by Maya Banks
Vaughan was just leaving as Amelia arrived, grinning from ear to ear in her towelling robe. Like a child let loose in a sweet shop, she ran her eye along the impressive list of treatments.
‘Do you have any plans this afternoon?’ Amelia checked. ‘Anything I ought to...?’
‘Nothing.’ Vaughan smiled. ‘Take your time. You deserve an afternoon off.’
Oh, she did, Amelia thought wickedly. She decided there and then to have everything on the list—well, maybe not everything, Amelia mentally corrected, as the stragglers on her eyebrows were waxed away in seconds.
Brazilians must have a markedly high pain threshold!
Whoever had said that money didn’t buy happiness certainly hadn’t spent two hours in this hotel’s health spa being wrapped in mud, massaged, pummelled and exfoliated to within an inch of their lives, hadn’t felt the sheer bliss of a scalp massage, nor lain in a reclining chair as their fingers and toenails were simultaneously painted, hadn’t known the sheer heady pleasure of staring down at two newly pretty feet that were finally actually fit for the jewelled impulse-bought sandals awaiting their mistress at the bottom of her suitcase in the top floor of the hotel! Absolute bliss!
Stepping out of the lift, padding along the floor towards her room, Amelia felt good enough about herself to smile at the stunning woman walking towards her, clouds of dark hair billowing over her shoulders, wafting a perfume that Amelia could never afford. She was more than happy to impart just a touch of her buoyant mood, and shrugged to herself when the smile wasn’t reciprocated, when the rather haunted-looking beauty pointedly avoided her gaze and walked swiftly past.
Only as she reached her room did the smile fade from Amelia’s face. The heady perfume that had filled the corridor was noticeably absent now, but Amelia knew, just knew, where the haunted beauty had come from.
Heart in her mouth, she retraced her steps, closing her newly made-up eyes in regret as she reached Vaughan’s closed door, inhaling the heady fragrance.
Money did buy happiness.
The blissfully decadent two hours she’d just spent meant nothing now. The health spa hadn’t been included in her room...
Vaughan had conveniently got rid of her.
* * *
She sat on her bed, huddled into her robe, staring unseeing into space, appalled at the jealousy that assailed her. A full hour had passed—a full hour watching the shadows on the wall lengthen, a full hour berating herself for even daring to dream that someone like Vaughan could ever really change and, more pathetically, that she, Amelia, might be the one to change him.
She should be getting ready!
Amelia winced as she glanced at her watch, and her expression blew into a full-face grimace as a pounding on the door forced her attention. She pulled off her robe and poured herself into her dress in record time, and headed to open the door.
‘Can you sew?’
It wasn’t the greeting Amelia was expecting when she opened the door to impatient knocking.
Her lilac strappy dress really deserved the garnish of a strapless bra and heels before it was seen—not, Amelia realised, that Vaughan would notice in his current state. She flattened herself against the wall as he strode impatiently in.
Wired to the max, he practically marched into her room, impossibly restless but still beautiful in a charcoal suit, his shirt impossibly white, a dark grey silk tie hanging around an unbuttoned shirt.
‘Well, sewing’s not something I pride myself on,’ Amelia responded, deliberately missing the point. If he wanted her to sew for him then he could damn well ask her properly!
‘I’ve lost my top button.’ Vaughan attempted an explanation. ‘Housekeeping said they’d send someone to mend it, but that’s going to take for ever. I’m supposed to be down there in five minutes.’
‘Here.’ Smiling sweetly, she picked up the miniature sewing kit that hotels always provided, handing it to him and watching his frown deepen. ‘You can use this.’
He didn’t say it, but Amelia swore she could hear the irritated curse that was on the tip of his tongue. ‘Amelia—’ Taking a deep breath, attempting a pleasant smile, Vaughan tried again. ‘Would you mind sewing my top button on for me?’ He held up his arms to reveal two shiny silver cufflinks. ‘I haven’t got time to take my shirt off. Please,’ he added, completely as an afterthought, as still she stood there.
‘Seeing as you asked so nicely—’ Amelia smiled ‘—then I’m sure I can manage a button.’
Or she should have been able to. It wasn’t as if she had to rummage for a needle—one was provided, threaded, even, in the little kit the hotel provided—but he was too tall, too close, and way, way too near. She fumbled with the neck of his shirt, tried to keep her breathing even, tried to ignore the full mouth just a breath away.
‘What did you do while I was gone?’ Amelia asked lightly, way too lightly, holding her breath, mentally begging for an explanation—and dying a bit inside as she heard him lie.
‘Slept.’ Vaughan shrugged.
His skin was deliciously smooth, yet the blue-black suggestion of tomorrow lay just beneath the surface. Horribly clumsy, Amelia managed to push the needle through the stiff fabric without major incident, missing his jugular by mere centimetres. Her hand was shaking so much, and she knew that for the rest of her life, because of this moment, never again would she perform this minor task without remembering the scent, the feel, the sheer lusty presence of this man.
How easy it would be to just give in, to allow herself the luxury of even only once letting him in.
‘Done.’
Slamming that door closed, Amelia stepped back.
He nodded his thanks, and a completely steady hand knotted his tie. Amelia vanished into the bathroom, her own hand not quite so steady as she touched up her lipstick and squeezed her feet into impossibly high shoes, before eyeing her reflection in the mirror. She was almost pleased with her appearance, almost pleased with the reflection that stared back at her. Except for the sight of two jiggling bosoms that really needed support.
If she’d had the courage to wander into the living room and rescue the offending article from her case she would have. But with Vaughan firmly in situ Amelia decided to risk going without. Rearranging her rather ample décolletage, and squirting another quick layer of perfume, she braced herself to face him in the bedroom.
‘Shall we go down?’
She started speaking before she even left the bathroom, deliberately not looking at him as she set about packing her small evening bag, throwing in a lipstick and her room card. But she burned with awareness. It was the first time they’d been in a bedroom alone together since that one steamy kiss, and she knew he was remembering it too—could feel his eyes on hers as she fiddled with her hair in the mirror, finally daring to meet them with the safety of her back to him.
‘You look—’ A beat of a pause, and she watched as he walked a step nearer, close enough for her to witness a tiny swallow, the bob of his Adam’s apple in his throat before he continued, ‘You look beautiful.’
She always did, Vaughan thought, but tonight, despite the make-up, the glittering earrings and skilfully blow-dried hair, for the first time since they’d met she looked like the woman who had woken him so rudely—the woman who had spun into his office and into his life.
Her eyes were huge in her tiny face, tendrils of hair wisped around her face, and Vaughan tried to place just what it was that was different, what it was that reminded him so much of something. And then he got it. The smart business suits she’d worn since then had gone. Instead she was wearing clothing of her choice, and the sheer lilac was close to the shade of the top she had worn that first day he’d met her. That overtly feminine body was more visible now, without the harsh darts of her tailored suits, without the anonymous safety of muted greys. Her pearly shoulders were on display,
and a teasing glimpse of her spinal cord, and his fingers bunched into a fist, fighting the urge to reach out and touch her.
He could see the swell of her bust in the mirror, the teasing movement of her unhindered bosom. The ruched top strained an erotic fraction with the rise and fall of her breathing—and if he’d wanted her before it didn’t compare. He was hollow with lust now, could feel with total recall those full rosebud lips on his, the weight of her bosom in his hand. And he couldn’t not touch her. Could no more just offer his arm to casually escort her than fly to the moon.
‘We should go down.’ Amelia’s voice was slightly breathless. Her back was still to him, her eyes wide with apprehension in the mirror as only his head moved, bowing slowly.
He felt the shiver of reaction ripple through her as his lips met her shoulder, and he took a tiny slice of time, a fraction of what he couldn’t have, inhaling her scent as his mouth parted over her soft skin before pulling away.
A touch, a tiny kiss on her shoulder, that was all it had been—yet Amelia knew it shouldn’t have happened. She was angry at him for not playing by the rules, felt as if she’d been branded with a curious, erotic, almost possessive gesture she couldn’t interpret. As if he’d sunk in his teeth, as if he’d left a mark, she could feel where he’d been, but she knew there was nothing visible to show for his touch. And as they headed downstairs, as they stood apart in the lift, made their way over to the cocktail lounge, still she could feel the weight of his lips where they’d made contact, spinning her into confusion all over again.
She wasn’t sure which was worse—fighting the sexual tension, constantly being on high alert, or the safety of being with Vaughan when he was on his best behaviour. Since their lunch date, it was as if a light had been switched. Vaughan was polite, sometimes friendly, but always distant, treating her as he hadn’t from the start.
As the journalist she was.
Until tonight.
Tonight she could feel the rules being rewritten. She felt like a pawn in one of Vaughan’s games, moving at his will, her eyes constantly drawn to the master, acutely aware of him by her side,
‘These are the auction items.’ Clearly delighted by Vaughan’s presence, Sam made his way over. ‘And that fabulous holiday you donated is the cream of the crop. I hope you’ll be pushing up the prices unashamedly for us.’
Vaughan didn’t even deign to respond, just shrugged his tense shoulders, taking two glasses of champagne and giving one to Amelia. His face broke into the widest of smiles as a couple waved cheerfully at him, and only the tiny roll of his eyes told her it was false. That almost conspiratorial gesture had her glowing, made her feel for a teasing glimpse as if she was on his side, as if they really were a couple.
‘How’s your piece going?’ Vaughan attempted, fingering his collar, clearly wishing he was anywhere else but here.
‘Good,’ Amelia responded, glad at least something in her life was straightforward. Because sexual frustration had done wonders for her writing skills. Had given her permission to dwell on what she’d spurned. To legitimately focus on what she’d chosen not to have.
And because it was Vaughan her work was beautiful.
The intimate portrayal she’d been trying to achieve was coming to life beneath her fingers now. Somehow she was injecting his flashes of dry humour that softened the cruellest blows, capturing the enigmatic force of the man as he entered a room and intermingling it with the occasional glimpse of a different side—the active brain that kept him awake—divulging to her audience the softer side he usually chose not to reveal. And, despite what Paul said, Vaughan alone was quite simply enough to fill the pages. Amelia didn’t need to name names, to foster attention, didn’t need to add drama to a subject as enigmatic as he—there was no need for salacious gossip that wouldn’t see the weekend out, and she’d take it to the line with her boss if she had to.
Watching him in action now, watching him working the room, glass in hand, haughty face occasionally softened with laugher, Amelia knew in a proud moment of realisation that she had made the right choice.
His beauty was timeless, and in turn so too would be her article.
If her career was on the line then that was okay—if her paper didn’t want it then someone else surely would.
Vaughan had done nothing wrong—it wasn’t his fault that she loved him.
* * *
‘God, I hate these things,’ he said, ages later, when Amelia had air-kissed more women than she could ever hope to remember and shaken hands with more ruddy-faced businessmen than she’d ever wanted to.
But Vaughan hadn’t looked as if he’d hated it. On the contrary, he’d been a social wizard, listening intently to the most boring of conversations, laughing loudly at the most appalling jokes, yet he had still been true to himself, Amelia realized. On his best behaviour Vaughan might be, but not once had he come across as gushing.
‘I wish they’d just bloody get on with the auction so I can call it a night.’
‘It’s for charity,’ Amelia chided. ‘As Sam keeps saying, think of the kids. I really think you should let me use this.’
‘Don’t—’ Vaughan started, but there was no stopping Amelia now. Two cocktails and this amazing man at her side and Amelia was sure she could put the entire world to rights.
‘It really is a good cause, Vaughan. And with the best will in the world one auction isn’t going to deliver the equipment the ward needs. Surely a bit of publicity can only do you both some good?’
‘Leave it, Amelia,’ Vaughan warned, but the bit was between her teeth now and she refused to relent.
‘No heart and flowers, I promise. But surely a mention is deserved. Sam reckons two lines in a newspaper could triple tonight’s efforts.’
‘You’ve been speaking to him?’ One hand gripped her arm, the other wrapped firmly around his glass.
‘Of course I’ve been speaking to him. These kids really need all the support you can give.’
‘Just a couple of lines?’ Vaughan checked. ‘Maybe a brief description of the type of equipment they need?’
‘Done!’ Amelia responded, mentally pencilling it in—the perfect touch to the perfect article. But Vaughan’s hand was still on her arm, his fingers still tight around her bare flesh. Wriggling free, she turned to him. ‘Relax, for heaven’s sake.’
‘I am relaxed,’ Vaughan hissed.
Sam was warming up the audience, reminding them all of the importance of the charity they were bidding for, while simultaneously urging them all to drink and be merry, clearly hoping a few cocktails might loosen their wallets. Beside her Vaughan stood stock-still, his body rigid with tension, a muscle pounding like a jackhammer in his cheek. Amelia just smiled wider.
‘Oh, come on, Vaughan. If you hold that glass any tighter it will shatter. You’re going to be fine up there. Anyway, it’s for a good cause, remember?’
‘You really think that I’m worked up about this?’ Incredulous eyes swung to hers, his head moving down to Amelia’s slightly, ensuring only she could hear his words. ‘You really think that I’m worried about taking the stage?’
Bewildered, she shrugged. ‘Vaughan, if you don’t want me to put this in the article you only have to say—’
‘Amelia.’ His tone was savage, and his hand was back in place on her arm, pulling her around to face him. ‘Have you any idea how you look tonight?’ He gave a mirthless laugh. ‘I’m sure you do. Is that why you didn’t wear a bra?’
Startled eyes met his, and she gave a tiny gasp in her throat as she stepped back, attempting to duck the onslaught. She was completely unprepared, and there was nowhere to go. The spotlight was beaming its way towards them, the trickle of applause building as Sam invited Vaughan Mason to take the floor.
But Vaughan wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry. His features were severe in the white heat of the spotli
ght, his voice a threatening caress, his eyes dragging over her décolletage. She felt as if she were naked, her nipples sticking like thistles in her dress. So acute was his stare that she could almost feel the cool of his lips suckling them, feel the inappropriate stir of her own arousal as the room looked on—and surely they must know, surely they must see the pulse leaping between her legs, the twitching contractions of early arousal? If ever she had hated him it was at that moment, her angry, lust-loaded eyes glaring back at him, as she willed it to be over.
‘Don’t play with me, Amelia. Don’t try and play games with the big boys, because as you know they don’t always follow the rules.’
And he couldn’t have cheapened her more, couldn’t have made her feel more like a whore—as if she’d dressed deliberately provocatively to entice him, as if he hadn’t come pounding on the door when she should have been getting ready. Worst of all, she had no choice but to take it, no choice but to force a smile as he took the microphone and with effortless ease worked the room, his clipped tones such a contrast to Sam’s needy ones.
Yet it had the desired effect. Serious bidding was taking place, and she watched, burning with indignation yet dripping with lust, as bidding moved ever higher, as once again Vaughan succeeded where others would surely have failed.
Well, he wouldn’t succeed with her.
The microphone was barely back in its stand, the small talk only just starting up again, as Amelia headed for the door, punching in the lift number, aching to get to her room, to scream into a pillow. But Vaughan was behind her, calling her back.
‘It isn’t finished yet.’
‘Oh, but it is, Vaughan—for me, at least. You’re so cocksure, so bloody arrogant, so certain all any woman wants is to sleep with you...’ Her cheeks burnt with anger, but her lips were pale, so taut she could barely get the words out without hissing. ‘I was right about you all along—you haven’t changed a bit, you’ve just learnt to be more discreet.’