by Maya Banks
Staring into Taylor’s brown eyes, Amelia felt as if she were choking on her own humiliation—remembering with total recall the shattered remains their whirlwind romance had left in its wake and the almost impossible task of rebuilding her professional reputation. Colleagues had been only too happy to believe that every scoop she got, every inside piece of information she was privy to, must somehow have been gleaned between the sheets.
But she’d learnt from her mistake.
For the following five months she’d been with the Tribute Amelia had been the epitome of professionalism. All her articles had been in before their deadline, she had researched her subjects carefully, and, though friendly and personable, she had maintained a respectable distance, despite a couple of rather surprising offers, determined that by the time Maria returned from her maternity leave Taylor Dean would be a vague memory.
At least in her editor Paul’s eyes!
Tears she simply refused to shed were blinked firmly back and the magazine tossed onto the floor. Taylor’s features blurred as a sympathetic puddle on the floor licked at the front page—only not quickly enough for Amelia. Taylor’s cheating eyes were still staring out at her, the wounds he had inflicted on her once-trusting heart still too raw not to hurt when touched, and she gave up on her relaxing bath, pulled out the plug and padded into the living room.
‘No!’
Her wail went unheard as, standing shivering in a towel, she saw her computer—despite frantic pressing of Control-Alt-Delete, remain frozen. Its only movement was a red sign appearing, warning of Trojan horses galloping towards her and worms poking their heads out of the woodwork at the most inopportune time.
‘No!’ she wailed again, dragging a chair over with her wrinkled bath-soaked foot and with chattering teeth trying to wrestle with the unforgiving screen of her computer.
It was twenty to five!
Thoughts of Paul’s reaction were the only thing that ran through Amelia’s mind as she rang her computer guru—only to be told that it was happening to everyone, that computers were crashing with more speed than a pile-up on a freeway.
If she missed the deadline...she’d be dead!
Not even bothering to replace the receiver, not even remembering to thank him, Amelia gulped in air, picturing the scenario. Okay, the piece she was filing so urgently today wouldn’t actually appear until next week’s colour supplement, but in the cut-throat world of journalism deadlines came second only to a pulse.
First, actually.
Without fulfilling one’s deadlines, your pulse didn’t even matter.
She could almost see Paul’s raised eyebrow as she stammered her way through an apology. Could almost feel the breeze from his dismissive wave as he assured her it didn’t matter a jot, that of course this was a one-off and they’d naturally take into consideration when deciding her fate that every other piece she’d filed had been delivered before deadline...
No problem, Amelia. He’d smile. Don’t worry about it, Amelia, he’d say, waving away her stammering excuses. These things happen to the best of us.
Oh, he’d make all the right noises, insist that it didn’t really matter, while simultaneously checking with Personnel just how long it would be till the impossibly efficient Maria came back.
A whimper of horror escaped Amelia’s chattering lips as she pressed every last key on her computer, watching with mounting horror as each page she attempted to open froze on top of the other, as words dropped like autumn leaves from her screen, replaced instead with the horror of empty white squares on empty white squares, as the stupid, defunct, way-too-late virus warning alerted her of impending doom.
Doom!
Raking fingers through aromatic oiled hair that badly needed a rinse, she squeezed a breath into her lungs.
Back-up.
‘Please...’ Amelia whimpered, pushing the eject button on her computer and pulling out the disk. Thank God she’d remembered to press ‘save’! If she got dressed now, forgot make-up and managed to hail a cab in record time, she’d be just ten minutes late.
Rummaging through her wardrobe, berating the fact that her usual boxy suits were all stacked in a pile at the dry cleaners, Amelia pulled on some weekend jeans and pushed her damp body into a sheer lilac top that, had time allowed, would definitely have benefited from a bra. But time was of the essence. Hailing a cab, she dragged a comb through her short, spiky blonde hair as she rattled around on the back seat, making vague conversation with the driver and attempting a slick of mascara as they swung into George Street.
She was ready to hand over her disk to Clara the receptionist with a quick smile and then beat a hasty retreat, absolutely determined not to be caught looking anything other than the smart, efficient businesswoman she always portrayed.
‘Amelia!’ Mumbling into the phone receiver she was holding, Clara blew her fringe skywards and gave a grateful smile. ‘Thank goodness you’re here.’
Never had Clara seemed so pleased to see her. More to the point, never had Clara even grunted a greeting—her efficient smile was reserved for real journalists, the ones whose stories actually mattered, not some two-bit freelancer who appeared in the Saturday colour supplement.
‘I’m only ten minutes late,’ Amelia mumbled, pushing the shiny silver disk across the desk and glancing at the clock above Clara’s head, praying it was going faster than her watch. ‘I’m normally on time—I’m usually early...’
‘Don’t worry about that,’ Clara said, screwing up her nose as she picked up the disk and, to Amelia’s horror, tossed it into a drawer. ‘Didn’t you hear the news?’
‘News?’ Amelia gave a bewildered blink, cursing herself that the one time in the week she turned off the radio, the one time she let the world disappear to concentrate on a piece, something had really happened.
‘There might be an election! Friday afternoon’s a lousy time to call for a press conference if you ask me, but that’s what’s happened.’
Another bewildered blink from Amelia before excitement started to mount. Images of serious pieces with her name on them drifted into her mind, but before they had even formed Clara easily doused them.
‘Which means all the big names are tied up.’
‘Amelia!’ Paul, her editor, appeared at the lift doors. He handed her a file as he juggled a call on his mobile and his pager bleeped loudly. ‘Carter has had to fly to Canberra...’
‘I heard,’ Amelia replied as Paul decided the call on his mobile was more important. She flicked open the folder he had pressed in her hand for something to do, then caught her breath—not for the first time today, but for an entirely different reason.
Vaughan Mason.
That inscrutable face was actually smiling at her from a black and white photo, but even with the healing balm of a soft-focus lens the slightly cruel twist to his full mouth was still evident. The black eyes stared back unnervingly, a dark jet fringe flopping over one superbly carved eyebrow. His unshaven, heavily shadowed jaw would have been more in place in a sports calendar than on a business shoot, but apart from that his utter supremacy screamed from every pore. Even the glimpse of his suit in the head-and-shoulders shot reeked of abhorrent wealth, and suddenly her horoscope made sense. Suddenly Venus was aligning with Pluto—or was it Uranus?—and the heavenly changes Louis had faithfully promised, no, warned her to be prepared for were really happening.
‘Carter had a fifteen-minute spot with him,’ Paul mouthed as he covered the mouthpiece on his mobile.
‘When?’
‘In twenty minutes’ time. You’re the fill-in.’
‘Me?’
Paul nodded and, possibly realising the urgency of the situation, put his caller on hold. ‘You’ll be great, Amelia, you always are. I don’t know how you do it, but somehow you manage to reel them in, get them to show their true colours, just like you di
d with Taylor Dean....’ Seeing her paling face, Paul changed tack. ‘As good as Carter is, he’d never have even attempted your angle.’
‘What sort of angle are you looking for?’ Amelia asked, Paul’s insensitive words having hit a very raw nerve.
‘The man behind the millions—what makes his cold heart tick...’
‘Nothing?’ Amelia ventured, but Paul shook his head.
‘We’ve got a big story about to break on him. You could be the perfect lead-in. I’ll suggest that we hold next Saturday’s middle pages for it.’
‘Middle pages...’ Amelia repeated, her face paling. ‘Of the paper, not the...?’
‘The paper,’ Paul confirmed. ‘If you’re sure you’re up to it.’
‘Oh, I’m up to it,’ Amelia responded quickly, with way more confidence than she felt. ‘What sort of story’s about to break? Do you think he’s going to pull off the motor deal?’
‘Oh, it’s bigger than the motor deal,’ Paul responded, unable to stop a small boast, but changing his mind at the last moment. ‘Trust me, Amelia. The less you know, the better—he’s sharp enough to know if you’re fishing for information. Just dazzle him the way you did Taylor...’
‘I’ll have to get changed,’ Amelia broke in, determined not to go there. Glancing down at her jean-clad legs and bare arms, she knew she couldn’t face Vaughan Mason dressed like this. But Paul was already frog-marching her through Reception
‘There isn’t time for all that.’ Paul shook his head firmly. ‘Vaughan Mason won’t be kept waiting—you’ll just have to go as you are.’ His reassuring smile rapidly disappeared as for the first time he took in her dishevelled appearance, giving a rather noticeable frown as he eyed her jeans and sandals. ‘Frankly, Amelia, I expected better from you. Maria would never have—’
‘I had no idea I’d be doing an interview this afternoon,’ Amelia attempted. ‘I only came by to drop off my article.’
‘You’re supposed to expect the unexpected,’ Paul countered, sounding like her wretched horoscope. ‘That’s what journalism is all about.’
And he was right, Amelia conceded through gritted teeth. If it had been any other hour of any other day she’d have been ready—more than ready for the challenge. If only she had listened to her horoscope! If she had she wouldn’t be standing here totally unprepared for the biggest break in her career.
‘I want you to come back to the office after the interview and let me know how it went. I’ve pulled this from Carter’s desk.’ He held out another very thin folder.
‘I thought you said he had something on him?’ Amelia rolled her eyes. ‘Don’t tell me—that’s for Carter’s eyes only. What’s in here?’
‘Facts and figures,’ Paul admitted. ‘Have a quick read on the way—but, Amelia, try not to focus too much on the business side. Work your magic on him, see if you can get him to open up a bit about his family, his personal life...’
‘His women?’ Amelia rolled her eyes again.
Vaughan Mason’s reputation was legendary. Pages and pages of the glossies had been filled over the years with tear-streaked gorgeous faces, broken promises and shattered hearts—seemingly the price for a night in this man’s company. But through all the scandals, through all the revelations, Vaughan had remained tight-lipped, repeatedly refusing to comment. And his lack of excuses, his utter refusal to be drawn or, heaven forbid, to apologise, had only served to make women want him more.
‘I’m hardly likely to get him to open up in a fifteen-minute time slot...’ Amelia started, but a warning look from Paul had her voice trailing off. There was no room for negativity in the cut-throat world of journalism. ‘It will be great, Paul—just great. You’re not going to regret this.’
‘I hope not.’ Paul’s eyes narrowed a fraction. ‘Maria’s going to be devastated that she missed this opportunity.’
Maria.
The one name that said it all. The one word that reminded her of the very temporary nature of her position.
She had to get it right.
Had to do as her horoscope said and embrace the opportunity. Had to somehow get noticed. So that next time the sniff of an election was in the air she’d be heading to Canberra, not standing in a humid, muggy Sydney street, attempting to hail a taxi in the middle of Friday-night rush hour and trying to call around and find out Vaughan Mason’s latest value on the stock market.
Meticulous research was Amelia’s forte.
That was how she got celebrities to open up.
Flattery heaped on flattery—it worked every time.
Watching appalling films, reading even worse biographies, seducing stars with her insight! But how was she supposed to woo Vaughan when all her research was being done in the back of a taxi hurtling through the city at breakneck speed towards a subject she knew nothing about other than the undeniable ruthlessness of his business dealings that had been reported in the newspapers, coupled with regular romance scandals that found their way into the glossies?
Gulping in the stuffy air, Amelia skimmed the facts and figures neatly typed in the folder in her lap, silently appalled that one man could hold so much wealth and power.
From what she could ascertain not a single cent of his millions strayed from his path. Normally a list of charities appeared in bios, in an attempt to soften the figures and show that there was a warmer side to a ruthless personality. Normally a few family shots appeared, or a snippet of personal information—a small sideline on hobbies or interests—but, thanks to Carter, all the file on Vaughan Mason contained were cold, hard business facts. How he’d built his massive wealth from the ground upwards, how he’d saved flailing businesses over and over, forging a reputation on gut feeling and confidence alone!
She could hardly quote the glossies to him! How was she supposed to get a different angle when there wasn’t one?
Paying the taxi driver, she stared upwards at the impressive tower before her, scarcely able to believe she was really here. Catching sight of her reflection in a glass window, Amelia let out a low moan—the humid Sydney air had done nothing to accelerate her hair-drying and, glancing down at her watch, she wished for the umpteenth time that she could dart into a boutique and buy something—anything other than what she was wearing. That she could greet this demi-god if not on his level at least in smart clothes.
Maybe it would work in her favour, Amelia consoled herself, flashing her ID at an immaculate, very suitably dressed woman who might have been Clara Mark Two and being shown to a lift out of sight of the main reception area. She showed her ID again, to a gentleman who had more muscles than your average body builder and didn’t even attempt conversation, then her stomach was left on the ground as the lift soared to the heavens, towards the very man himself.
‘Miss Jacobs?’
Yet another clone of Clara was greeting her, but this one introduced herself as Katy, rouged smile firmly in place. Even with a few mils of Botox injected into her forehead this one couldn’t quite hide her surprise at the scruffy-looking woman who had appeared in the office.
‘Mr Mason’s ready for you. I’ll just let him know that you’re here.’ Picking up the phone, she spoke in low soothing tones, clearly for Vaughan’s ears only. ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she soothed, purring into the phone. ‘In that case I’ll see you in Melbourne next Friday. Have a safe flight.’ She turned her gaze to Amelia. ‘He said to go right in.’
‘Thank you.’ Amelia nodded crisply, attempting blasé, but nerves finally caught up. ‘Could I just use the powder room first?’
‘Of course.’
Even the powder room was gorgeous: white marble everywhere, pump-action soap that was actually full, expensive moisturiser, and a mirror that was way too large in Amelia’s present state. Still, she turned on the hand dryer full-blast and attempted to dry her hair, but to no avail—the heavy waft of lavender a
s the dryer met her damp hair did nothing to soothe Amelia now! She’d just have to put on her best smile and hope for the best...
Walking back into Reception, Amelia nodded to Katy, who was slowly pulling on her jacket, clearly reluctant to leave her boss in anyone’s hands but her own. Knocking on the door, Amelia swallowed hard, forced a bright confident smile and pushed back her shoulders—not quite as ready as she’d have liked for the biggest moment of her career, but excited all the same.
‘Mr Mason? I’m Amelia Jacobs...’ She strode confidently forward, just as she had rehearsed during the taxi ride, hand outstretched. Her eyes scanned the room in a nano-second, her voice trailing off as her footsteps did the same, staring in utter disbelief at the sight that greeted her.
Vaughan Mason—business tycoon, eternally vigilant man of stealth—lay asleep on the jade leather couch.
Asleep.
And what made it even more inappropriate was how completely stunning he looked.
Dark lashes fanned the even darker rims under his eyes; razor-sharp cheekbones emphasised the hollows of his face. His unshaven chin was for once not set in stone, and that cruel, full mouth was unfamiliar in its relaxed state, lips slightly parted. His tie was askew, shifted to one side, and the bottom of his very white Egyptian-cotton shirt was inching its way out of an expensively belted waistband.
She was assailed with the most inappropriate of feelings, given the circumstance, and felt an almost instinctive need to reach out and touch him, as one might a work of art finally witnessed first hand—to feel the scratch of his stubble beneath her fingers, the cool marble of his skin. His beauty truly daunted her. Not a blemish marred his skin. The only fault, if you could call it that, was the too severe, almost too dark, eyebrows—yet even they seemed fitting somehow, as if some pensive artist had added them, and was waiting in the wings with a charcoaled thumb poised ready to blend them in further the moment she left.
Amelia had the most inappropriate urge to lean over and press her mouth against his, to feel those full lips under hers, to sneak a kiss when no one was looking, climb over the imaginary thick red ropes that separated art from mortals, ignore the mental signs that said ‘Do Not Touch’. And though she never would have dared, never in a million years, it was like standing on a cliff face and wanting to jump—knowing it was treacherous, knowing it would prove fatal, but filled with a yearning all the same to throw caution to the wind and follow natural instincts.
