by Maya Banks
‘Of course.’ Amelia recovered quickly. ‘It’s hardly fair to expect someone to open up if I don’t give a piece of me back.’
‘So I can ask questions too?’
Amelia nodded, bypassing her champagne glass and reaching instead for a heavy glass of iced water. Her throat was impossibly dry all of a sudden, as she wondered what Vaughan Mason could possibly want to know about little old her.
‘Did you tell your boss what I said about the motor deal?’
Not by a flicker did she express her disappointment; of course that was all he wanted to know—work was his bible, at least where a nosy journalist was concerned. As if he had been going to ask if she was single, Amelia mentally scolded herself. As if he were remotely interested in the woman sitting before him. And, more to the point, this was, at her insistence, strictly business.
‘No.’ Thankfully she was able to look him in the eye.
‘Good.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘I don’t believe in celebrating until I’ve got a signature on paper.’ Watching her slender hands lift a fork that looked way too heavy to her mouth, Vaughan paused. Amelia’s eyes closed in bliss as she sampled her food. ‘Nice?’
‘Fabulous.’ Amelia sighed. ‘Eating out is one of the serious perks of the job. I absolutely love my food.’
‘Me too.’ He smiled at her questioning eyebrow as she eyed the rather sparse plate the waiter was placing before him. The tomato salad with balsamic dressing he had ordered as a main course was clearly in sharp contradiction to his statement. ‘Oh, no you don’t. Before you label me as some temperamental bulimic...’
‘I wasn’t about to.’ Amelia grinned.
‘Oh, yes, you were. The fact is, I’ve had about ten meals today—a sumptuous breakfast in Japan followed by a large business lunch, then a three-course meal on the plane to Singapore, and to top that off another breakfast...’
‘Okay, okay.’ Amelia laughed, putting her hand up in mock defence. ‘I get the message.’
‘So you see there’s a very good reason for a plain tomato salad...’
‘You’ve got me all wrong.’ Amelia was still laughing as she took a sip of her mineral water. ‘I’m not interested in starting rumours, Mr Mason, just squashing them or confirming them. I’m as bored as most people with stories that have little foundation. I’m tired of “confirmed” pregnancies that never seem to get past the first trimester, or reading about an idyllic marriage only to turn on the news two weeks later and find out they’re filing for divorce.’
Signalling the waiter, Vaughan sat back as Amelia’s glass was refilled with the most expensive of champagnes and her slightly trembling hand toasted her most unexpected host.
‘I like your work, Amelia.’ It was the first time he’d called her by her first name, and it sounded more intimate than she’d ever heard it before. Vaughan Mason seemed to register that fact.
‘Vaughan,’ he affirmed, without suggestion. ‘I think we’re both adult enough to deal with first-name terms.’
‘You’ve read my work?’
He nodded. ‘Every week, Amelia. And I don’t know how you do it, but I have to hand it to you—somehow you manage to get the most unlikely of people to open up. Somehow you manage to slip in the most salacious piece of gossip and make it sound like girly talk. I have to admit it’s making me a touch nervous.’
‘You don’t look it,’ Amelia said, knowing he didn’t mean it, but embarrassed and pleased all the same.
‘So, how do you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Get them to open up?’
‘I talk to them,’ Amelia said simply. ‘And, as for salacious gossip, I don’t touch anything that hasn’t already been hinted at. I see it as my job to give people the opportunity to confirm or deny. Which, so far, they have.’
‘I’ll say,’ Vaughan responded, and Amelia felt her toes curl in pleasure at the dash of admiration in his voice. But her pleasure faded as Vaughan brought up the one name she really didn’t want to hear ever again. ‘That piece you did a few months ago where you got that alcoholic popstar to admit he’d been in rehab—you know the one...’ He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name, frowning as Amelia rather reluctantly filled him in.
‘Taylor Dean.’
‘That’s the one.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘You didn’t just get him to admit to being an alcoholic, you actually had him talking about how he’d dried out. How hellish the twelve steps had been for him. How? How did you get him to talk?’
‘I asked him about it.’ Amelia shrugged. ‘Most people respond to a direct question. Most people, if they can see you’re genuinely interested, are only too pleased to talk about themselves... Unlike you,’ she added with a swift baleful look that was met with a smile. ‘And, for the record, Taylor’s a recovering alcoholic. He hasn’t touched a drop for two years—at least that was the case when I wrote the piece.’
Vaughan didn’t look particularly convinced, but Amelia refused to be drawn, instead fiddling with her glass and willing this part of the conversation to be over.
Thankfully Vaughan must have sensed her reluctance, because he swiftly moved on. ‘How about that actress then? Miranda? For years I’ve wondered if she’s had surgery, for years people have died wondering if she’s been under the knife, and then you come along and suddenly we find out she’s had the lot...’
‘You really have done your research on me,’ Amelia remarked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice and suffused with both embarrassment and pride that this man had actually read her work—not just read it, but apparently enjoyed it.
‘You’re looking at a guy who spends half his life in airport terminals, Amelia. I read you because I like you.’
Maybe he was merely playing her at her own game—plying her with flattery—but here and now Amelia didn’t care. Because whatever Vaughan was up to, it felt good. His positive words were like a salve to her fragile ego, and she decided at that point to relish the moment instead of analysing it—there would be plenty of time for that when this magical night was over.
But Vaughan hadn’t finished yet. He was pulling apart a bread roll and soaking up the last of his balsamic dressing—long fingers working the plate, a decadent flash of gold on his wrist. Even his hands were beautiful!
‘As bitchy as your pieces are,’ Vaughan carried on, his mouth full, but still looking impossibly sexy, ‘they still come across as if you like your subjects.’
‘Because I do like them—neuroses and all.’ She smiled at his frown. ‘I truly admire them.’
‘Admire them?’ Vaughan questioned. ‘It hardly takes a degree in rocket science to croon into a microphone or to strut one’s stuff on the catwalk. I’ve dated a few models in my time,’ he added.
‘I heard,’ Amelia answered cheekily, before responding to his question. ‘Okay, I admit at first I was a mixture of cynical and overawed. Yet the more I interview these people, the more I get to know them as individuals, and the more highly I think of them. Models deserve every last cent of their millions! Can you imagine sitting in a restaurant as divine as this and ordering a tomato salad with dressing on the side if you hadn’t eaten ten courses today?’ Her voice was truly appalled. ‘Heaven knows—someone who can give birth and then get out of her hospital bed and do two hours of Pilates with only an egg-white omelette to look forward to is a woman who knows what she wants. I absolutely couldn’t do it, and I tell them that.’
Her plate was being cleared away now. She ached to dash to the loo, to check that no remnants of food were between her teeth and that Shelly’s make-up was living up to its reputation, but Vaughan was staring at her—staring across the table in a broody, pensive way. And if four years at uni had taught her anything it was that now was not the time to go, that if she left now, then a few minutes after returning so would he.
‘My turn now,’ Amelia sai
d, and she took a deep breath, eternally grateful that she had a completely legitimate reason to ask the one question she really wanted answered; after all, not a woman in Australia would forgive her if she didn’t find out his romantic status.
‘Are you involved in a relationship?’
‘I assume we’re not talking about my family here? Because I am involved with them—very much so.’
‘You assume correctly. So, are you involved with a woman?’
‘Amelia!’ Vaughan feigned surprise. ‘I would have thought someone with your rather cosmopolitan job would phrase her questions more carefully—cast a wider net, perhaps. For all you know I could be gay.’
‘Most gay men don’t have your reputation with women, Vaughan,’ Amelia answered with the sweetest of smiles.
‘Ah, but how do you know that isn’t just a smokescreen?’
‘Please!’ Amelia scoffed, leaning back in her seat. And she would have laughed, was about to respond with some swift but witty retort, but both her laughter and her words died on her lips as she caught his eye. She stared at him for a full moment, meeting his gaze and holding it, and the background noise of the restaurant faded into silence. The moment dragged dangerously on, tipping her from uncharted to dangerous territory.
She didn’t need to ask him. Not for a second had his being gay even entered her head—because Vaughan Mason, in the few hours since she’d known him, had made her feel more of a woman than she’d ever felt in her life.
‘I think we both know that’s not the case.’ Her voice was amazingly even, given her accelerated heart-rate, but she wished he’d drop his gaze first—wished she could win this tiny unspoken battle. Whatever game they were playing, it didn’t come with a rule book. His eyes were holding hers unblinkingly as she wrestled to come up with a response. ‘However, I stand corrected. If you don’t mind, I’ll rephrase my question—are you in a romantic relationship?’
‘No.’
The heady relief that flooded her shocked even Amelia, but determinedly she kept her features impassive, staring back at him, terrified to blink, to break the decadent beat of the moment. But this was work, Amelia reminded herself sharply. This was her career, the break she’d been praying for, and succumbing to Vaughan Mason’s undeniable charms wasn’t going to get her article written.
With a blinding flash of clarity she realised he was playing her—playing her as he did every woman who had crossed his path for the last quarter of a century, playing her just as Taylor had.
These were men who had learnt to flirt from the cradle.
It was Amelia who dropped her eyes, Amelia who gave up on the game she could never win. Sitting up a notch and clearing her throat, she spoke in what she hoped was a more assertive tone than the rather more seductive one that seemed to have been waiting in the wings for the best part of the main course.
‘You’re thirty-four, Vaughan.’
‘Thirty-five, actually.’ He flashed a perfect white smile and Amelia was sure she could see a glint of triumph in his eye...
She knew that he knew that he’d moved her.
‘Thirty-five,’ Amelia corrected herself. ‘Have you ever thought of settling down?’
‘Settling down?’ He frowned.
A tiny cough, a tiny reminder to herself that she was allowed to ask this type of question—it was her job to be nosy!
‘Getting married?’ Amelia responded through slightly gritted teeth, knowing he was merely stalling, dragging things out so he could prepare his answer.
‘I’ve never understood that.’ Vaughan frowned across the table. ‘Why do people refer to marriage as “settling down”? One would assume that you’d love the person you marry, yes?’
‘One would hope so.’ Amelia flashed a tight smile.
‘And one could also assume, then, that you’d find that person incredibly sexually attractive. I mean, to actually have committed to that person for life you’d surely be sexually compatible, barely able to keep your hands off each other...’
Lucky, lucky woman, Amelia thought reluctantly. Lucky the woman who was the sole object of Vaughan Mason’s desire, who had a man as utterly sexy as Vaughan permanently unable to keep his hands off her.
Trying to keep her breathing even, to keep a vaguely detached stance, she gave what she hoped was a vague nod, as if the picture he was painting in her mind wasn’t causing her toes to curl under the table.
‘Which hardly equates to settling down. Personally I’d refer to it as things hotting up—and considerably so.’ He flashed a slightly triumphant smile. ‘Does that answer your question?’
‘Not in the slightest,’ Amelia retorted, cheeks flaming, dying of embarrassment, but determined to get an answer. ‘You do have a reputation,’ she pointed out, then softened it with a smile. ‘It would be almost criminally negligent not to broach the subject; my readers would never forgive me. You’ve been playing the field for quite some time, Vaughan.’
‘But I’ve been sitting on the bench for a while. I have,’ he insisted as Amelia’s lips duly pursed. ‘Leopards can change their spots, Amelia.’
‘Or they learn to be more discreet,’ Amelia responded dryly. ‘Come on, Vaughan. I’ve heard it all before—same tune, different song...’
For a second his eyes narrowed, but then surprisingly he laughed. ‘Where did a sweet thing like you learn to be so cynical?’
‘It comes with the job description.’ Amelia smiled back. ‘I’m writing an article, not a fairy tale.’
‘Taylor Dean changed,’ Vaughan pointed out. ‘You just said so yourself!’ He registered the tiny swallow in her throat, the nervous dart of her eyes—read her as he read every woman who sat before him. ‘You say the guy hasn’t touched a drop in two years, yet every time he snaps at a shop assistant, every time he rocks up ten minutes late or cancels a gig because he has laryngitis, we’re led to believe by your mob that he’s back on the bottle. The guy can’t cross the street without looking twice; the next thing he knows he’s tomorrow’s headlines...’
‘Leave Taylor out of this.’ Her voice was too shrill, too urgent, and Amelia fought to correct it, wishing somehow they could turn back the clock, revert to what they’d almost shared just a matter of seconds ago. ‘We’re talking about you...’
‘I’m merely drawing an analogy. Anyway...’ he frowned ‘...what happened between you two? How come you’re so defensive...?’
He watched her flinch as if she’d been slapped, saw the colour literally drain out of her cheeks, her shaking hands reaching for her water glass. Normally it would have given him a kick, a tiny surge of thrill to have nailed it, to have hit the Achilles’ heel that every living mortal had. Only this time it didn’t. Watching her flounder, that effusive, expressive face struggling to remain bland, he instantly regretted the pain he’d inflicted, and took no pleasure in watching her flail. ‘I’m sorry. That was way too personal.’
She forced a smile. ‘If I can give it, I should be able to take it.’
‘It’s not always that easy, though, is it?’ Vaughan suggested, gently now. ‘We all make mistakes. Only most people don’t have to get up in the morning and read about them. Most people can hide under the duvet for a few days and that’s the end of it.’
Reaching in his pocket, he pulled out his mobile and frowned. ‘I’d have thought Mr Cheng would have rung by now.’
Eternally grateful for the change of subject, she smiled more naturally.
‘Maybe no news is good news?’
‘Let’s hope so.’
‘When will you know for sure?’
‘Next week. Mr Cheng is flying into Melbourne to check over a few last-minute details, and hopefully on Friday it will be in the bag. I should be able to announce it the following Monday. Thanks for not saying anything, by the way.’
‘You said it was off the
record.’
‘Which normally means zilch.’
He watched her tongue bob out to lick her lips as the waiter placed her dessert in front of her. Integrity was seemingly ingrained in every one of her pores. Off the record for once meant just that.
‘The Japanese company I am dealing with are shrewd businessmen. They’re also incredibly well-mannered,’ Vaughan explained, ‘and more than a touch superstitious; blasting the story over the papers without Mr Cheng being informed would have been disastrous for progress. I’d have hated to face him on Monday if this had got out.’
Amelia nodded, sinking her spoon into the most delectable white chocolate and nougat mousse, knowing it was going to taste even better than it looked. The thought was confirmed as the sweet goo melted on her tongue.
‘Nice?’
‘Heaven,’ Amelia sighed, taking another spoonful. ‘I don’t care how many meals you’ve eaten today, there’s surely a pocket of space for this. You really don’t know what you’re missing.’
As innocent as a child, she held out the spoon for him to taste. Shaking his head, he stared into that elfin face. Her mascara had long since smudged, the lipgloss had been lost somewhere between the main course and dessert, and Vaughan couldn’t have disagreed with her more—he knew exactly what he was missing.
‘Come.’
If her teeth hadn’t been bound by nougat Amelia would have said something stupid, like Where? But the chocolate gods were being kind, allowing a semblance of sophistication as she refilled her water glass and washed down her dessert, forcing Vaughan to elaborate.
‘Come to Melbourne with me next week.’
‘Why?’
Even after a suitable pause, it wasn’t the most sophisticated of answers. A real journalist would have murmured I’d love to; a real journalist wouldn’t make her subject justify handing over such a magnificent scoop. But half a glass of champagne and a couple of hours in this divine man’s company had eroded every last shred of sensibility.
‘Well, if you’re going to do an in-depth piece on me you might as well get the full picture. Of course there will be a few exceptions—I can’t guarantee all of my contacts will want a journalist in the boardroom, and I’d like to go to the pool unaccompanied in the morning, given that I can’t swim and talk at the same time.’
