‘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.’
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, preempting 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 your 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.