‘I guess I fell in love.’ Amelia gave a tiny shrug. ‘It was either these or go without completely.’
‘And was it worth the pain?’
Amelia thought of her bruised, raw, shredded feet, but without hesitation nodded. ‘Absolutely.’
For a beat he hesitated too, and Amelia was sure that for that fraction of time he was thinking about asking her in, weighing up in that calculated mind of his the pros and cons of prolonging this long day. And she only knew that she couldn’t do it—couldn’t enter into that room and hope to retain a distant façade.
‘I’d better get on,’ she attempted, as still he stared down. ‘Paul will be screaming for my word-count.’
‘Shame,’ Vaughan said softly, but didn’t elaborate, walking into his room without a backward glance.
The door closed gently behind him, leaving Amelia standing, mouthing like a goldfish at the smart mahogany woodwork, a retraction on the tip of her tongue, bitterly regretful that she hadn’t said yes to his offer.
CHAPTER FOUR
‘WELL?’
Somehow Paul managed to deliver twenty questions with a single word.
‘I haven’t actually written anything to send you yet,’ Amelia started, thankful for the hands-free phone so she could pace the room, as she always did when she was nervous; talking to Paul always made her nervous. ‘We’ve only just got in. But I’ve got lots of material.’
‘Such as?’
‘I’m not sure yet,’ Amelia answered feebly. ‘I’m still building a picture.’
‘If I wanted photos I’d have sent a photographer along with you,’ Paul retorted nastily. ‘I want words, I want facts, and I want details…’
‘Paul!’ Halting his tirade, even Amelia was shocked at the force behind her own voice. ‘This is my piece. My piece,’ she added, more so she could affirm it to herself than to Paul—assertiveness not really her forte at the best of times. ‘You’ll get your words and I can assure you they’ll be interesting—riveting in fact—but if you’re hoping for me to do a hatchet job on Vaughan Mason then you’re going to be sorely disappointed. If you want facts and details, then give me a permanent job in the business section of the paper instead of a painfully temporary freelance position in the colour supplement.’
‘Do this right,’ Paul responded, ‘and you’ll have your permanent job, Amelia. You know that as well as I do.’
Her lack of response spoke volumes.
‘That is what you still want, I assume?’
Amelia didn’t answer; she truly couldn’t. She had suddenly realised that she didn’t really know what she wanted any more—the dream she’d chased for so long was so close now she could almost reach out and touch it, so why was she stalling? Why was she closing her eyes and having second thoughts?
‘Just deliver a good piece and then we’ll talk about it,’ Paul concluded. ‘But in the meantime remember who’s paying that over-inflated hotel bill.’
And she would, Amelia decided, pulling open her laptop and flicking it on. Now really wasn’t the most convenient of times to be having a career crisis!
Locating the file she’d set aside for her article, Amelia fiddled with the margins for a full moment before attempting to start. Her fingers hovered over the keys for an inordinate amount of time, even though they’d been itching to get started before Paul’s call had stifled them.
As good for her career as it might be, she didn’t want to waste even a second of her word-count on Noble and Bates—there were hundreds of journalists who’d be only too willing to step in and do that when the time came. Instead she wanted—no, needed to somehow divulge to her readers the subject she was spending time with, to transport them on a bleary Saturday morning to an alien world, to let them glimpse the man that was Vaughan Mason, allow them to glimpse the real person behind the hype…
To keep on doing what she had been for six months…
Wanted or not, a career crisis was exactly what she was having!
Pulling open the French windows, she let the clatter of diners below fill the room, pleasantly masked by the skilful fingers of a pianist. Stepping out onto the balcony she stared down, closing her eyes and letting the music soothe her, trying to put Paul’s words out of her mind and focus on what it was she really wanted to do with her life.
‘Problem?’
His voice was so close she literally jumped, turning, startled, to the balcony beside hers, where Vaughan sat nursing a huge brandy, totally relaxed in a massive toweling robe. His black hair was even blacker from the shower, and Amelia’s body shot into overdrive. Even an intravenous shot of hormones couldn’t have delivered a more potent effect. The mere sight of Vaughan away from the boardroom and in a clearly relaxed frame of mind was literally intoxicating. All she could manage was a feeble shake of her head.
‘If you don’t mind my saying, you look a bit anxious.’
She felt a bit anxious, but right now it had nothing to do with Paul and everything to do with the man on the next balcony.
The strategic waist-high Perspex wall between balconies was at least a semblance of a barrier, and it gave Amelia enough room to move mentally, feign nonchalance and give a small shrug.
‘It’s just a work issue.’
‘So, tell me,’ Vaughan offered, holding up the bottle, ‘and on this side of the fence, preferably. I don’t fancy shouting over Frank.’
As Amelia gave him a slightly perplexed look he added, ‘Sinatra.’ And a smile broke on her pale lips as, sure enough, the pianist broke into a musical rendition of a very old favourite. ‘I’ve been here enough to know the pianist’s routine by now. Come over and talk about it.’
‘I’d say you’re the last person I should be discussing my work problems with,’ Amelia refuted, but of course Vaughan had an answer.
‘On the contrary. I’m probably the first person you should be discussing them with, given that no doubt I’m the root of the problem.’
‘That’s very presumptuous.’
‘But accurate,’ Vaughan responded, at her darkening cheeks. ‘Now, given that for the first time in living memory I’m offering some free advice, and given that however presumptuous it sounds I’m extremely good at what I do, then I’d take it if I were you.’
‘It is about you,’ Amelia admitted. ‘Well, sort of. So how can I possibly…?’
‘I can be very objective,’ Vaughan persisted.
‘I really need to have a shower,’ Amelia attempted as a last line of defence, but Vaughan dealt with that excuse just as easily.
‘It’s way before my bedtime.’ He flashed a wicked grin. ‘Go and have your shower and I’ll pour you a drink.’
Which sounded simple.
Which should be simple, Amelia thought, turning the knob in the shower and getting drenched in freezing water by a shower head that was surely as big as a dinner plate. But even a shower of icy water couldn’t douse the nerves that were jumping now. And why, Amelia wondered, was she shaving her legs when she’d only done them last night? Why was she squeezing every last drop out of the tiny bottle of moisturising lotion the hotel provided and rubbing it into every inch of her body?
What should she wear?
The never-ending question that bypassed men and perpetually plagued women was making itself heard. Her entire suitcase was filled with smart business suits and endless strappy little numbers which she had packed for formal occasions. Sophisticated chic had been very much the order of the day when she’d been packing; tête-à-têtes in Vaughan’s hotel room had definitely not been on the agenda. The only exception to the rule was a very skimpy pair of boxer shorts and a crop top that were strictly for bed.
Alone!
Punching in Vaughan’s room number, she made one of the most embarrassing phone calls of her life.
‘Would you believe me if I told you I have nothing to wear?’
‘It’s midnight, Amelia,’ Vaughan drawled. ‘We’ll be sitting on a balcony talking and drinking brandy. You hardly need to dress up for the occasion.’
‘Exactly,’ Amelia sighed. ‘But according to my suitcase dress up is all I can manage. Had you been asking me to a ball I’d be appropriately dressed—stunning, actually. Coffee in Chapel Street—no problem at all. But casual…’
‘Walk towards the bathroom Amelia.’ She could feel his smile and it made her lips twitch too. ‘Pull open the door and what do you see?’
‘Deodorant, toothpaste…’
‘Okay, close the door. Now what do you see?’
‘A towelling robe,’ Amelia wailed. ‘But I can’t come over dressed—’
‘We’ll be matching.’ Vaughan grinned down the phone.
Even though she was draped from head to toe in inch-thick terry towelling fabric, even though not a glimpse of newly shaved, freshly moisturised flesh was on show, Amelia felt as naked and as exposed as if she were wearing only the bottom half of a bikini. Knocking on his door with a tentative hand, she wished she had her time over and had thought to rouge her cheeks or add a splash of lipgloss to her lips—even the dreadful jeans she had first greeted him in would be preferable to this!