by Maya Banks
Wanted Vaughan to be wrapping his arms around her. Wanted Vaughan shooing away the world for her when it all got too close.
Vaughan Mason was the man she truly loved.
Chapter 10
‘Sorry, there’s absolutely nothing.’ The ground stewardess tapped away at her computer one more time for luck. ‘I’m afraid Friday night out of Melbourne is possibly the worst time to get a cancellation. There’s nothing till the red-eye tomorrow at six a.m.’
‘That’s fine.’ Amelia ran a tired hand through her hair. ‘If you can book me on that, it would be great.’
Perhaps the stewardess had expected a wail of protest, a demand to see her supervisor, because when Amelia meekly accepted she offered her first smile. ‘You can check your luggage in now, if you like.’ As she snapped a label around Amelia’s case, her smile moved to sympathetic. ‘Do you want me to call the airport hotel? See if I can get you a room?’
Amelia shook her head. ‘I’ll just wait in the terminal.’
And she would. Because time seemed to have taken on no meaning now. There was no point paying for a bed she surely wouldn’t use, and—bizarrely—she didn’t want today to be over. Didn’t want to close her eyes on a day that had started so perfectly and ended in disaster. Didn’t want to go to sleep tonight because that would mean she’d have to wake up tomorrow, wake up and move on to the next phase of her life. And right now she wasn’t ready to face her grief alone.
But sitting at a café, drinking coffee after coffee, listening to the piped music, Amelia decided that Melbourne Airport was perhaps the loneliest place she’d ever been.
Hordes of people milled around, with trolleys clipping ankles, children dodging parents, reunited couples embracing, tearful lovers parting, and she watched it all. Occasionally she headed outside to stand in the warm night air, staring at the illuminated glass tunnel that led towards the terminals, remembering walking along it with Vaughan at the start of their adventure, remembering how good her life had been the last time she’d been there—the broad set of his shoulders as she’d clipped along behind, laughing at some throwaway comment Vaughan had made. She was scarcely able to comprehend that it had been just a few short days he had been in her world; that a man she had known for such a short space of time could be etched on her heart for ever.
Thought she had known, Amelia corrected, shaking her head as an anxious flyer attempted to cadge a light for his final cigarette before boarding.
Her pensive mood shifted slightly then, the inner reserve that had seen her through her degree, helped her forge her way in the cut-throat world of journalism, revealing just a tiny glimpse of the silver lining around the blackest cloud to enter her life.
She’d be okay. Amelia knew that deep down—knew that she deserved better than Vaughan Mason was prepared to give. She’d been right in what she’d said to Vaughan at the restaurant—she wanted it all, and she wouldn’t settle for less.
* * *
The bundles of early editions outside the closed newsagent’s had Amelia stopping in her tracks, and it would have taken a will of iron to move on and not take one. This was her work, after all. It was her name beside the headline.
What Price a Heart?
Frowning, Amelia glanced up at the newsagent, shutters firmly down, but that was the least of her problems. The headline didn’t make sense. Okay, she hadn’t sat typing wearing the rose-coloured glasses of first love, but she certainly hadn’t portrayed Vaughan as ruthless.
Nothing in her article had portrayed him as heartless.
She could see the curious looks of a cleaner as, intending to pay in the morning, she ripped open the plastic bundle and pulled out a newspaper, intending to take it over to a table and sit down and read.
She didn’t even make it one step.
The fragile beauty of Liza was captured in a photo as she unfolded the paper. Vaughan’s arm was protectively around her, just as she had witnessed back at the hotel, but the caption beneath screamed words she had never even thought of, shaming her to the very core as somehow she read on.
Mason comforts his sister-in-law Liza.
Horrified, her eyes widened as she read the article, trying to drag in a lungful of air as her breathing came shallow and fast, her pulse pounded rapidly in her temples. Though Amelia had never had a panic attack this was as close to one as she ever wanted to come—she was drenched, literally drenched in revulsion as she read tomorrow’s news, and the only thing that stopped her from collapsing, stopped her knees literally buckling beneath her, was the knowledge that she had to forewarn Vaughan—somehow tell him how appallingly he’d been treated, try and get him to understand that even though her name was on the article she’d played no part in this.
She just made it to the washroom in time.
She retched over and over at the mere thought of the damage that had been done. Everything made sense now, but she knew—knew—that never in a million years would Vaughan understand that she hadn’t wittingly played a part in this.
The taxi ride was hell. Every light to the city was red as the yellow cab bumped through the empty streets. The taxi driver, oblivious to her despair, attempted idle chit-chat, but she couldn’t even feign politeness, just stared out of the window as the city closed in. The beauty of Collins Street in the early hours of morning had zero impact, the fairy lights adorning the trees that lined the streets, the impressive entrance to the hotel barely registered in her mind—just the knowledge that in a few short minutes she had to face him.
Only as she reached his door did it strike her that he mightn’t even be there, or, worse still, that perhaps Liza might be with him. The thought of facing her, of facing them both together, of watching their reaction as they read the paper she held in her trembling hands assassinated Amelia as she summoned the courage to knock on the door.
‘What the hell—’ Dressed in dark boxers, his hair tousled from sleep, his eyes squinting to focus, never had he looked more desirable—or more completely unreachable.
‘I need to talk to you,’ Amelia choked, but Vaughan was already closing the door.
‘Well, I don’t want to listen.’ Dismissing her, Vaughan shook his head, but as she held up the paper the closing door stilled, his eyes catching the headline just as Amelia’s had.
He ripped the paper from her and headed inside, leaving her to walk in uninvited and watch as he sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumping as he read on. She let him do it in silence, knew that the time for excuses could only come when Vaughan was fully armed with the facts.
‘Bitch.’ He whistled the word out through taut pale lips, his eyes damning her to hell as he hit her with the full weight of his blistering stare. And even though it was agony to receive it, Amelia knew that from where Vaughan sat she deserved every last crumb of his contempt.
‘I didn’t know.’ Her voice was a pale whisper, her teeth chattering so violently she could barely get the words out.
‘That’s not what it says here.’ His voice was like ice. ‘In fact,’ he sneered, ‘it says in black and white “What Price a Heart”, by Carter Jenkins and Amelia Jacobs.’
‘I didn’t know about your nephew.’ Tears were coursing down her cheeks but she didn’t even notice, didn’t even attempt to wipe them away. ‘I didn’t know anything, Vaughan, I swear.’
‘Bull!’ he cracked. ‘You’re asking me to believe that you had no idea the paper was planning this?’
‘No!’ She screamed her denial. ‘I knew they had a story but I had no idea they were planning this! Vaughan, I thought Liza was your girlfriend. I was so jealous when I saw you with her that I decided to beat you to it—decided to pretend that our night had all just been about business. I didn’t know your nephew had cystic fibrosis. God, I didn’t even know you had a nephew, let alone that he was waiting for a heart-lung transplant...’
&
nbsp; ‘Everybody knows now.’ The despair in his eyes, the chasm of his pain, was palpable. ‘They’re insinuating that I’m trying to buy him treatment.’ His voice was a raw whisper, but it did nothing to veil the hatred behind it. ‘They’re insinuating that I’m waving money so that he can jump the queue!’
‘They’re not going to deny him care on the strength of this,’ Amelia begged, but Vaughan just shook his head.
‘They’re going to have to dot every “i” and cross every “t” now—to ensure they’re seen to do the right thing—instead of going with their gut instinct. And that is that he needs it—soon. That’s why Liza was here, Amelia, to tell me that Jamie’s nearing the end, that without a transplant he’s going to die...’
And far worse than his rage and anger was watching this proud, commanding man literally crumple before her, head in hands, every muscle in his shoulders strung with tension, fists balling into his temples as he processed the full horror of what he had just learnt.
His animosity was gone as he spoke on, but Amelia wasn’t blind enough to believe it was over. He was merely voicing his fears. The fact that she was there was almost immaterial now.
‘I’ve bent over backwards to ensure this didn’t get out—knew that if the papers got hold of it somehow they’d twist it.’ He gave a low, mirthless laugh. ‘And the saddest part of it all is that I couldn’t buy him a heart and lungs if I tried. Believe me, I’ve wanted to—I’d lose it all without even a hint of regret if I could give Jamie this chance. But even all my money, all my power, counts for nothing against the doctors. They deal with it every day, make choices no one else can, and not for a moment does money come into it. You didn’t write that did you?’ His anger was coming back now, disgust sneering on his face as he looked up to her. ‘Just layered innuendo on innuendo, half truths combined with fact.’
‘That wasn’t me.’
‘Well, that’s not what it says here, Amelia.’ Punching the paper away with his hand, he hurled it across the room, his naked anger confronting her. ‘I quote: “handing a white envelope over to one of the hospital’s directors in a secluded Melbourne restaurant...” It was a prize, for God’s sake. A holiday prize I didn’t even want my name put to, Amelia. You’ve made it sound like a bribe.’
‘Carter was there...’ Amelia gulped. Things were making more sense with hindsight.
‘You saw him?’
Amelia nodded, her eyes riddled with guilt by association, and knew that she was going down for the third time—knew that nothing she could say would convince him she hadn’t known what the paper was planning.
Knew that she’d lost him.
Vaughan was right. The article had her name on it. Fact and innuendo was a dangerous blend indeed, and Paul had been careful, because from Amelia’s one look through the newspaper there wasn’t a single lie. Her carefully crafted words were interlaced with Carter’s insinuations. Overtones of corruption sounded in every paragraph, paling everything else into insignificance. Even the motor deal announcement barely merited a mention.
If ever she’d been ashamed of her profession it was then.
‘I trusted you.’ She noticed the past tense of his words and it lacerated her. ‘I even thought I loved you, Amelia. I went to the hospital today to speak to Liza, to ask her if I could tell you about Jamie. To tell her that I’d met this amazing woman who just happened to be a journalist, that for once I was sure I’d got it right. What a fool!’
Ignoring his last line, Amelia probed gently, filled with regret for all she had done, the love she had thrown away, but needing to hear how close she had come to realising her dream. ‘What did she say?’
‘I didn’t get to tell her.’ Vaughan’s face hardened, yet she could see the pain behind it, see his knuckles whitening as he clenched his fists together in an effort to hold things back. ‘Jamie’s condition had deteriorated overnight—nothing definable, of course, nothing the doctors can put their fingers on or qualify to the press as reasons for moving him to the top of the transplant list. So I doubt it will happen now.’ He stared at her paling face, rammed in the knife just a touch further, shaming her all over again. ‘I brought Liza back here for a break, so she could have a shower and bawl her eyes out away from her son, to give her a chance to admit her terror. It didn’t seem the right time to talk about my love-life.’ His head was in his hands again, and he was speaking more to himself than to her. ‘Or appalling lack of it.’
‘I’ll go.’
Her voice was a mere croak and Vaughan looked up briefly, pulling his head out of his hands just long enough to loathe her.
‘Why not? After all, you got what you came for.’
Chapter 11
It felt as if she were coming home after a funeral, mourning the loss of what she’d so recently had. And her apartment seemed steeped in a life that was divided into two—before and after Vaughan.
Before, when things like bath oils had mattered, when horoscopes had held promises, when she’d thought she had it tough, had been so naïve as to think that Taylor’s infidelity was as low as life went.
How naïve, how pathetically naïve to think then that she had known pain. The loss she had felt at the end of her relationship with Taylor didn’t even compare to the raw grief that held her in its vice-like grip now.
The waxy pink petals of the orchids Vaughan had sent her were the first thing to catch her eye, and she couldn’t help but realise that they had lasted longer than them, and there wasn’t a single thing she could do.
‘I guess I just fell in love,’ Amelia whispered, scarcely able to comprehend that something so beautiful could hurt so much.
And was it worth the pain?
She could almost hear Vaughan asking the question and remembered that first night at the hotel, standing on tired, aching feet at the threshold of the love affair of a lifetime, thought of her bruised, raw, shredded heart. Without hesitation she nodded into the lonely room.
‘Absolutely.’
* * *
She knew he’d never forgive her, knew her time with Vaughan was over, yet she ached to put things right, to somehow repair some of the damage she’d unwittingly inflicted. But at every turn she was thwarted. Her angry demands for a retraction were met with an incredulous laugh from Paul, who was completely unable to comprehend why she wasn’t wallowing in the glory of it all.
Hours dragged into days, her anger giving way to lethargy, and it was a supreme effort just to lever herself off the couch to answer the door. Flowers were being delivered, even a bottle of champagne, and her telephone was constantly ringing with messages of congratulations. Even her father, for the first time, was proud of his daughter’s work.
But the one person she wanted to see, the one person she wanted to hear from, kept a dignified silence.
No outburst of temper on the six o’clock news, just the stern fix of his jaw as he left the hospital with his sister-in-law and nephew to wait for a call that might now come too late. The navy eyes were hidden behind dark glasses, yet nothing could shield from Amelia the depth of his despair, the pain behind the ‘no comments’, the agony of her apparent betrayal.
And Amelia was as guilty as the rest of the general public—greedy for insight, surfing news bulletins, listening avidly as reporters explained the disease that afflicted his nephew, that Vaughan Mason himself might carry the gene. She learnt that even in his apparent anger, his seeming withdrawal after their lovemaking, Vaughan had been concerned for her—had somehow been trying to protect her.
He had loved her. With torturous hindsight she knew that now—knew that in his own unique, special way Vaughan Mason had truly adored her.
The loud ringing of her doorbell only made Amelia jump. The prospect of another visitor did nothing to raise her spirits, and she didn’t want another bouquet or congratulations she didn’t deserve. And anyway her apart
ment already looked like a funeral parlor—felt like a funeral parlor.
Amelia didn’t want to see anyone.
Unless it was Vaughan, standing grey and washed-out in her doorway, looking as awful as she felt, yet the most beautiful thing she could ever hope to see.
‘You look awful.’ Perhaps not the most romantic of greetings, but it was all her quivering lips could manage. She braced herself for the crash landing of his temper, another hit to her bruised and battered heart.
‘Turbulence.’
She blinked as he managed a wan smile, still scarcely able to believe he was here, unable to comprehend that he didn’t appear angry. Surely after the hell he’d been through these past days he should be raging? But instead he was talking almost normally—completely unable to meet her eyes, of course, but fairly normally all the same.
‘Bloody turbulence all the way from Melbourne.’
‘Turbulence?’
‘Did I forget to tell you that I’m terrified of flying?’ He didn’t even soften it with a dry smile, and Amelia closed her eyes in another second of regret. The ritual trip to the newsagent made sense now, and the white-knuckled silence in helicopters. She was glimpsing again the softer side of the wonderful man that she could have had.
‘How’s Jamie?’ Still holding the door for support, Amelia asked one of the many questions that had been plaguing her. ‘How’s he dealing with all the publicity? And Liza...?’
‘They’re fine,’ Vaughan said slowly. ‘They’re dealing with it. In fact it’s almost a relief that it’s out in the open now. Almost,’ he added, and Amelia knew it still must hurt.
But suddenly the conversation shifted, suddenly they were talking about them—or at least Vaughan was.
‘Amelia, I don’t care.’ Dragging her into his arms, he held her fiercely, breathing in the scent of her hair, holding her as if for support, and all she could do was hold him back, words strangling in her throat as he loved her for all the wrong reasons. ‘I don’t care just as long as we can move on—I can see why you did it, why you had to go for the story. It’s your job, Amelia,’
