The Bride: In the Rich Man's World

by Maya Banks

  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.’

  ‘Sounds to me like you’ve already made up your mind,’ Vaughan suggested.

  ‘Which should make things simple. But given that I’m covering a maternity leave position, and that the job I love doing is going to be over anyway, now really isn’t the time to be upsetting the boss.’ She gave a pale smile. ‘The baby’s already got teeth.’

  Taking a sip of her chocolate, Amelia peered down at the dispersing patrons below, at tired waiters replacing crisp white cotton tablecloths, setting up for the new day that would surely dawn. The piano was quiet now, allowing her to mull over her own thoughts. She was grateful that Vaughan didn’t jump in with another flash of insight, that he didn’t attempt an answer when there really wasn’t one.

  ‘You’re wrong about one thing, though.’ Dragging her eyes back, Amelia broke the companionable silence. She had something she wanted to say. ‘Journalists do have integrity, Vaughan—at least this one does.’r />
  She waited—waited for him to apologise, to retract his rather sweeping generalisation—but instead he inhaled the brandy fumes from his glass before taking a long, slow sip.

  ‘I guess we’ll just have to wait and see.’

  Placing her mug back on the table, Amelia felt her dressing gown part a fraction. Her hand moved to close it, but even in that tiny second she felt the shift, could almost feel the scorch marks where his eyes had burned her exposed flesh, was aware all over again of her attire, trying to fathom how without a word, with just one tiny motion, the atmosphere could dip so easily into dangerous territory.

  ‘I’d better go.’ Flustered now, she stood up, and so too did he, holding the French door open and following her from the balcony back inside his room.

  Even though she’d only been there a short while ago it was unfamiliar all over again—the massive bed, somehow bigger, the air thick not with his cologne now, but with the thrum of heightened awareness. Her fingers refused to obey as she struggled with the unfamiliar lock on the door, and his hand made contact with hers as he moved to help. It was almost more than she could bear and still be expected to breathe. Amelia had to get out—had to get away from this overwhelming presence that spun her into confusion. But even with the door unlocked, even with her escape route open, still she couldn’t move, trapped in her own desire.

  Finally she looked up at him, and the desire in his eyes was like a mirror image of her own. Even if she didn’t fit the usual dress code of the sophisticated women he attracted and discarded so easily she knew he was aroused, and it both thrilled and terrified her. But what was more overwhelming, more terrifying, was how much she wanted him—how much she longed for him to take her in his arms, to hush her troubled mind with a kiss. How very easy it would be to take that step over the mental line she had drawn, to again let her heart rule her head and let passion override sensibility.

  Again.

  Like a mental slap to her cheek, Taylor’s brutal betrayal forced her mind to reality, allowed her legs to regain their function, her hands to pull open the door. She knew she had to get out—that she needed distance, clarity and recall.

  Needed to recall the pain she had suffered before to remind her not to go there ever again.

  ‘Goodnight, Vaughan.’

  She attempted formal, attempted distance, but he swept it away without effort, one hand coming up to her arm. And despite the thick robe she could feel the heat of his palm on her skin, the space between them alive with thick tension. Every pore of her body flamed into response as he moved a fraction forward, moved into her personal space uninvited but unhindered, so close she could feel his breath on her cheeks. The weight of a kiss that simply had to happen was only a whisper away, and if her mind screamed no, then her body screamed yes.

  His face moved in, but his lips teasingly missed hers, moving instead slowly along her cheek, the scratchy feel of him dragging against her, the weight of his swollen lips so close—summoning her to reciprocate if she dared, to seal this union. And she couldn’t not.

  Her lips turned to his like petals to the sun, and the blissful weight of his mouth was on hers. The cool control of his tongue was parting her lips, meeting the tip of hers, and slowly, coiling, chasing, relishing, she tasted the faint flavour of him, tasted the tang of brandy, tasted the decadent wine of his expert kiss. Every move of his lips, his tongue, was slow and deliberate, stirring the need within her with each skilful stroke. Her whole body was pitted with lust, arching towards him in necessary reaction—because she needed to feel him. One hand was guiding her as she moved, firmly nestled in the small of her back, and she felt as if he were touching her deep inside.

  The hand that had captured her hair blazed a heated slow trail along her neck, a finger stilling for a second on the beat of her pulse as still he kissed her, still he drew her in. It was working down, ever down, so slowly she could have halted him at any moment, so slowly there was plenty of time to pull away to end this liaison—but it would have been easier to die than to end it now. She needed this, needed it in a primitive, deep, inexplicable way.

  Her whole body was his willing instrument, pre-empting what was coming with dizzy need, so that when his hand slipped inside her robe her nipples were so taut, so achingly ready, a groan of sheer lustful pleasure welled in her mouth. It was drowned by his kiss as he rolled the engorged buds between his fingers, then took the weight of her bosom in his palm. His other hand was on her back, more urgent now, pushing her further towards him, till she could feel him, feel the solid beat of his arousal against her stomach.

  Captured between the heat of his hand and the promise of his manhood, she felt the chirrup of the pulse between her legs more insistent now. Great waves of lust were washing over her, and he could have taken her there—she wanted him to take her there. One kiss, one glimpse of his passion, one taste of his promise and she wanted more—so why, Amelia begged as she pulled her head back, was she ending this? Why, when her body screamed for its just rewards, was her head telling her to stop?

  ‘We can’t.’ Utterly unable to meet his eyes, she attempted an explanation.

  ‘We very nearly did,’ Vaughan pointed out, his hand still on the small of her back, his arousal still solid against her, her own body still live with desire in his arms. Wisps of passion still surged hopefully through her veins and she pulled away more forcefully now, snapping her robe together. But not quickly enough to miss the weight of his gaze on the creamy flesh of her breast. Her budding nipples were still jutting hopefully, and she knew he was taking it all in—the glittering eyes, the flush of arousal on her cheeks—knew how contrary her words sounded when her body clearly wanted him.

  ‘You don’t mix business with pleasure, remember?’

  She needed help here—needed Vaughan to take some of the weight from her buckling shoulders, to offer a voice of reason that would stave off the onslaught of disaster. But Vaughan wasn’t helping. Vaughan was only making it worse.

  ‘I made the rule, Amelia. It’s not yours to keep.’ A finger traced her cheekbone, drew around the contours of her mouth, the pad of his thumb nudging the flesh still swollen from his kiss. She ached to relent, to part her lips on his command, to resume this delicious liaison—but she had to be strong, couldn’t do this again and hope to come out intact.

  ‘It’s a good rule.’ Snapping into business mode, she attempted a brittle smile. ‘And one I intend to keep.’

  ‘So what was that, then?’

  ‘A goodnight kiss,’ Amelia attempted. ‘Vaughan, it was just a kiss.’

  ‘Just a kiss?’ The preposterousness of her statement was there in his voice. ‘Tell me, Amelia, do you kiss all your subjects like that?’

  ‘Of course not.’ Amelia was flustered, unsure how to respond here, and lying was easier. Keeping her distance was safer than letting him glimpse her uncertainty, letting him see her naked truth.

  How could she tell a man who could only break her heart that in a single kiss he had moved her beyond distraction? That it was taking every shred of strength she could summon to keep her hand on the door? That she had to physically force herself not to run to him?

  ‘It’s just safer, that’s all...’ Her mouth snapped closed as she instantly regretted her choice of words, wishing she could somehow retract them. But they were already out there, already being processed in that astute mind, already being hurled back at her. She braced herself for defence.

  ‘Safer?’

  ‘Yes—safer,’ Amelia snapped back, more angry with herself than him, because with one single word she had allowed him to see her fears. ‘Safer than doing something stupid in the heat of a moment when we’d both surely regret it in the morning.’

  ‘Why do you assume we’d regret it?’

  ‘Because...’ a tiny nervous laugh, a silent plea with her eyes ‘...it’s just not me, Vaughan. I can’t be y
our lover for a night or a week—can’t just give you a piece of myself, knowing it isn’t going to last.’

  ‘And you know that for sure, do you?’

  He was moving in on her again, hands leaning against the wall on either side of her head—the master with the key, creating a prison she wasn’t sure she wanted to escape from.

  ‘I know that you want me, Vaughan, and I know that I want you. But...’

  ‘Why does there have to be one?’ His voice was so low, so raw she had to strain to catch it. ‘How do you know that we won’t still feel this way tomorrow?’

  He was moving in to kiss her, moving in for the final delicious kill, and Amelia only knew she had to stop him—had to hit him with her final defence. ‘Because you’re Vaughan Mason.’

  His hands dropped to his sides and she could have walked away. But she felt stronger now—strong enough to see this through.

  ‘Because I’ve got a past you mean?’

  ‘No, Vaughan, because I’ve got a past. I know your type...’

  ‘My type?’

  ‘Yes, your type, Vaughan. The type of man who attracts women, who likes women, who effortlessly attracts them and for a while adores them until just as effortlessly he moves on.’

  ‘Now who’s doing the sweeping generalisations?’ Vaughan sneered. ‘So what? You want commitment before you sleep with someone? Is that what you’re saying?’

  ‘No, I just know—’

  ‘Know what?’ Vaughan broke in. ‘That I’m a bastard? That I’m setting you up for a fall?’

  ‘Not deliberately, perhaps...’ She shook her head in an attempt to clear it. ‘Vaughan, this won’t last—you surely know that. And I’m not going to allow myself to get involved with a man who can only hurt me in the end.’

  ‘You think you’ve got me all worked out. You’ve read my bio and from that you know me. Well, I’m not some doped-up popstar with an ego that needs feeding.’