‘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.