conversation that had just taken place could deny that Emily Royce had a right to be furious with her father.

  Ramon and his lawyer had listened, incredulous, as Carter had laid out the facts, stating his clients were making full disclosure of the circumstances in the interests of trust and transparency.

  And then Maxwell Royce had offered to sell his fifty per cent shareholding in The Royce in exchange for a swift and fair settlement.

  It had taken less than an hour for both parties to agree on what constituted ‘fair’. Royce’s need for an expedient, unconventional deal had given Ramon leverage that he and his lawyer hadn’t hesitated to use.

  But it wasn’t enough. Ramon wanted a majority shareholding. Wanted the control that additional one per cent would afford him.

  Ms Royce mightn’t like it, but if she and her father wanted a quick bailout she was going to sell him one per cent of her shares.

  And if she didn’t quit glaring at him as if he were the Antichrist, instead of the man about to save her from a far less desirable outcome, he was going to crush any sympathy he felt for her and damn well enjoy watching her yield.

  He looked into those luminous, pale grey eyes.

  ‘I am not unsympathetic to your situation,’ he said, ensuring his gaze didn’t encompass her father. For Maxwell Royce he felt not an iota of sympathy. The man had been reckless, irresponsible. Ramon was a risk-taker himself, and no saint, but he’d learned a long time ago the only kind of risk worth taking was a calculated one. You did not gamble with something—or someone—you weren’t prepared to lose. ‘But I think we can agree that your options are limited and what you need is a fast and effective solution to your problem.’

 

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