Ramon zeroed in on the woman.
Ms Emily Royce.
Now, that was a surprise he hadn’t seen coming.
Though admittedly it wasn’t a patch on this morning’s bombshell: Emily was not only the daughter of Maxwell Royce, she was a fifty per cent owner of the club.
Soon to be a forty-nine per cent owner, Ramon amended silently
.
‘Absolutely not,’ she said, the incendiary flash of her silver-grey eyes telling him she wasn’t the least bit impressed by his proposal.
His London-based lawyer leaned forward in the chair beside him. ‘We appreciate you’re in a difficult situation, Ms Royce—’
‘I don’t think you appreciate our situation at all,’ she cut in. ‘I think Mr de la Vega wants to take advantage of it.’
‘Emily.’ Ray Carter, the grey-haired lawyer sitting on her left, touched her briefly on the arm. ‘Let’s hear what they have to say.’
Ramon watched her right hand curl into a delicate fist on the table-top. Knowing what he did now, he wouldn’t have been surprised if she felt inclined to punch the man seated on her right, nor could he have blamed her. No one privy to the conversation that had just taken place could deny that Emily Royce had a right to be furious with her father.
Ramon and his lawyer had listened, incredulous, as Carter had laid out the facts, stating his clients were making full disclosure of the circumstances in the interests of trust and transparency.
And then Maxwell Royce had offered to sell his fifty per cent shareholding in The Royce in exchange for a swift and fair settlement.
It had taken less than an hour for both parties to agree on what constituted ‘fair’. Royce’s need for an expedient, unconventional deal had given Ramon leverage that he and his lawyer hadn’t hesitated to use.
But it wasn’t enough. Ramon wanted a majority shareholding. Wanted the control that additional one per cent would afford him.
Ms Royce mightn’t like it, but if she and her father wanted a quick bailout she was going to sell him one per cent of her shares.
And if she didn’t quit glaring at him as if he were the Antichrist, instead of the man about to save her from a far less desirable outcome, he was going to crush any sympathy he felt for her and damn well enjoy watching her yield.
He looked into those luminous, pale grey eyes.
‘I am not unsympathetic to your situation,’ he said, ensuring his gaze didn’t encompass her father. For Maxwell Royce he felt not an iota of sympathy. The man had been reckless, irresponsible. Ramon was a risk-taker himself, and no saint, but he’d learned a long time ago the only kind of risk worth taking was a calculated one. You did not gamble with something—or someone—you weren’t prepared to lose. ‘But I think we can agree that your options are limited and what you need is a fast and effective solution to your problem.’
He leant his elbows on the table, his shoulders relaxed under the charcoal-grey suit jacket he’d donned over the matching waistcoat, white shirt and maroon tie that morning. He spread his hands, palms up in a gesture of conciliation. ‘I believe that is what I am offering.’
‘Demanding a majority shareholding is not a solution,’ she said. ‘It’s a takeover.’
Angry colour rose in her face, the pink contrasting with her pale eyes and accentuating the elegant slant of her cheekbones. With her blonde hair scraped into a tight twist behind her head she looked as prim and buttoned up as she had the first time he’d met her. But now he found himself conceding that Emily Royce wasn’t pretty...she was beautiful—despite the back off vibe she radiated with her prickly demeanour.
He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Remembered the swift, unexpected urge she’d aroused during their first encounter—the powerful desire to kiss her, to soften that condescending smile into something warmer, more inviting.
No smile adorned her mouth this morning but the tight moue of her lips did not diminish his appreciation of the fact they were lush and shapely.
Rather like her body, the generous curves of which he couldn’t fail to notice. Not when the soft, pale blue top she wore moulded her ample breasts and slender midriff to utter perfection. He wasn’t blind. He was a thirty-year-old red-blooded man who liked the opposite sex. A lot. When a desirable woman drifted into his orbit, his body was programmed to notice.
He clenched his jaw.
Lust had no place in this meeting. He was on the cusp of achieving what his brother had believed he couldn’t. He wasn’t about to lose focus.
He’d satisfy his libido later. Celebrate with a night out in London and find himself a woman who was warm and willing, not stiff and spiky, like the one sitting opposite.
‘Correct me if I am wrong, Ms Royce,’ he said. ‘But my understanding from Mr Carter’s summary of the situation is that you and Mr Royce have less than six days to raise the money required to settle his debt.’
Emily glanced at her father. Royce looked impeccable in a pinstriped navy suit but his clean-shaven face was noticeably drawn, his blue eyes underscored by dark shadows. In the moment his daughter looked at him, something that could have been regret, or shame, passed over his features.