In the Rich Man's World

She could hardly quote the glossies to him! How was she supposed to get a different angle when there wasn’t one?

Paying the taxi driver, she stared upwards at the impressive tower before her, scarcely able to believe she was really here. Catching sight of her reflection in a glass window, Amelia let out a low moan—the humid Sydney air had done nothing to accelerate her hair-drying and, glancing down at her watch, she wished for the umpteenth time that she could dart into a boutique and buy something—anything other than what she was wearing. That she could greet this demigod if not on his level at least in smart clothes.

Maybe it would work in her favour, Amelia consoled herself, flashing her ID at an immaculate, very suitably dressed woman who might have been Clara Mark Two and being shown to a lift out of sight of the main reception area. She showed her ID again, to a gentleman who had more muscles than your average body builder and didn’t even attempt conversation, then her stomach was left on the ground as the lift soared to the heavens, towards the very man himself.

‘Miss Jacobs?’

Yet another clone of Clara was greeting her, but this one introduced herself as Katy, rouged smile firmly in place. Even with a few mils of Botox injected into her forehead this one couldn’t quite hide her surprise at the scruffy-looking woman who had appeared in the office.

‘Mr Mason’s ready for you. I’ll just let him know that you’re here.’ Picking up the phone, she spoke in low soothing tones, clearly for Vaughan’s ears only. ‘Well, if you’re sure,’ she soothed, purring into the phone. ‘In that case I’ll see you in Melbourne next Friday. Have a safe flight.’ She turned her gaze to Amelia. ‘He said to go right in.’

‘Thank you.’ Amelia nodded crisply, attempting blasé, but nerves finally caught up. ‘Could I just use the powder room first?’

‘Of course.’

Even the powder room was gorgeous: white marble everywhere, pump-action soap that was actually full, expensive moisturiser, and a mirror that was way too large in Amelia’s present state. Still, she turned on the hand-dryer full blast and attempted to dry her hair, but to no avail—the heavy waft of lavender as the dryer met her damp hair did nothing to soothe Amelia now! She’d just have to put on her best smile and hope for the best…

Walking back into Reception, Amelia nodded to Katy, who was slowly pulling on her jacket, clearly reluctant to leave her boss in anyone’s hands but her own. Knocking on the door, Amelia swallowed hard, forced a bright confident smile and pushed back her shoulders—not quite as ready as she’d have liked for the biggest moment of her career, but excited all the same.

‘Mr Mason? I’m Amelia Jacobs…’ She strode confidently forward, just as she had rehearsed during the taxi ride, hand outstretched. Her eyes scanned the room in a nano-second, her voice trailing off as her footsteps did the same, staring in utter disbelief at the sight that greeted her.

Vaughan Mason—business tycoon, eternally vigilant man of stealth—lay asleep on the jade leather couch.

Asleep.

And what made it even more inappropriate was how completely stunning he looked.

Dark lashes fanned the even darker rims under his eyes; razor-sharp cheekbones emphasised the hollows of his face. His unshaven chin was for once not set in stone, and that cruel, full mouth was unfamiliar in its relaxed state, lips slightly parted. His tie was askew, shifted to one side, and the bottom of his very white Egyptian-cotton shirt was inching its way out of an expensively belted waistband.

She was assailed with the most inappropriate of feelings, given the circumstance, and felt an almost instinctive need to reach out and touch him, as one might a work of art finally witnessed first hand—to feel the scratch of his stubble beneath her fingers, the cool marble of his skin. His beauty truly daunted her. Not a blemish marred his skin. The only fault, if you could call it that, was the too severe, almost too dark, eyebrows—yet even they seemed fitting somehow, as if some pensive artist had added them, and was waiting in the wings with a charcoaled thumb poised ready to blend them in further the moment she left.

Amelia had the most inappropriate urge to lean over and press her mouth against his, to feel those full lips under hers, to sneak a kiss when no one was looking, climb over the imaginary thick red ropes that separated art from mortals, ignore the mental signs that said ‘Do Not Touch’. And though she never would have dared, never in a million years, it was like standing on a cliff face and wanting to jump—knowing it was treacherous, knowing it would prove fatal, but filled with a yearning all the same to throw caution to the wind and follow natural instincts.

Shaking her head fiercely, pushing impossible thoughts away, she felt a moment of sheer panic.

Panic!

And it didn’t compare to the computer virus, nor even to anything she’d ever experienced in her life to this point.

She didn’t know what to do—literally didn’t know what to do.

Shake him, perhaps? Or go out and knock more loudly this time, pretend she’d never even witnessed this magnate in an off-guard moment?

But why should she? Amelia thought with a flash of anger. Why should she make things more comfortable for him? Why was she standing here feeling embarrassed when it should be Vaughan Mason squirming with shame and embarrassment? Sure, he dealt with journalists all the time, and everyone knew he didn’t stand on ceremony for them, but she’d bet her bottom dollar that if it had been Carter doing the interview instead of her then Vaughan Mason would have at least had the decency to stay awake.

This was the biggest moment in her career—literally make or break—and bloody Vaughan Mason had the audacity to sleep through her entrance, had the temerity to doze off before her questions had even started, and relegate her to the struggling novice she was without a single word!

‘Mr Mason,’ Amelia said loudly, burning with humiliation and anger, stupid, stupid tears pricking her eyes. ‘Mr Mason!’

Navy eyes peeped open—navy eyes that stared directly at her, that ignited something she couldn’t at that moment identify. But it spun her further into unfamiliar disorder—her pulse-rate accelerating, her anger fanning as he had the audacity to stretch and yawn, not even bothering to cover his mouth.

‘Sorry about that,’ he said, not sounding remotely so, in the deep voice she’d heard during numerous appearances on the news and radio. ‘I must have dozed off.’

‘Oh, you didn’t “doze off”,’ Amelia retorted, scarcely able to believe the provocation behind her own response. The consummate professional, she usually smiled through everything—yet for reasons she couldn’t even begin to fathom here she was answering back when she should stay quiet, letting her subject know exactly what she thought of his appalling behaviour when she should just let it go. ‘You were asleep, Mr Mason. Sound asleep. Snoring, in fact, when we’re supposed to be doing an interview.’

‘I don’t snore,’ he said easily, throwing incredibly long legs over the edge of the couch and bringing himself to a stand, tucking in his shirt and then towering over her, somehow instantly regaining control. ‘Had you arrived on time the interview would have been over with by now…’ He glanced at his watch—or rather he didn’t glance. Glances happened in a split second, whereas Vaughan positively stared, letting out a long held-in breath as the second hand ticked loudly on. Twisting his mouth into the cruel smile she knew so well, he said, ‘And, had you arrived on time, Miss Jacobs, I can assure that you’d have found me awake.’

It was Amelia running her fingers through her own hair now, colour flaming in her pale cheeks as she felt the oily mass that greeted her fingers, felt the unspoken derision in the flicker of his gaze as he dragged his eyes the length of her body.

Her editor’s gaze had been derisive, and she’d dealt with it, Amelia reminded herself, but her body burned with shame as she felt Vaughan slowly take in her brightly painted toenails, her naked feet slipped into silver sandals. The faded jeans that had seen better days merited a raised eyebrow that spoke volumes, and she felt a scorch of further humiliation as he languorously lifted his gaze and stopped, she was sure, at breasts that moved unhindered as her breathing quickened. Breasts that were still damp and heavy from her bath, straining at the leash under her softly ruched top. Way, way too big for an outing into this office without the firm support of a bra. Even Paul had told her to her face that she was inappropriately dressed, but though it had stung it hadn’t really mattered. Nothing from Paul could begin to compare to the sting of Vaughan’s disapproval as his eyes finally sought her face.

‘Your appointment was for five.’ Staring down again at his preposterously expensive watch, he frowned with concentration. ‘It’s now nearly twenty past.’

She should have apologised, Amelia knew—knew that was what she should do. Hell, it wasn’t as if Vaughan Mason was the first of her subjects to behave atrociously. She’d been left stranded at restaurant tables more times than she could remember when her interviewee had failed to show, had waited patiently for celebrity ‘naturally thin’ new mothers to return from the powder room between each course more times than she could count. She’d even had subjects fall asleep mid-sentence, come to that!