She was assailed with a vision of him in jeans and outdoor boots, that jet-black hair whipped up by the wind, a contrast to the sharp-suited immaculate man sitting before her. Amelia was having serious trouble deciding which one she’d prefer, knowing only one thing—she wanted to see them both.
“‘We all”?’
‘You don’t miss a trick do you? My brother and I.’
‘And does this brother of yours have a name?’ She watched him stiffen, but chose to pursue. ‘Does this brother of yours have a family of his own?’
He wanted to tell her.
The internal admission startled him.
He wanted to tell this talkative, nosy woman about his mother and father, about his brother and his wife, about the child they both adored—wanted to share with her the inspiring beauty of the Blue Mountains he still called home: the damp, muggy smell of the fog as dawn crept in, the sweet taste of tea around a campfire, how, after a day of mustering, using his body instead of his brain, sleep for once came easily…
‘Does your brother have children?’ Her persistence was her downfall. The intrusion of another question snapped him back to reality, reminding him that this was a journalist sitting opposite him, and the words that had been on the tip of his tongue were swallowed along with a hefty belt of whisky.
‘Like I said.’ Vaughan gave a tight shrug. ‘Family stays out of it.’
‘Okay.’ Clearly used to closed subjects, Amelia admitted defeat, shifting the topic to what she hoped was safer ground. ‘How about reading?’
‘Reading?’
‘In bed.’ Amelia grinned, but it wobbled midway. She was sure that Vaughan usually had far better things to keep him occupied in the bedroom, but she recovered quickly, pushing her line of questioning in the frantic hope of getting this very difficult man to open up a touch. ‘To help you sleep—what sort of books do you like?’
‘Crime novels. But the trouble with them is that I’ve no patience. I have to find out the end, which means…’
‘You’re up all night trying to finish it?’ Amelia groaned in sympathy. ‘I’m the same. What about something lighter—romance?’ she teased, unable to fathom the sight of Vaughan lying in bed reading a love story. But to her utter surprise he nodded solemnly.
‘Same problem. I’m up all night making sure they get together in the end. I’m a hopeless case, I’m afraid. Okay, funtime over.’ He flashed a devilish smile. ‘Let’s get this over with—ask whatever it is you have to.’
‘I don’t work like that.’ Amelia shook her head. ‘Not when I’m doing an in-depth piece.’
Vaughan shuddered. ‘Why don’t I like the sound of that?’
‘I find out a lot more just by talking…’
‘You’re certainly very good at that.’
‘If you’d let me finish—’ Amelia grinned ‘—I was about to say by talking with my subject in a relaxed setting—getting to really know them, finding out what’s going on in their lives, building up a picture in my mind. It allows for a far more intimate portrayal than shooting a list of questions at them; anyone can do that. So the fun can continue.’
‘And in the meantime is your subject allowed to get to know you?’
Her spoon paused midway from her plate.
‘Of course.’ Amelia recovered quickly. ‘It’s hardly fair to expect someone to open up if I don’t give a piece of me back.’
‘So I can ask questions too?’
Amelia nodded, bypassing her champagne glass and reaching instead for a heavy glass of iced water. Her throat was impossibly dry all of a sudden, as she wondered what Vaughan Mason could possibly want to know about little old her.
‘Did you tell your boss what I said about the motor deal?’
Not by a flicker did she express her disappointment; of course that was all he wanted to know—work was his bible, at least where a nosy journalist was concerned. As if he had been going to ask if she was single, Amelia mentally scolded herself. As if he were remotely interested in the woman sitting before him. And, more to the point, this was, at her insistence, strictly business.
‘No.’ Thankfully she was able to look him in the eye.
‘Good.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘I don’t believe in celebrating until I’ve got a signature on paper.’ Watching her slender hands lift a fork that looked way too heavy to her mouth, Vaughan paused. Amelia’s eyes closed in bliss as she sampled her food. ‘Nice?’
‘Fabulous.’ Amelia sighed. ‘Eating out is one of the serious perks of the job. I absolutely love my food.’
‘Me too.’ He smiled at her questioning eyebrow as she eyed the rather sparse plate the waiter was placing before him. The tomato salad with balsamic dressing he had ordered as a main course was clearly in sharp contradiction to his statement. ‘Oh, no you don’t. Before you label me as some temperamental bulimic…’
‘I wasn’t about to.’ Amelia grinned.
‘Oh, yes, you were. The fact is, I’ve had about ten meals today—a sumptuous breakfast in Japan followed by a large business lunch, then a three-course meal on the plane to Singapore, and to top that off another breakfast…’
‘Okay, okay.’ Amelia laughed, putting her hand up in mock defence. ‘I get the message.’
‘So you see there’s a very good reason for a plain tomato salad…’
‘You’ve got me all wrong.’ Amelia was still laughing as she took a sip of her mineral water. ‘I’m not interested in starting rumours, Mr Mason, just squashing them or confirming them. I’m as bored as most people with stories that have little foundation. I’m tired of “confirmed” pregnancies that never seem to get past the first trimester, or reading about an idyllic marriage only to turn on the news two weeks later and find out they’re filing for divorce.’
Signalling the waiter, Vaughan sat back as Amelia’s glass was refilled with the most expensive of champagnes and her slightly trembling hand toasted her most unexpected host.
‘I like your work, Amelia.’ It was the first time he’d called her by her first name, and it sounded more intimate than she’d ever heard it before. Vaughan Mason seemed to register that fact.
‘Vaughan,’ he affirmed, without suggestion. ‘I think we’re both adult enough to deal with first-name terms.’
‘You’ve read my work?’
He nodded. ‘Every week, Amelia. And I don’t know how you do it, but I have to hand it to you—somehow you manage to get the most unlikely of people to open up. Somehow you manage to slip in the most salacious piece of gossip and make it sound like girly talk. I have to admit it’s making me a touch nervous.’
‘You don’t look it,’ Amelia said, knowing he didn’t mean it, but embarrassed and pleased all the same.
‘So, how do you do it?’
‘Do what?’
‘Get them to open up?’
‘I talk to them,’ Amelia said simply. ‘And, as for salacious gossip, I don’t touch anything that hasn’t already been hinted at. I see it as my job to give people the opportunity to confirm or deny. Which, so far, they have.’
‘I’ll say,’ Vaughan responded, and Amelia felt her toes curl in pleasure at the dash of admiration in his voice. But her pleasure faded as Vaughan brought up the one name she really didn’t want to hear ever again. ‘That piece you did a few months ago where you got that alcoholic popstar to admit he’d been in rehab—you know the one…’ He snapped his fingers, trying to recall the name, frowning as Amelia rather reluctantly filled him in.
‘Taylor Dean.’
‘That’s the one.’ Vaughan nodded. ‘You didn’t just get him to admit to being an alcoholic, you actually had him talking about how he’d dried out. How hellish the twelve steps had been for him. How? How did you get him to talk?’
‘I asked him about it.’ Amelia shrugged. ‘Most people respond to a direct question. Most people, if they can see you’re genuinely interested, are only too pleased to talk about themselves… Unlike you,’ she added with a swift baleful look that was met with a smile. ‘And, for the record, Taylor’s a recovering alcoholic. He hasn’t touched a drop for two years—at least that was the case when I wrote the piece.’
Vaughan didn’t look particularly convinced, but Amelia refused to be drawn, instead fiddling with her glass and willing this part of the conversation to be over.
Thankfully Vaughan must have sensed her reluctance, because he swiftly moved on. ‘How about that actress then? Miranda? For years I’ve wondered if she’s had surgery, for years people have died wondering if she’s been under the knife, and then you come along and suddenly we find out she’s had the lot…’
‘You really have done your research on me,’ Amelia remarked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice and suffused with both embarrassment and pride that this man had actually read her work—not just read it, but apparently enjoyed it.
‘You’re looking at a guy who spends half his life in airport terminals, Amelia. I read you because I like you.’