by Maya Banks
‘He wasn’t really up to an interview. He was tired...’
‘Vaughan Mason’s never tired,’ Paul hissed. ‘Vaughan Mason isn’t a mere mortal who needs six hours’ sleep to function, like the rest of us...’
‘He was tired,’ Amelia insisted, pulling the card out of the envelope and glancing down at the writing—anything other than meeting her boss’s eyes. ‘He’s just flown back from Asia...’
‘Did you find out anything about the motor vehicle deal?’
For a second she wavered. For a second integrity seemed a poor buffer against the harsh reality of a world without work. But unfortunately it must have been indelibly implanted, because after only the briefest of pauses she shook her head.
‘No.’
‘So what exactly did you find out, Amelia?’ Paul clipped, with no smile to follow, no small talk to pad it out—it was a direct question that needed a direct answer.
‘That he looks beautiful asleep.’ Her voice was a pale whisper and she screwed her eyes closed. ‘You see, he was asleep when I got there...’
‘So?’ Paul thumped the desk. ‘You make the guy a coffee, wake him with a bright smile...’
If only...
She couldn’t look at him. Instead she stared at the card in her hand, listening as Paul took her on a virtual tour of a hundred ways to butter up a reluctant subject, his voice growing louder with each passing sentence. He was oblivious to the sudden shift in Amelia, totally unaware of the metamorphosis taking place before him, blind to the fact that the world had just tipped on its axis, that Christmas had come eleven months early, that Amelia was actually smiling—really smiling—back at him.
‘What did you get from him, Amelia?’ Paul’s voice was deadly serious, and at any other moment in time it would have had her shrinking in her seat.
‘Nothing,’ she said again, only more firmly this time, her smile still in place, enjoying for a luxurious moment the confusion in his eyes. ‘He’s picking me up here in an hour. We’re going for dinner.’
‘Vaughan Mason’s taking you for dinner?’ He didn’t even attempt to hide the incredulity from his voice. ‘Vaughan Mason?’
‘At seven,’ Amelia confirmed. ‘As I said, he was too tired to do the interview.’
‘Oh, my...’ Paul was on his feet now, pacing the office floor, staring at Amelia with undisguised and unprecedented admiration. ‘I told Clara you could pull it off.’ He waved his finger at Amelia. ‘She said you should have got changed before you went over, but I told her you’d win him over...’
‘You did no such thing, Paul.’
Confidence suited her, Amelia realised, standing up and picking up the bouquet, burying her burning cheeks in the cool waxy petals and inhaling deeply. The scent that had been so oppressive was truly beautiful now. She was scarcely able to comprehend that Vaughan Mason had sent it to her—and in record time too—scarcely able to believe that these gorgeous, tropical flowers had somehow beaten her back to work and saved her in the very nick of time.
‘I’d better get ready.’
‘Good idea.’ Paul jumped up. ‘I’ll ring one of the boutiques and ask them to stay open for you. And I can call Shelly the make-up artist to come and work her magic—’
‘I’ve got an outfit in my locker,’ Amelia interrupted, but Paul shook his head.
‘This isn’t one of your usual extended celebrity lunches; one of your little dark suits won’t do here, Amelia. This is dinner with Vaughan Mason!’
Which did nothing to quell her nerves!
‘I’ve actually got a gorgeous black dress in my locker,’ Amelia said airily, not adding that she’d had it hanging there for six months now, draped in plastic, waiting for this moment—waiting for the big break to come—so she could dash like Wonder Woman into the office loo and change from efficient to gorgeous. ‘But if Shelly’s available that would be great.’
* * *
Poor Shelly. Amelia smiled as she sank back in a chair and closed her eyes—summoned from the bowels of the car park as she attempted to creep out to the pub on a Friday with the rest of the mob. Called back in to work her magic on someone who wasn’t even famous—yet!
Gorgeous!
Okay, the dusty mirrors in the toilet had the same positive effect as a soft focus lens, but Shelly really was a genius. She’d been working on Amelia for forty full minutes, telling her sharply to stay still as Amelia had begged her to go lightly, sure she must look more like Coco the Clown from the amount of jars and tubes Shelly seemed to be opening. But now, staring back at her reflection, Amelia felt more than a flutter of excitement.
Cheekbones Amelia hadn’t known existed made her look positively gaunt, and her mouth looked all sparkly and animated, courtesy of the very latest in ‘stay put’ lipglosses. But it was on her eyes where Shelly had really come into her own. A smudgy grey eyeshadow, that Amelia would never have attempted, made the green so much more vivid, like glittering emeralds, her eyelashes impossibly long, and yet somehow she’d made it look if not subtle then tasteful. And as she stood and admired her reflection Amelia was scarcely able to believe that the sophisticated, demure woman staring back was really her.
‘Oh, my,’ Paul said for the hundredth time, barely able to contain his excitement as he stood waiting with her in the lobby. ‘You’ve got spare batteries for your Dictaphone? Remember to turn off your mobile. There can be no distractions—not even from me. But if you need to call...’
‘I’ll be fine, Paul,’ Amelia snapped, wishing he would just be quiet, wishing he would stop acting like some over-protective parent on his daughter’s first date. ‘Might I remind you, this isn’t the first celebrity I’ve interviewed? I’ve delivered an article every week for the last six months.’
‘But not one like this, Amelia.’ Paul gave her an extremely annoying nudge as a slick silver car pulled up beside the pavement. ‘This has shades of Taylor Dean written all over it—and look how much the paper made on that one article! Didn’t he wrap up the interview by asking you to dinner?’
‘This is nothing like Taylor Dean,’ Amelia bristled, managing to simultaneously smile and give a small wave as she hissed the words out of the side of her mouth.
‘No,’ Paul responded. ‘Because Vaughan Mason’s got style.’
It was Vaughan who stepped out of the car, not his chauffer. Vaughan who pulled open the rear door as Paul walked down the concrete stairs with her and delivered his final below-the-belt remark.
‘If you two aren’t in bed by eleven, I want you to ring me at twelve.’
* * *
Amelia was used to heads turning as she made her way into restaurants, used to the nudges and murmurs working their way around the room like a game of Chinese Whispers as the patrons recognised her companion, and she was used to the best, most secluded table being somehow magically conjured up, whether or not a reservation had been made. But walking in with Vaughan she felt like a complete novice, a pit of nervousness in her stomach as his warm hand grazed the small of her back, guiding her through the white-clothed tables.
The glow on her cheeks was nothing to do with Shelly’s generous rouge and everything to do with her delicious companion. Even her breathing wasn’t involuntary as the waiter pulled out her chair and she took a grateful seat; every breath was a supreme effort as finally she faced him, as the moment it seemed she had been dreaming of all her life finally arrived.
‘Why?’
It was the first real question that had spilled out of her lips, although they’d chatted politely in the back of his sleek car while his chauffer had driven them to this exclusive little French restaurant nestled in The Rocks.
Vaughan had declined an entrée, but, determined to wring the evening for every last drop, Amelia had ordered one. Even if it killed her she’d have dessert, and then port and cheese as well. She had the mid
dle pages to fill!
Cracking the crust of her bread over her French onion soup, avoiding his eyes, Amelia found the nerve to ask the question that had been plaguing her since Paul’s last derogatory remark. Despite the sheer heady pleasure of a night in Vaughan’s company, she was utterly determined to set the tone early—to ensure Vaughan Mason understood that this was a business dinner and nothing else. Even if she might be merely flattering herself, Amelia had to be sure he had asked her here tonight for professional rather than personal reasons.
‘Why the flowers? Why...?’
‘Because on a last-minute impulse I picked up a bunch of orchids at Singapore Airport with the intention to give them to Katy as thanks for all her hard work. She’s my PA,’ he added, when Amelia frowned at his response. ‘Anyway, suffice to say things became rather complicated, about ten minutes before you arrived in my office, and I’m sure that had I given the bouquet to Katy my life would have then taken a turn from complicated to extremely messy.’
‘I meant why did you ask me for dinner?’ Amelia asked, sure he had deliberately misinterpreted her question, but equally determined to get her answer.
‘You asked about the flowers,’ Vaughan pointed out. ‘It seemed a shame to waste them, so I asked Gary, my driver...’ He relented with a devastating smile. Perfect white teeth lit up his dark features, brooding eyes holding hers over the table. ‘I don’t know why I asked you to dinner,’ Vaughan admitted, taking a long sip of his whisky. ‘I suppose I wanted to get to know you a bit better.’
‘It’s supposed to be the other way around, Mr Mason,’ Amelia answered quickly.
His response was the last thing she needed, because it would be easy—so very frighteningly easy—to forget her promise to herself that she would never cross the professional line again! Even though there was no denying the attraction that sizzled between them, Amelia knew that if she weakened even for a moment, if she allowed herself to lapse for even a smidgen of time, Vaughan Mason would crush her in the palm of his manicured, experienced hand—use her and toss her aside, just as he had every woman who had come before her.
She had to stay in control.
‘You couldn’t get me out of your office quickly enough,’ Amelia deliberately reminded him, ‘so why the sudden change of heart?’
She watched him toying with the rim of his glass, stifling a yawn, but in a sharp contrast to their initial meeting his distraction didn’t irritate her now. Something akin to compassion washed over her as she closely studied his face, took in the lines of exhaustion grooved around the edges of his eyes. The artist waiting in the wings must have left for an extended coffee break, because he’d forgotten to blend in those dark smudges beneath them. Vaughan was almost cross-eyed as he squinted across the table at her, and suddenly the hows and whys didn’t matter any more; the fact she was here was quite simply enough.
‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’ He took another slug of his whisky. ‘I was exhausted at five, and had you not burst into my office I suspect I’d still be lying on the sofa fast asleep. However...’ he smiled at her darkening cheeks ‘...now I’m wide awake, and no doubt will remain that way until five a.m. tomorrow.’
‘You’re an insomniac.’ Amelia groaned sympathetically. ‘I used to be one too.’
‘Don’t.’ He held up a beautifully manicured hand. ‘Please don’t try and engage me with your sympathy, telling me you understand exactly how I feel and then wiping the floor with me in the colour supplement.’
‘You should try counting sheep.’ A cheeky smile inched over her lips and she barely noticed the waiter delivering her sumptuous main course and tucking a massive white napkin around her. Amelia’s eyes were only for her most intriguing subject.
‘Which would no doubt be relaxing if I hadn’t grown up on a massive sheep farm. I can still remember listening to thousands of them bleating as I tried to nod off.’ He smiled at her open mouth. ‘Don’t you do any research, Miss Jacobs?’
‘But nothing, nothing in your bio even hints that you grew up on a sheep farm. I thought that you went to an exclusive private school...’
‘I did.’
‘I specifically remember reading that your father is an accomplished businessman.’
‘He is.’
Finally he relented.
‘My father is an extremely successful sheep farmer.’
‘Oh!’ Pulling back, trying to quell the surprise in her voice, Amelia asked a more relevant question. ‘Whereabouts?’
Vaughan immediately shook his head. ‘That’s hardly relevant.’
‘I’m just interested,’ Amelia responded, making a mental note to research it. But Vaughan was clearly a mind-reader.
‘Don’t even think about looking it up, Amelia. You can say what you like about me, but my family stays out of anything that you write.’
‘I was hardly going to dig up dirt on him,’ Amelia countered, but Vaughan remained unmoved.
‘My family stays out of it,’ he said again, very firmly and very clearly. ‘The last thing I want is a picture of my father in his work gear, drinking his cup of tea out of the blessed tin mug he insists on using, and the papers bleating about how I keep them in rags. My father would be devastated. And before you say I’m overreacting, that you have no intention of writing such a piece, you might not, but some other journalist certainly will. You’d be amazed how things can get distorted.’
Amelia sighed. ‘I wouldn’t. Okay,’ she conceded, ‘family stays out of it—for the article at least. But can you tell me anyway?’
‘Why do you want to know if you’re not going to use it?’
Which was a good question, and one Amelia struggled for a short while to answer. Truth be known, she wanted to know only for herself—wanted to get to know the man behind the legend, dig just a little bit deeper for her own selfish reasons—but she could hardly tell him that. Instead she gave a small shrug.
‘It just helps with my writing. The more I know about you, the more intimate the piece.’
‘Oh, well, I’m all for intimate.’ He gave a smile. ‘My family has a large property in the Blue Mountains. So you see, counting sheep for me really isn’t a relaxing option, given that come shearing time there are thirty thousand sheep to muster and shear over a four-week period. It’s actually the stuff of nightmares, although I love doing it.’
‘You still work the farm?’
‘Absolutely. Like I said, there’s only a small window of time to get the sheep sheared, and Dad’s one rule is that we all head over there once a year for a fortnight to help out. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
She was assailed with a vision of him in jeans and outdoor boots, that jet-black hair whipped up by the wind, a contrast to the sharp-suited immaculate man sitting before her. Amelia was having serious trouble deciding which one she’d prefer, knowing only one thing—she wanted to see them both.
“‘We all”?’
‘You don’t miss a trick do you? My brother and I.’
‘And does this brother of yours have a name?’ She watched him stiffen, but chose to pursue. ‘Does this brother of yours have a family of his own?’
He wanted to tell her.
The internal admission startled him.
He wanted to tell this talkative, nosy woman about his mother and father, about his brother and his wife, about the child they both adored—wanted to share with her the inspiring beauty of the Blue Mountains he still called home: the damp, muggy smell of the fog as dawn crept in, the sweet taste of tea around a campfire, how, after a day of mustering, using his body instead of his brain, sleep for once came easily...
‘Does your brother have children?’ Her persistence was her downfall. The intrusion of another question snapped him back to reality, reminding him that this was a journalist sitting
opposite him, and the words that had been on the tip of his tongue were swallowed along with a hefty belt of whisky.
‘Like I said.’ Vaughan gave a tight shrug. ‘Family stays out of it.’
‘Okay.’ Clearly used to closed subjects, Amelia admitted defeat, shifting the topic to what she hoped was safer ground. ‘How about reading?’
‘Reading?’
‘In bed.’ Amelia grinned, but it wobbled midway. She was sure that Vaughan usually had far better things to keep him occupied in the bedroom, but she recovered quickly, pushing her line of questioning in the frantic hope of getting this very difficult man to open up a touch. ‘To help you sleep—what sort of books do you like?’
‘Crime novels. But the trouble with them is that I’ve no patience. I have to find out the end, which means...’
‘You’re up all night trying to finish it?’ Amelia groaned in sympathy. ‘I’m the same. What about something lighter—romance?’ she teased, unable to fathom the sight of Vaughan lying in bed reading a love story. But to her utter surprise he nodded solemnly.
‘Same problem. I’m up all night making sure they get together in the end. I’m a hopeless case, I’m afraid. Okay, funtime over.’ He flashed a devilish smile. ‘Let’s get this over with—ask whatever it is you have to.’
‘I don’t work like that.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘Not when I’m doing an in-depth piece.’
Vaughan shuddered. ‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’
‘I find out a lot more just by talking...’
‘You’re certainly very good at that.’
‘If you’d let me finish—’ Amelia grinned ‘—I was about to say by talking with my subject in a relaxed setting—getting to really know them, finding out what’s going on in their lives, building up a picture in my mind. It allows for a far more intimate portrayal than shooting a list of questions at them; anyone can do that. So the fun can continue.’
‘And in the meantime is your subject allowed to get to know you?’
Her spoon paused midway from her plate.
