A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

They were qualities that didn’t attract her, she’d reminded herself sharply. Not in the slightest. And not in a man whose audacity had already set her fuming.

She leaned back in her chair, her breathing shallow, her pulse feeling a little erratic. Was she mad even to consider this?

Or would she be mad not to consider it?

Forced to choose between Carl Skinner and Ramon de la Vega, she couldn’t deny which man was the lesser of two evils. De la Vega had a pedigree, not to mention an impressive business acumen. She knew because she’d done an Internet search and, once she’d got past the dozens of tabloid articles and photos of him with beautiful women, the long list of accolades lauding his accomplishments as both an architect and a smart, driven businessman had made for interesting reading.

Before she could change her mind, she snatched up her phone and dialled the mobile number on his card.

Two seconds later, she almost hung up.

Maybe this needed more thought. Maybe she should rehearse what she was going to say...

‘Sí?’

The breath she’d unconsciously bottled in her lungs escaped on a little whoosh of surprise. For a second time that day, her vocal cords felt paralysed.

‘Yes?’ he said into the silence, his tone sharper. ‘Who is this?’

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

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.

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.

It had taken Emily a full minute to realise the tightness in her chest had been not only shock, but sadness.

The Royce was the one remaining connection she had to her father. Now that connection would be irreparably severed.

She stood up suddenly and smoothed her hands down the sides of her trousers. She wasn’t going to do this. She wasn’t going to get emotional. It would only make her feel worse.

Drawing a deep breath, she headed down the plush carpeted corridor and looked into the accounting office.

It was empty.

Further along, she stopped at Marsha’s desk. ‘Do you know where Jeremy is?’

‘He called in sick this morning.’

She sighed. The news wasn’t welcome, and not only because she needed financial data from Jeremy. He was one of the few people at The Royce she felt able to confide in—and the only other person aside from Ray Carter who knew about her father’s gambling problem. It would have been nice to talk with him.

Marsha looked at her. ‘Can I help with something?’

‘Do you have access to the finance drive?’

Marsha nodded and Emily grabbed a pen and a piece of notepaper and scribbled out a list. ‘Download these files onto a flash drive and take them to our guests in the boardroom.’

‘Mr de la Vega?’

There was a gleam in Marsha’s eyes that Emily tried not to notice. ‘Yes. And please also arrange for refreshments and lunch for our visitors.’ She moved towards her office. ‘Thanks, Marsha. I’m going to keep my door closed for a while. If Mr de la Vega or his lawyer ask for anything more, let me know.’

So I can tell them to go jump.

Except she wouldn’t, because she didn’t have that luxury. But the thought was satisfying, if nothing else.

Sitting at her desk, she forced herself to focus. This morning’s outcome was not what she’d anticipated but she still owned forty-nine per cent of The Royce. She still had a job to do. The staffing budgets had to be completed and she’d promised the executive chef she’d look at his proposed changes to the seasonal menu and give her stamp of approval.

Plus there was the small matter of drafting a discreet communication to the members. Maxwell had agreed to a carefully worded announcement in his name welcoming the Vega Corporation as a shareholder. The members already believed he was the sole owner. Armed with only selective facts, they’d assume her father had retained the balance of the shares, and he and Emily and the club’s new shareholder would allow that assumption to go unchallenged.

It wasn’t ideal, but discretion was necessary. The club’s stability had to be her priority.

An hour later, despite her good intentions, Emily had abandoned her desk. She stood at her office window, her arms wrapped around her middle, her mind a tangle of thoughts as she stared sightlessly through the glass.

A knock at her office door jarred her out of her head. ‘Come in,’ she called over her shoulder, assuming it was Marsha.

It wasn’t. It was her father.

She turned around and he closed the door, pushed his hands into his trouser pockets.

After an awkward silence, he said, ‘The lawyers are fleshing out the terms. Ray will bring you a draft to review as soon as it’s ready.’

‘Fine,’ she said, but it wasn’t.

None of this was fine.

She wasn’t fine.

Maxwell looked away first. He always did. ‘If you don’t need me—’ he spoke to a point somewhere beyond her left shoulder ‘—I’ll head off and come back when the agreement is ready for signing.’

If you don’t need me.

Emily almost let out a bitter laugh.

Of course she didn’t need him. She had needed him as a child, but he’d never been there, so she had taught herself to need no one.

‘What will you do?’ she asked, forcing the words past the sudden, silly lump in her throat.

He shrugged. ‘I don’t know,’ he confessed, and Emily didn’t think she’d ever seen Maxwell look quite so defeated.

‘You still have the Knightsbridge apartment?’

Or had he gambled that away too? As he had everything else, including his father’s stately mansion where Emily had lived at weekends and holidays when she wasn’t at boarding school.

He nodded and, though she shouldn’t care, she felt relieved that her father wouldn’t be homeless.

He turned to go and all of a sudden Emily felt as if she were six years old and her daddy was abandoning her again. Walking out of the front door of the mansion and leaving her in that big, silent house with only her grandfather, his stern-faced housekeeper and her mother’s ghost for company.

‘Was it really so hard to love me?’

The words blurted from her mouth before the left side of her brain could censor them.

Maxwell paused, half turned. ‘Excuse me?’

‘Did you love her?’

She clasped the pearl at her throat and saw the tension grip her father’s body. He had never talked about the woman who’d died giving birth to his only child.

‘Your mother...’ he began, and Emily’s breath caught, her heart lurching against her ribs as she waited for him to go on.

But he simply shook his head.

‘I’m sorry,’ he muttered.

And then he left, closing the office door behind him.

Gone.

Just like all the times before.

Tightness gripped her throat and she blinked rapidly. No tears, she told herself fiercely. She returned to her desk, opened a spreadsheet on her computer and forced herself to concentrate. She hadn’t allowed herself to cry in a very long time. She wouldn’t start now.

* * *

Ramon draped his suit jacket over the back of the Chesterfield sofa in Maxwell Royce’s soon-to-be ex-office and sat down. His briefcase, a sheaf of papers and his open laptop lay on the dark wood coffee table in front of him. He could have worked at the big hand-carved desk at the far end of the enormous office, but staking his claim before the deal was officially done felt a touch too arrogant, even for him.

He looked at his platinum wristwatch.

The lawyers had been hashing out terms in the boardroom for nearly two hours.

Trusting his own lawyer to nail down the finer details, he’d left them to it over an hour ago.

Several times since then he’d thought about seeking out Emily, but each time he’d curbed the impulse. This morning’s meeting had been civil but tense. Allowing her a cooling-off period seemed sensible.

His phone buzzed and he pulled it from his pocket and checked the screen. Xav had sent a text:

Good work. Talk later.

He dropped the phone onto the table, annoyance flaring. After having sent his brother an update an hour and a half ago, he’d expected a more enthusiastic response.

He should have remembered Xav was not a man ruled by emotion.

The door to the office banged open. Jarred from his thoughts, Ramon looked up to see who had so abruptly intruded.

Emily.

Her fine features pinched into a scowl, she stood in the doorway with a sheet of paper clutched in one hand. She breathed hard, as though she had sprinted the length of the carpeted hall from the boardroom to the office. Her gaze found him and he felt the heat of her anger wash over him. Felt it reach into places he probably shouldn’t have.

‘Who said you could use this office?’

He rose to his feet. ‘Your father,’ he said, sliding his hands into his trouser pockets. ‘Is that a problem?’

Stalking into the room, she raised the paper clenched in her fist. ‘This is a problem.’

He remained calm. ‘Is my guessing what’s on that paper part of the game?’

‘This isn’t a game, Mr de la Vega.’ She threw the sheet of paper onto the coffee table and pointed a manicured finger at it. ‘Care to explain?’

He glanced down. It was a page from the latest marked-up version of the agreement. He didn’t need a closer look to guess which amendment had raised her ire.

He walked to the door and closed it. At her questioning frown, he said, ‘We don’t want the children overhearing our first argument, do we?’

Her eyes flashed, and the glimpse of a temper intrigued him. She grabbed the piece of paper off the table.

‘We’re not going to argue,’ she said. ‘You’re going to take this to your lawyer—’ she slapped the page against his chest, anchoring it there under her flattened hand ‘—and you’re going to tell him to reinstate the bylaws under the list of matters that require shareholder unanimity.’

Ramon looked down at the slender hand splayed across his chest then back at Emily’s upturned face. This close he could see the velvety texture of her long brown eyelashes and the rings of darker grey around the circumference of her irises.

When he breathed in, he caught a subtle fragrance that was musky and feminine.

For seconds neither of them moved.

Then, with her luminous eyes widening, she snatched her hand away, took a hasty step backwards and lost her balance.