‘I bought it yesterday.’
‘Very funny.’
‘I’m serious.’
She turned her head to look at him. There was no mockery on his face. She looked at the plane again. A uniformed male attendant stood at the foot of the steps, patiently waiting. ‘This is very...spontaneous,’ she said weakly.
‘That’s a bad thing?’
‘Yes.’ She held her wrap and her clutch against her chest in a death grip. ‘I’m not very good at spontaneous.’
‘Try it.’ His deep, sinful voice coaxed. Enticed. ‘You might like it.’
She might.
And where would that leave her?
Already she felt a gazillion miles out of her depth with this man, but it was everything else he made her feel that terrified her.
Never had she felt so physically attracted to someone before. The one intimate relationship she’d had had left her feeling deeply discontented, believing in the end she just wasn’t that into sex, but Ramon...
He made her think about sex.
She, who guarded her space and preferred not to be touched, had caught herself more than once thinking about his big hands and his beautiful mouth and how they might feel on certain parts of her body.
She forced herself away from the car.
Thoughts were just thoughts, weren’t they? Harmless unless translated into action, and that wasn’t going to happen. Theirs was a professional relationship and she was too sensible to breach that boundary. She wasn’t controlled by her desires. Not like her father.
It’s just dinner.
She thought of all the women who would give their eye teeth to fly in a billionaire’s private jet to Paris for dinner and then straightened her shoulders. ‘Let’s not stand around all evening, then.’ She set off towards the plane. ‘I’m famished.’
CHAPTER FIVE
RAMON HAD BEEN labelled ‘reckless’ from the day he’d been old enough to clamber out of his cot and send his mother and the entire household staff into a frenzied hour-long search of the house and grounds. As a fearless, rebellious child he’d become the bane of his parents’ lives, unlike his brother, who’d never once defied authority or set a foot wrong.
As an adult, Ramon had learned to curb his impulses. The tabloids portrayed him as a playboy and his reputation wasn’t entirely undeserved. But he didn’t pursue pleasure with a careless disregard for the consequences, like some of his peers did. Risks, when taken, were calculated, impulses acted upon only if there was no potential for harm.
And he was no longer fearless. He understood the pain of loss. Understood that when you hurt people, when you took something precious from them, there were no words or actions that could undo the harm. No way of turning back the clock.
Tonight, as he took Emily’s hand to help her from the limousine outside Saphir, Ramon understood something else. He understood that, for the first time in a long time, he had miscalculated.
Because he had believed he could keep his relationship with Emily professional. Had told himself that tonight was simply an elaborate attempt to break down her barriers and smooth the way for a more harmonious partnership. That, plus the opportunity to bring her to Saphir and showcase the best of his portfolio.
But he had failed to factor into his calculations the possibility that Emily would look the way she did tonight. Or that his body would end up humming with a raw, irrepressible desire he’d find impossible to quell.
He didn’t want just to break down her barriers.
He wanted to rip off the dress that clung so seductively to every lush curve and dip of her body and haul her off to bed.
‘Wow.’
She stood beside him, her face upturned, her gaze trained on the club’s white stone entrance and the soaring, double-tiered archway bathed in subtle blue light. She’d loosened up in the last hour, maybe in part due to the champagne they’d consumed on the plane, along with canapés to tide them over, or maybe thanks to the small talk they’d settled into once her anger with him had subsided.
‘Welcome to Saphir.’ No sooner had he spoken than a pop of white light flashed in his periphery.
Blinking, Emily looked around, spotting the photographer a second after he did. ‘Was he taking a photo of us?’
Ramon gestured to a security guard. ‘Ignore it,’ he said, guiding her inside with a hand pressed to the small of her elegant back. He nodded to the concierge as they entered the high-ceilinged granite and glass reception area. ‘Security keeps the paparazzi at bay, but they’re like flies. Swat one away and a dozen more appear. Unfortunately Saphir has become their new favourite haunt. This way.’ He turned her down a hallway lined with contemporary art work and illuminated sculptures, many of which he’d handpicked in consultation with his designer. As they approached the restaurant, a willowy redheaded hostess whose name he couldn’t remember greeted him with a deferential smile, relieved Emily of her wrap and escorted them through the restaurant’s lively interior to a table in the private alcove he had specifically requested.
Emily took in their surroundings then looked out of the floor-to-ceiling window to an internal courtyard where sculptured water features and luxuriant plant life created an exotic, colourful haven. ‘This is beautiful.’
Ramon signalled to the redhead, who pressed a button, and then the wall of glass beside them slid back.
A smile spread over Emily’s face. ‘I feel like I’m sitting in paradise!’
Her reaction was unguarded, her smile so beautiful, so real, that Ramon felt its impact like a burst of warmth in his chest. He was trying to process the feeling when a waiter materialised with menus, the champagne he’d pre-ordered and two amuse-bouches served in shot glasses with delicate glass spoons.
‘Foie gras, figs and apricot,’ the waiter explained. He uncorked the champagne, filled their flutes then melted away again.
After one mouthful of her amuse-bouche, Emily made an appreciative humming noise in her throat that Ramon was fairly sure he could feel in his groin.
‘That is delicious.’ She scraped the glass clean and savoured her last mouthful. ‘Who’s your executive chef?’
‘Levi Klassen.’
Her grey eyes, which had a softer look about them tonight, rounded. ‘The Dutch chef?’
‘You know him?’
‘I know of him. Our executive chef at The Royce speaks highly of him.’
He finished his own amuse-bouche and acknowledged it was exceptional. As he’d expected. He only hired the best. ‘Perhaps we can have them collaborate on a menu some time.’
‘Really? That would be amazing.’ She turned her attention to the menu on the table. After a quick scan, she asked, ‘Are the desserts on a separate menu?’
‘Yes.’
‘Oh.’ She sounded disappointed.
He lifted an eyebrow. ‘Problem?’
‘I always check the desserts first.’ She glanced up and must have seen the question on his face. ‘So I know how much room to leave,’ she elaborated.
Ramon tried to think of a time he’d taken a woman to dinner and watched her do more than pick at a lettuce leaf or a piece of white fish. He found himself smiling.
Her eyes narrowed. ‘Have I amused you?’
‘Surprised me,’ he admitted. He caught the waiter’s attention and sent the man for a dessert menu.
‘Because I like to eat dessert?’
He shrugged. ‘I don’t often dine with women who admit to having a sweet tooth, let alone indulge it.’
‘That’s because supermodels live on diet pills and fresh air,’ she said pertly and, given that a number of beautiful but rake-thin models had come and gone from his bed over the years, he was hard pressed to defend himself against that comment.
Fortunately, their waiter returned and saved him from having to. He sipped his champagne and watched as Emily studied the list of desserts, amusement mingling with a hot flare of curiosity. What other passions besides her sweet tooth did she hide beneath that beautiful, rese
rved exterior?
She put down the menu. ‘Okay. I’ve made up my mind.’
The waiter noted their selections and then Emily settled back in her chair. ‘The membership secretary put four new applications on my desk today.’ She spoke quietly, her gaze fixed on her champagne, her long, slender fingers sliding idly along the delicate glass stem. ‘I noted all four are board members of the Vega Corporation. I also saw that Lord Hanover has stamped his endorsement on all of them.’ She glanced up, her expression difficult to read. ‘How did you manage that?’
The same way he accomplished any major business win—by doing his homework, being prepared. ‘In negotiations, there’s a simple rule of thumb for getting what you want.’
She gave him a thoughtful look. ‘Knowing what the other party wants?’ she correctly guessed. She tilted her head, her magnificent honey-gold hair catching shards of reflected light from the modern chandelier above their heads. ‘And Lord Hanover?’ she asked. ‘What does he want?’
His palms itched with a strong desire to bury his hands in those lustrous curls and explore their silken texture. He tightened his hand on his champagne glass. ‘His son-in-law is chasing a major multi-billion-dollar construction contract in Saudi Arabia.’
Her gaze turned speculative. ‘And...?’
‘And he’s hit a wall of red tape.’
‘Ah. And you happen to have some connections that might smooth the way?’
He nodded, impressed. Emily was intelligent—he knew that—but she was also perceptive. Shrewd. ‘My former Harvard roommate and friend to this day is a Saudi prince.’
Her eyes widened fractionally. ‘Well...’ After a moment, she lifted her champagne. ‘Congratulations. Lord Hanover is very influential. Gaining his support is a smart move.’
He heard a trace of something in her voice. Not resentment—it was more wistful than bitter. Envy perhaps? ‘Does it bother you that your shareholder status can’t be revealed?’
She swallowed a mouthful of champagne and shrugged. ‘Not really. It’s just the way things are. There’d be an uproar if it was.’
‘How can you be certain?’
She put her glass down. ‘Because two years ago, three of our members proposed that women be permitted to join the club. It went to a ballot but things got very heated beforehand and some members threatened to leave if the proposal passed. It didn’t...obviously.’ She arched an eyebrow. ‘That was their response to the idea of women joining their club. Can you imagine the reaction if they knew a woman owned their club?’
‘And the proposers?’
‘Ostracised. All three left within six months.’
It was outrageous but not surprising. Lord Hanover and his peers were prominent in the club and chauvinism was still rampant in their ranks. Ramon could imagine which way their votes had gone. ‘So why did your grandfather leave half the business to you?’ he asked. ‘He must have known it could risk the club’s stability.’
She took a moment to answer. ‘Because my father has always been the way he is. Addicted to the high life, less so to responsibility. I guess my grandfather didn’t trust his own son.’
‘But he trusted you?’
Another shrug. ‘He knew I was sensible. Devoted enough to do whatever was best for The Royce.’
‘Including keeping your ownership secret.’
‘Yes.’
So her grandfather had taken a calculated risk. Ramon could appreciate that strategy. And yet the old man had placed a tremendous burden on his granddaughter’s shoulders. ‘Surely people...the members...would expect that you’d eventually inherit the club from your father anyway?’
‘Not necessarily. My father was only forty-six when his father died—fifty-three now. He could still remarry, have other children...other legitimate heirs.’
‘Was that what your grandfather expected?’
‘I think my grandfather stopped having expectations of my father a long time ago.’
‘And you?’
She frowned. ‘What do you mean?’
‘What expectations did he have of you?’
Her lips twisted. ‘My grandfather expected me to marry and start popping out babies—preferably boys—before the age of thirty. He only ever intended my ownership of The Royce to be a short-term guardianship.’ She blinked and her mouth suddenly compressed in a tight line, as if she’d said more than she’d intended to and regretted the lapse. She shifted in her chair. ‘I’m sure he turned in his grave many times this past week.’
‘You think you’ve let your grandfather down?’
Her expression was tight. ‘No offence, but the Vega Corporation owning fifty-one per cent of his precious club is not an outcome he would have endorsed.’
Ramon frowned. ‘Would he have considered the alternative less desirable?’
Her gaze met his then slid away. ‘Of course.’
‘So the only person at fault is your father,’ he said, but she looked unconvinced, and he wanted to reach across the table, grab her by the shoulders and give her a good shake. Either that, or drag her onto his lap and kiss the anguish from her face.
The latter held infinitely more appeal.
Her gaze came back to his, held for a moment, and awareness thickened the air between them. He saw the flicker of her eyelids, the surge of tell-tale colour in her cheeks, and knew she was just as conscious of their chemistry as he. Heat skated through him, but then the waiter arrived with their starters and Emily dropped her gaze. Lingering by the table, the waiter began to explain the different culinary elements on their plates. Ramon went to wave him off until he noticed that Emily was listening intently. He sat back and let the Frenchman finish, then watched her pick up her knife and fork and take a sample, sliding a sliver of beef carpaccio into her mouth. ‘You’re a foodie,’ he observed, forcing his gaze away from those soft, perfectly shaped lips.
She glanced up. ‘If that means I appreciate good food, then yes, I suppose I am.’
He picked up his own cutlery. ‘Do you dine out often?’
She shook her head. ‘Only occasionally.’
Her answer pleased Ramon more than it should have. He’d already learned from young Marsha—who had a talkative streak he’d shamelessly exploited—that Emily had no significant other and preferred working to socialising. But, workaholic or not, Emily Royce was too beautiful to escape male notice. If she’d said yes to his question, he would’ve imagined her being wined and dined by men with a great deal more than food on their minds, and that was sufficient to turn his thoughts inexplicably dark.
‘I suppose you eat out all the time,’ she said, ‘With all the travelling that you do.’
‘When the mood takes me.’ Which, admittedly, was often. Dining alone rarely appealed and, no matter where in the world he was, he never wanted for a willing companion. Lately, however, his palate had become jaded, the abundance of food, wine and women failing to distract him.
This past week in London was a prime example. Twice he’d gone out with his friend Christophe only to return to his suite before midnight, alone. Not that he’d encountered a shortage of enthusiastic women, but none had held his interest. It’d left him restless and frustrated. Pursuing pleasure was a means of distraction. The alternative—boredom—was dangerous. It invited reflection, and looking too deeply inside himself never revealed anything good. That was why he never stood still for long. Why he always looked for his next challenge, whether in the boardroom or the bedroom.
Refocusing, he took a mouthful of rare, tender venison and, following Emily’s lead, paused for a moment to savour the flavour and texture of the food. It was, he appreciated as he swallowed, outstanding.
‘Good?’
Realising he’d closed his eyes, he opened them and looked straight into Emily’s. ‘Exceptional,’ he said, dropping his gaze to her mouth, knowing he’d give up the rest of his meal in a flash for one taste of those luscious lips. There would be no boredom with Emily, he decided. Not with all those hidden depths to
explore. She would challenge him in bed, just as she did in the office. Lust churned through his veins, hot and savage, triggering a flood of explicit thoughts as tempting as they were dangerous.
‘May I ask what percentage of your revenue is generated by your food and beverage department?’
He looked at her, her question making a mockery of the desire raging through his body. She was talking business while he pictured her naked and spread beneath him. He wondered if he’d misread the signs of attraction and then he saw how tightly she gripped the handles of her cutlery. How short and shallow her breaths were and how the pulse in her throat flickered visibly. No. He hadn’t misread anything. She was fighting for control of her body, just as he was doing. With brutal determination, he concentrated his thoughts and came up with a number that sounded correct.
And then she asked another question, something about the occupancy rate of Saphir’s suites, and he understood that she was attempting to keep things impersonal. Preventing the undercurrent of sexual tension from pulling them under.
Right then his body wanted anything but impersonal. And yet his brain conceded that restraint was the wisest action. Emily didn’t strike him as the kind of woman who indulged in casual affairs. If they slept together, and her expectations went beyond the physical side of things, she’d only end up disappointed. Or, worse, hurt.
Still, keeping his mind focused and his urges restrained proved a challenge throughout the rest of their meal. When Emily’s dessert finally came, he sat with his double-shot espresso in front of him and watched her devour every last morsel of the rich, decadent dark chocolate soufflé. At the end she licked her spoon clean, the tip of her pink tongue catching one last smear of chocolate, and Ramon suppressed a groan. He could feel his body responding. Feel a stirring of the old, impulsive recklessness he knew better than to indulge.
Emily looked up and froze, the spoon in her hand suspended halfway between her mouth and the plate. ‘Ramon...’
Hearing her say his forename for the first time—and in that husky, slightly breathless tone—sent a small shockwave of heat through him that mingled explosively with the lust. He dragged his gaze from her mouth and locked onto those silver-grey eyes.
A Night, A Consequence, A Vow Page 7
