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‘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 spotlight, 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.’
