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‘I’ll be fine, Paul,’ Amelia snapped, wishing he would just be quiet, wishing he would stop acting like some over-protective parent on his daughter’s first date. ‘Might I remind you, this isn’t the first celebrity I’ve interviewed? I’ve delivered an article every week for the last six months.’
‘But not one like this, Amelia.’ Paul gave her an extremely annoying nudge as a slick silver car pulled up beside the pavement. ‘This has shades of Taylor Dean written all over it—and look how much the paper made on that one article! Didn’t he wrap up the interview by asking you to dinner?’
‘This is nothing like Taylor Dean,’ Amelia bristled, managing to simultaneously smile and give a small wave as she hissed the words out of the side of her mouth.
‘No,’ Paul responded. ‘Because Vaughan Mason’s got style.’
It was Vaughan who stepped out of the car, not his chauffer. Vaughan who pulled open the rear door as Paul walked down the concrete stairs with her and delivered his final below-the-belt remark.
‘If you two aren’t in bed by eleven, I want you to ring me at twelve.’
Amelia was used to heads turning as she made her way into restaurants, used to the nudges and murmurs working their way around the room like a game of Chinese Whispers as the patrons recognised her companion, and she was used to the best, most secluded table being somehow magically conjured up, whether or not a reservation had been made. But walking in with Vaughan she felt like a complete novice, a pit of nervousness in her stomach as his warm hand grazed the small of her back, guiding her through the white-clothed tables.
The glow on her cheeks was nothing to do with Shelly’s generous rouge and everything to do with her delicious companion. Even her breathing wasn’t involuntary as the waiter pulled out her chair and she took a grateful seat; every breath was a supreme effort as finally she faced him, as the moment it seemed she had been dreaming of all her life finally arrived.
‘Why?’
It was the first real question that had spilled out of her lips, although they’d chatted politely in the back of his sleek car while his chauffer had driven them to this exclusive little French restaurant nestled in The Rocks.
Vaughan had declined an entrée, but, determined to wring the evening for every last drop, Amelia had ordered one. Even if it killed her she’d have dessert, and then port and cheese as well. She had the middle pages to fill!
Cracking the crust of her bread over her French onion soup, avoiding his eyes, Amelia found the nerve to ask the question that had been plaguing her since Paul’s last derogatory remark. Despite the sheer heady pleasure of a night in Vaughan’s company, she was utterly determined to set the tone early—to ensure Vaughan Mason understood that this was a business dinner and nothing else. Even if she might be merely flattering herself, Amelia had to be sure he had asked her here tonight for professional rather than personal reasons.
‘Why the flowers? Why…?’
‘Because on a last-minute impulse I picked up a bunch of orchids at Singapore Airport with the intention to give them to Katy as thanks for all her hard work. She’s my PA,’ he added, when Amelia frowned at his response. ‘Anyway, suffice to say things became rather complicated, about ten minutes before you arrived in my office, and I’m sure that had I given the bouquet to Katy my life would have then taken a turn from complicated to extremely messy.’
‘I meant why did you ask me for dinner?’ Amelia asked, sure he had deliberately misinterpreted her question, but equally determined to get her answer.
‘You asked about the flowers,’ Vaughan pointed out. ‘It seemed a shame to waste them, so I asked Gary, my driver…’ He relented with a devastating smile. Perfect white teeth lit up his dark features, brooding eyes holding hers over the table. ‘I don’t know why I asked you to dinner,’ Vaughan admitted, taking a long sip of his whisky. ‘I suppose I wanted to get to know you a bit better.’
‘It’s supposed to be the other way around, Mr Mason,’ Amelia answered quickly.
His response was the last thing she needed, because it would be easy—so very frighteningly easy—to forget her promise to herself that she would never cross the professional line again! Even though there was no denying the attraction that sizzled between them, Amelia knew that if she weakened even for a moment, if she allowed herself to lapse for even a smidgen of time, Vaughan Mason would crush her in the palm of his manicured, experienced hand—use her and toss her aside, just as he had every woman who had come before her.
She had to stay in control.
‘You couldn’t get me out of your office quickly enough,’ Amelia deliberately reminded him, ‘so why the sudden change of heart?’
She watched him toying with the rim of his glass, stifling a yawn, but in a sharp contrast to their initial meeting his distraction didn’t irritate her now. Something akin to compassion washed over her as she closely studied his face, took in the lines of exhaustion grooved around the edges of his eyes. The artist waiting in the wings must have left for an extended coffee break, because he’d forgotten to blend in those dark smudges beneath them. Vaughan was almost cross-eyed as he squinted across the table at her, and suddenly the hows and whys didn’t matter any more; the fact she was here was quite simply enough.
‘You’re exhausted, aren’t you?’
‘Unfortunately, no.’ He took another slug of his whisky. ‘I was exhausted at five, and had you not burst into my office I suspect I’d still be lying on the sofa fast asleep. However…’ he smiled at her darkening cheeks ‘…now I’m wide awake, and no doubt will remain that way until five a.m. tomorrow.’
‘You’re an insomniac.’ Amelia groaned sympathetically. ‘I used to be one too.’
‘Don’t.’ He held up a beautifully manicured hand. ‘Please don’t try and engage me with your sympathy, telling me you understand exactly how I feel and then wiping the floor with me in the colour supplement.’
‘You should try counting sheep.’ A cheeky smile inched over her lips and she barely noticed the waiter delivering her sumptuous main course and tucking a massive white napkin around her. Amelia’s eyes were only for her most intriguing subject.
‘Which would no doubt be relaxing if I hadn’t grown up on a massive sheep farm. I can still remember listening to thousands of them bleating as I tried to nod off.’ He smiled at her open mouth. ‘Don’t you do any research, Miss Jacobs?’
‘But nothing, nothing in your bio even hints that you grew up on a sheep farm. I thought that you went to an exclusive private school…’
‘I did.’
‘I specifically remember reading that your father is an accomplished businessman.’
‘He is.’
Finally he relented.
‘My father is an extremely successful sheep farmer.’
‘Oh!’ Pulling back, trying to quell the surprise in her voice, Amelia asked a more relevant question. ‘Whereabouts?’
Vaughan immediately shook his head. ‘That’s hardly relevant.’
‘I’m just interested,’ Amelia responded, making a mental note to research it. But Vaughan was clearly a mind-reader.
‘Don’t even think about looking it up, Amelia. You can say what you like about me, but my family stays out of anything that you write.’
‘I was hardly going to dig up dirt on him,’ Amelia countered, but Vaughan remained unmoved.
‘My family stays out of it,’ he said again, very firmly and very clearly. ‘The last thing I want is a picture of my father in his work gear, drinking his cup of tea out of the blessed tin mug he insists on using, and the papers bleating about how I keep them in rags. My father would be devastated. And before you say I’m overreacting, that you have no intention of writing such a piece, you might not, but some other journalist certainly will. You’d be amazed how things can get distorted.’
Amelia sighed. ‘I wouldn’t. Okay,’ she conceded, ‘family stays out of it—for the article at least. But can you tell me anyway?’
‘Why do you want to know if you’re not going to use it?’
Which was a good question, and one Amelia struggled for a short while to answer. Truth be known, she wanted to know only for herself—wanted to get to know the man behind the legend, dig just a little bit deeper for her own selfish reasons—but she could hardly tell him that. Instead she gave a small shrug.
‘It just helps with my writing. The more I know about you, the more intimate the piece.’
‘Oh, well, I’m all for intimate.’ He gave a smile. ‘My family has a large property in the Blue Mountains. So you see, counting sheep for me really isn’t a relaxing option, given that come shearing time there are thirty thousand sheep to muster and shear over a four-week period. It’s actually the stuff of nightmares, although I love doing it.’
‘You still work the farm?’
‘Absolutely. Like I said, there’s only a small window of time to get the sheep sheared, and Dad’s one rule is that we all head over there once a year for a fortnight to help out. I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
