A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

by Angela Bissell

  ‘Better?’ he asked after a moment.

  ‘Not really.’ Although the warmth spreading through her stomach had a rather soothing effect. She met his gaze. His eyes reminded her of hot, molten caramel—rich and tempting, but dangerous if you dipped your finger in too soon. She cleared her throat. ‘I suppose you’ve fired plenty of people.’

  ‘Three.’ He sat, knocked back his whisky and put the glass down. ‘Trust me, it’s not something that brings me pleasure.’

  So they had that in common at least. His words from this morning came back to her.

  Not everyone deserves a second chance.

  Did that harsh belief stem from personal experience?

  ‘Emily.’

  With a start, she realised he had spoken. ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘I said you have a good team here,’ he said. ‘Dedicated. Professional. And they respect you.’

  Warmth spread through her chest, though she told herself that was from the whisky, not his unexpected praise. ‘Thank you,’ she said. ‘They’re all extremely dedicated. Most of them have been here since my grandfather’s time.’

  And Emily had worked hard to earn their respect. She was young, but in the three years before her grandfather’s death she had worked at ground level in every department including the kitchens to prove she was serious about learning the business. No one had been able to accuse her of looking for a free ride because her surname was Royce. Even her grandfather, who had rarely given praise, had remarked on her commitment. Of course, he had gone on to say her commitment to hard work would stand her in good stead for marriage and motherhood. In his mind, her greatest obligation to the family was to provide him with at least one great-grandson who would one day inherit his precious club and his wealth. He’d even rewritten his will in a sly effort to influence that outcome.

  It’d been a wasted effort, of course. Emily had no intention of being ruled by a clause in a will.

  Ramon spoke again and she tried to focus. What was wrong with her? One shot of whisky and her mind was all over the place. Or was it the effect of the man sitting opposite?

  ‘My CFO will have one of his team pick up the slack until you’ve recruited a new accountant.’

  ‘Oh...’ She nodded slowly. ‘Okay. Thank you.’

  ‘I have a contact at a top recruitment firm here in London,’ he said. ‘I’ll email his details to you. Once you start the process, keep me updated.’

  Feeling off-kilter and not sure why, she simply nodded. ‘All right.’

  ‘And keep Friday night free for dinner.’

  ‘Fine—’ Wait. ‘What?’ she said.

  ‘Dinner,’ he repeated.

  She blinked at him. ‘With whom?’

  ‘With me,’ he said smoothly.

  Emily opened her mouth and closed it again.

  ‘Is that a problem?’

  Yes. For too many reasons to list, not least of which was that she was smart enough to know she was out of her depth with this man. He had more sex appeal than anyone she’d ever met. Dealing with him in a professional setting required every ounce of composure she possessed. Outside of the office, she wouldn’t stand a chance of remaining immune.

  ‘I thought you’d be going back to New York by the end of the week,’ she said.

  He gave a slow smile that made her shift in the chair. ‘Eager to be rid of me, Emily?’

  ‘Of course not.’ But a hot, incriminating blush burned her cheeks. ‘I’m aware you have businesses all over the world, that’s all. I assume you don’t stay in one place for long.’

  ‘Not unless something holds my interest.’

  The heat in her face spread down her neck. He was talking about women. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just did. Maybe it was the look in his eyes—the gleam that was making her feel as if she were the current object of his interest. Which was, she reminded herself, how every playboy operated. They were automatically programmed to flirt. To pull out their charm like a magic wand and zap a woman’s defences. It was why men like Ramon—and her father—were never short of female companionship. Not that she’d seen her father in action with the ladies for herself. But the string of glittering, vacuous women who’d come and gone over the years spoke for itself.

  ‘I’m not sure dinner is a good idea.’ She shifted again, her skin feeling sticky under her blouse. ‘Yesterday...’ She trailed off, waiting awkwardly for him to catch her drift.

  His brows rose. ‘Yesterday...what?’

  At the gleam in his eyes, she pressed her lips together. He knew what. She glared at him, her face growing hotter. ‘You almost kissed me.’

  As soon as the words came out she wished they hadn’t. Mentioning it gave the impression she’d been thinking about it and that would only feed his ego. Of course, she had been thinking about it, which made everything—this conversation included—ten times more excruciating. She wanted to groan. How had they gone from the serious topic of firing people to this?

  Unlike her, Ramon didn’t appear at all discomfited. ‘Which is why we should have dinner.’

  She frowned. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘We’re business partners now.’ His tone was patient. ‘We have a relationship—’

  ‘A professional one,’ she cut in.

  ‘Yes. Which would benefit from putting the tension—and events—of the last two days behind us and starting with a clean slate.’

  Meaning, he wouldn’t try to kiss her again? The thought provoked a sinking sensation she couldn’t explain. Ignoring it, she raised her chin in challenge. ‘By having dinner?’

  He shrugged. ‘It’s a good way to relax and talk. To get to know one another.’

  Put like that, it didn’t sound completely unreasonable. But caution kept her wary. ‘We can talk here. In the office.’

  ‘Or we can enjoy a meal without work-day interruptions and you can give me an opportunity to show you one of my clubs.’ His lips curved in a half-smile. ‘Perhaps even improve your opinion of them.’

  That made her pause—from guilt as much as anything. She’d not been very complimentary about his clubs.

  In truth, she was intrigued.

  His properties had a reputation for unrivalled luxury, and she’d read that A-list celebrities booked up to a year in advance to hold their private soirees in his West End club. His latest venture, in Paris, was meant to be even more glamorous and exclusive.

  She puffed out a breath. She’d run out of arguments, or at least any that were valid. Telling him she couldn’t have dinner with him because he made her feel hot and bothered was hardly an option. She stood up. ‘Fine. A business dinner,’ she said, putting a clear emphasis on ‘business’.

  One evening. She could grit her teeth and bear it, couldn’t she? And, when it was over, he would disappear, to New York or Spain or Dubai or wherever, and Emily would get on with doing what she did best.

  Running The Royce.

  * * *

  Two days later, standing in her bathroom, Emily applied a final coat of mascara to her lashes, stepped back from the mirror and gave her reflection a critical once-over.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d devoted this much effort to her appearance.

  She smoothed the front of her dress with both hands. It was a safe choice. The scooped neckline revealed only a hint of cleavage and the hem stopped just above her knees. The midnight-blue fabric clung softly to her body and the subtle shimmer woven through it kept it from being boring. It was classy enough for an exclusive venue, but not attention-seeking.

  She uncapped a tube of tinted gloss and slicked it over her lips. She’d gone for more make-up than usual, enhancing her grey eyes with soft, smoky colours, and lightly rouging her cheeks.

  Recapping the gloss, she looked at her hair and felt a stab of uncertainty. Her curls were shiny, well-conditioned, but they were thick and unruly. She should have left them in the neat chignon she’d worn to work.

  She pulled open a drawer filled with hair cli
ps and bands as her doorbell chimed from the hallway.

  With a fresh bout of nerves making her hands unsteady, she glanced at her watch.

  Six-fifty p.m.

  He was ten minutes early.

  And standing at the front door of her flat, she thought with a flash of unaccountable panic.

  Quickly, she slipped her bare feet into a pair of high-heeled navy sandals and went to the door.

  Her renovated flat was on the top floor of a converted three-storey Victorian mansion. She had told Ramon to text her when he arrived and she would meet him on the street. She paused by the hall table and checked her phone. No message.

  Maybe a neighbour was calling and it wasn’t Ramon. How would he have gained access? Unless Mr Johnson, her elderly ground-floor neighbour, had forgotten to lock the main door again.

  Taking a deep breath, she calmed her spinning thoughts and opened the door.

  And forgot to breathe out.

  Ramon stood there and he was...

  Oh.

  He was breathtaking...tall and powerful and a bit edgy-looking, dressed entirely in black. He wore a jacket, no tie, an open-necked silk shirt and he hadn’t shaved, leaving a dark five o’clock shadow on his lean jaw that served only to magnify his sex appeal. He looked relaxed, yet lethal—a heady combination that turned her knees watery and her insides hot.

  She steadied herself with one hand on the door, slowly growing aware of Ramon conducting his own appraisal—of her.

  His gaze travelled all the way down to her coral-tipped toes and back up to her face.

  Their gazes locked and Emily couldn’t misinterpret the dark, appreciative smoulder in his hooded brown eyes.

  Heat saturated her skin.

  This was business, she reminded herself, not an evening of pleasure, but the electrifying hum of physical awareness didn’t lessen.

  And then his gaze shifted to her hair, moving over the wild mass of honey-blonde curls that more often than not defied her efforts to tame them. Which was why she always, always restrained her hair in a tight chignon for work.

  Wishing again that she’d left it up, she tugged the end of a thick curl. ‘It’s a little wild.’ She sounded almost apologetic. ‘I was going to put it back up. If you wait a minute—’

  Ramon caught her wrist before she could turn away. ‘Don’t.’ His voice was deep, gruff. ‘Your hair is beautiful.’

  Her heart gave a little jolt, as if his touch had cranked up the voltage on her awareness and fired a tiny electric charge through her body. ‘Actually, it’s a nightmare,’ she said, brushing off the compliment and ignoring the small dart of pleasure that pierced her.

  He released her, and though it was fanciful she imagined she could still feel the warm imprint of his fingers on her skin.

  ‘I like it.’ His lips curved and she wondered how many women had fallen prey to that lazy, sensual smile. ‘Are you ready?’

  Because it was too late to back out, she made herself nod. ‘I’ll just grab my bag.’

  Reluctant to invite him in, she left Ramon at the door while she slipped her phone and a few other essentials into a silver clutch and grabbed the velvet wrap she’d left on her bed when choosing her outfit.

  On the landing, she stopped to lock the door and glanced at Ramon. ‘This wasn’t necessary, you know. I told you, I could have met you at your club.’

  ‘Are those the kind of men you normally date?’

  She looked at him sharply and felt heat creep into her cheeks. It had been a long time since any man had taken her on a date. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘The kind who are happy to let you traipse across the city alone at night?’

  Hearing his sharp tone, she turned to him. ‘This isn’t a date.’ She slipped her keys into her clutch. ‘And we might be business partners, but I don’t think my personal safety falls under your purview.’

  She headed towards the stairs and Ramon fell into step beside her.

  ‘Perhaps not,’ he said. ‘But it would be very inconvenient if something happened to you.’

  She shot him a sidelong glance. His profile looked stern, but there’d been a teasing lilt to his voice.

  ‘I’m quite capable of looking after myself.’ She had, after all, been doing it for a long time. ‘Believe it or not, I’m even rather good at it.’

  ‘Yet you live in a building that isn’t secure.’

  As they started down the stairs, Ramon cupped her elbow and the brush of his fingers was warm, light and not entirely unwelcome. After six years she was familiar with the carpeted stairs that led to her beloved home, but she normally navigated them in the ballet flats that lived in her work bag for the specific purpose of her week-day commute. Descending in four-inch heels felt somewhat more precarious.

  ‘The main door is usually locked,’ she defended, and made a mental note to have another word with Mr Johnson. ‘My downstairs neighbour is elderly. Sometimes he disables the self-locking handle if he’s bringing in more than one load of shopping then forgets to unlatch it.’

  ‘You should have an alarmed access system with an intercom for visitors.’

  In spite of herself, Emily’s mouth twitched. ‘This is Wimbledon. Not the Bronx.’ Something occurred to her then. ‘How did you know which flat to come to?’ The converted mansion housed five residences, two each on the ground and middle floors, and hers taking up the entirety of the top floor.

  ‘You mentioned you lived at the top.’

  She thought for a moment. Yes. She might have—when they’d had the conversation which had started with her telling him she’d make her own transport arrangements and ended with him overriding her. Ramon de la Vega, for all his easy charm, was not a man accustomed to hearing no.

  Outside, a sleek, black sedan of European design waited by the kerb with its driver sitting patiently behind the wheel. Ramon guided Emily into the back and then joined her from the other side. His big frame made the enclosed space, with its tinted windows and luxurious leather, feel disconcertingly small.

  Emily tugged at the hem of her dress, which had ridden up as she’d slid onto the soft leather, and cast around for a conversation starter. ‘Tell me about your club,’ she said, settling on a topic that felt safe.

  ‘The London club?’

  ‘Of course.’ Wasn’t that where they were going? ‘I read somewhere that the waiting list for membership is estimated at five years long.’

  ‘At least.’ His tone wasn’t boastful, just straightforward, matter-of-fact. ‘We have a strict limit of a thousand members at any one time.’ He went on to describe a range of high-end facilities, including restaurants and bars, a health spa and a grooming salon, fitness amenities and luxury accommodation for members who lived abroad.

  Emily felt a touch of envy as she listened. Ramon had a clear vision for his clubs and the freedom to pursue it. She, on the other hand, was hamstrung by a conservative membership that was allergic to the very whiff of change and anything that might be remotely perceived as bucking tradition.

  A short while later, when the car stopped and the purr of the engine ceased, Emily realised she’d lost track of time as well as their whereabouts. She glanced out through the tinted window beside her, expecting to see the night-time bustle of London’s vibrant West End, and stilled.

  She snapped her head back around to look at Ramon. Anger vibrated in her voice when she spoke. ‘You have exactly three seconds to explain why we’re sitting on a runway next to a plane.’

  His expression was calm. ‘I’m taking you to Saphir.’

  Confusion blanked her mind for a moment, then understanding crashed in.

  ‘We’re having dinner in Paris?’

  Three things seemed to converge on Emily at once. Shock, panic and a tiny, treacherous streak of excitement.

  She shook her head. ‘That’s crazy. I... I can’t.’

  ‘Are you afraid of flying?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then what’s the problem?’

  She sent him a fur
ious look. ‘The problem is that travelling to another country for dinner is...is insane.’

  ‘The flight is less than an hour.’

  She gripped her clutch tightly in her lap. ‘I don’t care. You misled me. You said we were having dinner at your club.’

  ‘I didn’t say which one.’

  ‘Lying by omission doesn’t excuse you.’ She set her jaw. ‘Anyway, this is all pointless. I don’t have my passport.’

  He reached inside his jacket and withdrew something.

  Eyes widening, heart pumping hard, she snatched the passport off him and checked inside it. She looked up, incredulous. ‘How on earth did you get this?’ It should have been sitting in a safe in her office.

  ‘Marsha,’ he said.

  Emily threw him an appalled look. ‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’

  No doubt he had layered on the charm in order to coerce young Marsha’s help. The poor girl wouldn’t have stood a chance in the path of all that concentrated testosterone.

  Emily shoved the passport into her clutch, snapped it closed and stared straight ahead. She could see the back of the driver’s head through the glass partition, but if he’d overheard their conversation he gave no sign. ‘Take me home.’

  ‘After dinner.’

  Ramon climbed out and walked around the car to her side. When he opened the door and stared down at her, she crossed her arms and refused to budge. He waited, and the seconds ticked by until she started to feel childish. Finally, muttering a curse under her breath, she got out. ‘For the record, I don’t like surprises.’

  ‘Everyone likes surprises.’

  The amusement in his tone grated. ‘I don’t. And I still think this is crazy.’

  He closed the door and she leaned against the car for support, as if it were an anchor in a choppy sea—a safe, solid object that would keep her grounded, and stop her doing something stupid. Something she might regret. Like getting on that damned plane.

  ‘It’s just dinner, Emily.’

  His voice had a deep, soothing quality, but it didn’t help, because it wasn’t just dinner. Not for her. Not when she stood there contemplating a giant leap out of her neatly ordered comfort zone. She eyed the plane. It was a small, sleek private jet. ‘Is that yours or did you charter it for the evening?’