A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

Emily shook herself. ‘Mr de la Vega?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good morning—I mean...’ She paused as it occurred to her that he could be anywhere in the world—in a different time zone where it wasn’t morning at all. She could have interrupted his evening meal. Or maybe it was the middle of the night wherever he was and he was in bed and... She froze, an unsettling thought flaring. Oh, no. Surely he wouldn’t have answered the phone if...?

Before she could kill the thought, an X-rated image of entwined limbs and naked body parts—mostly naked male body parts—slammed into her mind.

She felt her cheeks flame. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, mortified, even though he couldn’t possibly know her thoughts. Where was her bulletproof composure? Skinner’s visit must have unbalanced her more than she’d realised. ‘I hope I’m not disturbing you. I’m—’

‘Emily.’

Her breath locked in her throat for a moment.

‘That’s very impressive, Mr de la Vega.’

‘Ramon. And you have a very memorable voice.’

Emily rolled her eyes. There was nothing special about her voice. There was nothing special about her. Ramon de la Vega was a silver-tongued fox, just like her father.

She sat straighter in her chair. ‘Mr Royce would like to discuss a business proposition with you. Are you still interested in meeting with him?

‘Of course.’

No hesitation. That was a good sign. She gripped the phone a little tighter. ‘Nine o’clock tomorrow morning. Can you be here?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’ She kept her voice professional. Courteous. ‘We look forward to seeing you, Mr de la Vega.’

‘Ramon,’ he insisted. ‘And I look forward to seeing you too, Emily.’

A flurry of goosebumps feathered over her skin. Had she imagined the sensual, lazy intonation to his voice that made her name sound almost...erotic? She cleared her throat. ‘Actually,’ she said, cooling her voice by several degrees. ‘You may call me Ms Royce.’

Silence came down the line. In different circumstances, she might have allowed herself a smile.

Instead she hung up, before he could ruin her moment of satisfaction with a smooth comeback, and looked at her watch.

She had twenty-two hours to find her father.

CHAPTER THREE (#uc40013dc-92bb-5647-a240-4a2256720d32)

RAMON DIDN’T BELIEVE in divine intervention.

Only once in his life had he prayed for help—with all the desperation of a young man facing his first lesson in mortality—and the silence in the wake of his plea on that disastrous day had been utterly, horrifyingly deafening.

These days he relied on no one but himself, and yet yesterday... Yesterday he had found himself wondering if some unseen hand was not indeed stacking the chips in his favour.

And today—today he felt as if he’d hit the jackpot.

Because the thing he wanted, the thing he needed after Saturday’s volatile board meeting, had just dropped into his lap.

Almost.

‘Fifty-one per cent,’ he said.

The indrawn breaths of three people—two men and one woman—were clearly audible across the boardroom table.

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.