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Damn!
It was the only word that resounded in his mind as he opened the door.
Damn, damn, damn!
Straight back to go, straight back to the beginning of the game, when she’d spun into his office, gamine, hair damp, large eyes glittering in her wary face. Straight back to where he’d completely dropped his guard.
Yet he’d seen more women dressed in exactly the same attire than he cared to remember, Vaughan reminded himself as he let her in. Had opened the door over and over to a terry towelling robe with a voluptuous woman inside—so why the panic now?
Because normally the heavy scent of perfume was the first thing to greet him, followed by tumbling hair and a well made-up face. Normally Vaughan knew exactly what was on the agenda, but the signs were completely unreadable here.
If Housekeeping had taken to installing buttons on the robes, then Amelia’s were done up the neck. The lapels were pulled tightly, the belt firmly double-knotted around her waist, and she was even wearing the slippers the hotel provided, unpainted toes peeping out. If nothing else they were something for him to focus on as he beckoned her inside, trying to ignore the sweet scent of shampoo and toothpaste and completely nothing else. Her eyes were utterly devoid of make-up, her hair still wore the marks of the comb she must have raked through it, yet for all her complete lack of effort, for all her hidden womanly charms, she was, quite simply, the most delicious parcel of femininity he had ever seen.
As wary as a puppy being let inside for the first time, she stalked into the room, tail firmly between her legs, as if any moment now she expected to be shooed out. Yet despite the vulnerability and the absolute lack of warpaint, despite the almost child-like demeanour, Vaughan knew from the way his body responded that it was every inch a woman crossing his threshold tonight.
Amelia wasn’t faring much better. Even though their rooms were identical, Vaughan had already stamped his identity on his—the lights were dimmer and the air, still damp from a no-doubt extended shower, was filled with his heavy cologne plus that unique masculine smell that had assailed her over and over in the lifts. Damp white towels littered the floor—Vaughan was clearly only too happy for someone else to pick them up—and his dresser was littered with his watch and heavy silver cufflinks, his wallet and mobile.
But far more intimidating than the dim lights and the heady scent of maleness was the wide-shouldered man walking in front of her towards the balcony. Even his back view was somehow effortlessly divine—superbly cut hair, for once wet and tousled, belt loosely knotted around snaky hips and a glimpse of toned muscular calves peeping out at the bottom.
She felt as if she were stepping inside somewhere decadent and forbidden, like a teenager entering a bar for the first time—painfully self-conscious, feeling as sophisticated as a gnat, almost waiting for a bouncer to appear, to tell her to leave, that she should never have been let in, that this was somewhere a woman like Amelia quite simply shouldn’t be.
‘Brandy?’
He hadn’t poured it yet—they weren’t even outside—but she could see a second glass waiting by the bottle on the balcony. Amelia shook her head, deciding her wits were firmly needed about her person. ‘I’ll just have a hot chocolate.’
‘I’ll ring down for Room Service.’
‘Please don’t.’ Pulling open a cupboard Vaughan hadn’t even known existed, she plugged in a tiny kettle, peeled open a sachet of powder and poured it into a mug, taking her time to make her brew before joining him outside.
‘This is a terrible idea,’ Amelia groaned, breaking the ice with her valid concerns. ‘Despite what you say, I can hardly hope for objective advice. You don’t even know what the problem is.’
‘Don’t tell me—let me guess.’ Vaughan waited a moment till she’d sat down. ‘The papers are asking for blood? “Forget the intimate portrayal, Amelia, we know you can deliver on that. You’ve got Vaughan Mason to yourself for a week and we want you to give us the dirt—give us a story that’s going to grab the headlines”.’
She didn’t even feign surprise that he already knew, just nodded wearily.
‘So why don’t you? You know about the motor deal, you know about Noble and Bates—why don’t you give the paper what they want and make a bigger name for yourself in the meantime? You said in my office that you desperately wanted to move into business reporting—well, here’s your chance.’
For an age she thought, forming an answer she hadn’t even properly run by herself.
‘I don’t know if it’s what I really want to do any more, Vaughan.’
It sounded so straightforward, but as she tucked her legs under her, closing her eyes for a moment, he knew it was anything but.
‘My father’s a political reporter…’
‘Grant Jacobs!’ She watched as he made the connection. ‘Now, that really is a hard act to follow—he’s brilliant.’
‘Brilliant,’ Amelia sighed. ‘My father is a real journalist—or so he keeps telling me. He dashes off at a moment’s notice to some wartorn country, appears on horribly blotchy videophone news reports, talking about bombings and death and danger, and holds tiny famine-struck babies in his arms. For ages he hoped that I’d follow in his footsteps…’
‘But it’s not for you?’
‘They haven’t invented a waterproof mascara good enough yet,’ Amelia admitted. ‘Still, I’ve always liked journalism, I’ve always known that was what I wanted to do, and business was what always interested me. I was the nerdiest kid, Vaughan. I’d read my horoscope and then promptly turn to the business section to see what the US dollar was up to. Business has always fascinated me.’
‘But?’ he asked, because clearly there was one.
‘When I took the job I’m doing now I saw it as a foot in the door with a major newsgroup—a step in the right direction, perhaps. Build up my portfolio a bit, make myself known.’ She gave a wry smile. ‘Pay off my car! But I never thought I’d end up loving it.’
‘Which you do.’ It was a statement not a question.
‘Absolutely. My father winces every Saturday when he reads my pieces—says repeatedly that he can’t believe that the daughter of a respected political correspondent could lower herself to write such trash.’
‘I like it,’ Vaughan ventured, and his small vote of praise was rewarded with a tired smile.
‘So do I—and that’s what’s confusing me. I never intended for this to be permanent,’ Amelia said, stirring her hot chocolate into a mini-whirlpool. ‘When I was offered the weekly slot, naturally I was thrilled. But…’
‘You had no intention of it lasting for ever?’
‘None at all. It was only a maternity leave position. I actually wanted—’
‘You don’t have to justify your reasons to me,’ Vaughan broke in, cutting to the chase in his usual analytical way. ‘So what’s changed in the last six months?’
‘I like what I do.’ For the first time since stepping onto the balcony she looked at him. ‘In fact, I love what I do.’
‘So where’s the problem?’
She didn’t answer—couldn’t, really. But Vaughan did it for her.
‘If you give them what they want now, then they’ll make your position more permanent—maybe even move you to the business side of things?’
Her silence was his affirmation.
‘Well, why don’t you do it, Amelia? You’ve got more than enough to grab the headlines—surely this will open a few doors for you?’
‘That wasn’t the deal. This was never supposed to be a business piece—that’s the reason you brought me along. It’s hardly fair for me to change my mind midway.’
‘It wouldn’t be the first time I’ve been stitched up by a newspaper. I’m sure I’d survive—and I’m sure Noble and Bates would too. As I said before, they probably want the story to come out.’ His eyes narrowed, staring at her thoughtfully for a long moment. ‘Let’s not kid ourselves that you’re worried about protecting my feelings, that it’s some ingrained integrity holding you back. We all know journalists don’t have any.’ He didn’t even soften it with a smile. ‘If you really wanted to break into business, Amelia, you’d already have done it—the movement on the motor deal would have been announced and neither of us would be sitting here now. You chose not to break that story, Amelia.’
‘I know.’ Huddling further into her dressing gown, Amelia gave a tired nod. ‘I know I did.’
‘So now you have to ask yourself why.’
Shooting him a baleful look, she let out a long drawn-out sigh, almost annoyed with him for making her admit her truth. ‘I don’t want the doors of big-business reporting to open,’ Amelia responded hesitantly. ‘In fact now the bolts are off I’m actually realising just how happy I am doing what I do.’
‘Why?’ Navy eyes pushed her to delve deeper. ‘What is it about your work that you love?’
‘The depth,’ Amelia responded. ‘My father would shudder if he heard me say that, but even though they might appear throwaway pieces they sustain interest, whereas in the business world my stories will be old by lunchtime. I’m always going to be chasing the next story, always stabbing people in the back and reporting on other people’s misery.’
