A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

He dropped his gaze to her mouth. Remembered the swift, unexpected urge she’d aroused during their first encounter—the powerful desire to kiss her, to soften that condescending smile into something warmer, more inviting.

No smile adorned her mouth this morning but the tight moue of her lips did not diminish his appreciation of the fact they were lush and shapely.

Rather like her body, the generous curves of which he couldn’t fail to notice. Not when the soft, pale blue top she wore moulded her ample breasts and slender midriff to utter perfection. He wasn’t blind. He was a thirty-year-old red-blooded man who liked the opposite sex. A lot. When a desirable woman drifted into his orbit, his body was programmed to notice.

He clenched his jaw.

Lust had no place in this meeting. He was on the cusp of achieving what his brother had believed he couldn’t. He wasn’t about to lose focus.

He’d satisfy his libido later. Celebrate with a night out in London and find himself a woman who was warm and willing, not stiff and spiky, like the one sitting opposite.

‘Correct me if I am wrong, Ms Royce,’ he said. ‘But my understanding from Mr Carter’s summary of the situation is that you and Mr Royce have less than six days to raise the money required to settle his debt.’

Emily glanced at her father. Royce looked impeccable in a pinstriped navy suit but his clean-shaven face was noticeably drawn, his blue eyes underscored by dark shadows. In the moment his daughter looked at him, something that could have been regret, or shame, passed over his features.

Her gaze came back to Ramon. ‘That is correct.’

‘Then I will present you with two options. You can refuse my offer and watch me walk out of here—’ he paused for a beat to let that threat sink in ‘—or you can sell one per cent of your shares to me in addition to your father’s fifty and I will execute the deal and wire the money within the next forty-eight hours.’

Her eyes narrowed. ‘Just like that?’

‘We have established there is no time for prolonged negotiations, have we not?’

‘What about due diligence?’

He waved a hand. ‘Give us access to your books today and we’ll satisfy ourselves there are no major issues for concern.’

She eyed him across the wide mahogany table, her head tilting to one side. ‘I’m curious about your interest in The Royce, Mr de la Vega. Your own clubs seem to be doing rather well but they’re hardly in the same league. This establishment is built on a foundation of prestige and tradition and we cater to an elite and very discerning clientele. We are not a playpen for the nouveau riche.’

She was baiting him and Ramon counselled himself not to bite. His clubs were not doing rather well, they were reaping the rewards of extraordinary success. Yes, they were luxurious—decadent, even—but every aspect of their design embodied taste and sophistication. And they were wildly popular. His newest club, launched in Paris just four weeks ago, had reached its full membership quota six months before opening night and now had a waiting list of hundreds.

‘The Royce is an icon in the industry,’ he said. ‘I assure you I have no intention of doing anything that would undermine its reputation.’

Her mouth opened but her lawyer sat forward and spoke first.

‘Naturally Ms Royce is passionate about the club and preserving both its reputation and heritage. As a traditional gentlemen’s club, it embraces values that are very conservative and, since female members are still prohibited, Ms Royce’s part-ownership is not common knowledge.’ He put down his pen and folded his hands on top of his legal pad. ‘That said, she is an integral part of the business. If she were to agree to become a minority shareholder, we would seek a guarantee that her job remains secure. In addition, she would expect a reasonable level of autonomy in managing the day-to-day operations.’

Ramon inclined his head. ‘Of course.’ He turned his gaze on her. ‘I have no wish, nor reason, to oust you from your business.’ He wrote a number on his lawyer’s notepad, locked his gaze onto those pale grey eyes again and slid the pad across the table.

She leaned forward to look, as did Carter. The two exchanged a glance, then she picked up her pen, slashed a line through the number Ramon had written and wrote down another. She pushed the pad back to him.

He glanced down at the number.

‘Done,’ he said, and ignored the small, wheezy cough that came from his lawyer.

Emily stared at him, wordless.

‘I suggest we make an immediate start on reviewing the financials,’ he said smoothly. ‘That is, if we’re all agreed...?’

A hush fell as all eyes looked to Emily. Ramon waited. Her features were composed but he knew she waged an internal battle.

Finally, she looked at Carter, gave the briefest of nods then stood and walked around the table. She extended her hand. ‘Congratulations, Mr de la Vega.’

He rose, wrapped his much larger hand around hers and registered at once the warmth of her skin. Surprise flickered. For some reason he’d imagined her touch would feel cold. Clinical. But the heat filling his palm was intense, almost electric.

Her eyes widened as though she too had felt something unexpected. Abruptly, she pulled her hand out of his. ‘If you’ll excuse me, I’ll talk to our accountant and arrange for our financial records to be made available to you.’

‘Thank you.’

She started to turn away.

‘Emily,’ he said.

She paused. ‘Yes?’

He flashed his trademark smile. ‘You can call me Ramon.’

* * *

Emily locked the door of the powder room, turned on the cold tap over the basin and shoved her wrists under the water.

She felt flustered, unbearably hot, and she couldn’t understand why. Couldn’t understand why Ramon de la Vega should have this crazy, unbalancing effect on her. Just being in the same room as him somehow had elevated her body temperature. Made her lungs work twice as hard to get enough air into them. And when she’d touched his hand... Her nerve endings had reacted as if she’d grabbed an electrified wire.

She dried her hands and sank onto a stool.

Had she done the right thing?

She closed her eyes and rubbed her forehead.

What choice had she had?

Ramon de la Vega or Carl Skinner.

In the end she’d had no choice at all. Her hand had been forced. First by her father’s irresponsible actions and then by Ramon de la Vega’s ruthless, self-serving agenda.

In less than two days from now, the Vega Corporation would own fifty-one per cent of The Royce.

I’m so sorry, Grandfather.

She exhaled a shaky breath.

At least Maxwell had finally turned up, although she couldn’t have said whether it was an attack of conscience or the four messages she’d left on his phone, ranging in tone from pleading, to furious, to coldly threatening, that had prompted his appearance.

He’d looked terrible, as if he hadn’t slept in days, and part of her had hoped he hadn’t.

Why should he get the luxury of sleep when she’d lain awake all night worrying?

And then he had agreed to sell his shares.