Royce would benefit from the opportunity to meet with me,’ he said smoothly. ‘An opportunity you seem intent on denying him.’
The smile she bestowed on him then was unlike the smiles he was accustomed to receiving from women. Those smiles ranged from shy to seductive, and everything in between, but always they telegraphed some level of awareness and heat and, in many cases, a brazen invitation. But the tilt of her lips was neither warm nor inviting. It suggested sufferance, along with a hint of condescension.
‘Let me tell you what I think, Mr de la Vega,’ she said, her voice somehow sweet and icy at the same time—like a frozen dessert that gave you a painful case of brain freeze when you bit into it. ‘I think I know Mr Royce better than you do and am therefore infinitely more qualified to determine what he will—and won’t—find of benefit. I also think you underestimate my intelligence. I know who you are and I know there’s only one reason you could want to meet with Mr Royce. So let me make something clear to you right now and save you some time. The Royce is not for sale.’
Colour had bloomed on her pale cheekbones, the streaks of pink an arresting contrast to her glittering grey eyes.
Interesting, he thought. Perhaps there was a bit of fire beneath that cool facade. He held out his business card and took a step towards her but she reared back, alarm flaring in her eyes as if he had crossed some invisible, inviolable boundary. Huh. Even more interesting. ‘Ten minutes of Mr Royce’s time,’ he said. ‘That is all I am asking for.’
‘You’re wasting your time. Mr Royce is not here.’
‘Then perhaps you would call me when he is. I’ll be in London for another forty-eight hours.’
He continued to hold out his card and finally she took it, exercising great care to ensure her fingers didn’t brush against his. Then she gave him that smile again and this time it had the strangest effect, igniting a spark of irritation, followed by a rush of heat in the pit of his stomach. He imagined kissing that haughty little smile right off her pretty face. Backing her up against one of the hard marble pillars, taking her head in his hands and devouring her mouth under his until her lips softened, opened and she granted him entry.
Carefully he neutralised his expression, shocked by the direction of his thoughts. He’d never taken a woman with force. He had no aversion to boisterous sex, and he’d indulged more than one bed partner who demanded it rough and fast, but on the whole Ramon liked his lovers soft. Compliant. Willing.
She took another step back from him, the flush of pink in her cheeks growing more hectic, her eyes widening slightly. As if somehow she’d read his thoughts. ‘Mr Royce will not be available this week,’ she said, her smile replaced now by a thin, narrow-eyed stare. ‘So unless you have extraordinary lung capacity, Mr de la Vega, I suggest you don’t hold your breath.’
And she turned and walked away from him, high heels clicking on the shiny chequered marble as she made for the door across the small foyer from which she’d emerged.
She had a spectacular backside. Somehow Ramon’s brain had registered that fact, his gaze transfixed by the movement of firm, shapely muscle under her navy blue pencil skirt even as a wave of anger and frustration had crashed through him.
The sound of Xav’s desk phone ringing jolted him back to the present. He shifted in his chair.
Xav placed his hand on the receiver and looked at him. ‘Speak with Lucia on your way out,’ he said. ‘I told her to make a dinner reservation for us this evening. Get the details off her and I’ll see you at the restaurant. We’ll talk more then.’
Ah. Lucia. Yes, that was the name of his brother’s secretary. Not Lola or Lorda. Ironic that he couldn’t recall the name of the attractive brunette he’d just met, and had already considered sleeping with, yet he had no trouble summoning the name of the English woman he’d rather throttle than bed.
Her name, it seemed, was indelibly inked on his brain, along with the enticing image of her tight, rounded posterior.
Emily.
EMILY ROYCE SAT behind her desk and took a deep breath that somehow failed to fill her lungs. For a moment she thought she might be sick and the feeling sent a rising tide of disbelief through her.
This was not how she reacted to bad news. Emily had learnt how to handle disappointment a long time ago. She did not buckle under its weight. When bad news came, she received it with equanimity. Practicality. Calm.
And yet there was no denying the sudden stab of nausea in her belly. Or the cold, prickling sensation sweeping over her skin.
She dug her fingers into the arms of her chair, some dark corner of her mind imagining her father’s neck beneath her clenched hands.
She was going to kill him.
At the very least she was going to hunt him down, drag him out of whichever opulent hotel suite or illicit den of pleasure he was currently holed up in and yell at him until she was hoarse.
Except she wouldn’t.
Emily knew she wouldn’t.
Because no matter how many times in her life she’d imagined venting her anger, letting loose even a bit of the hurt and disappointment she’d stored up and kept tightly lidded over the years, she never had.
And this time would be no different. She would do what she always did. What she had to do. She would shove her emotions aside and pour all her energy into limiting the damage. Into doing whatever was necessary to sweep Maxwell Royce’s latest indiscretion under the rug and in so doing keep his reputation—and, by association, the reputation of The Royce—intact.
Only this time, if what she had just been told was true, Maxwell had outdone himself. He’d created a situation so dire she struggled to accept that even he could have done such a stupid, irresponsible, selfish thing.
And this would not be a mere matter of slipping a wad of cash to some unscrupulous opportunist to prevent embarrassing, compromising photos of her father from finding their way to the tabloids. Or of dipping into her personal savings and hastily rebalancing the club’s books, with the help of their accountant, to cover up Maxwell’s misappropriation of funds from one of their business accounts.
Not that any of her father’s prior indiscretions could be labelled trivial, but this...this...
Her grandfather would turn in his grave. As would his father, and his father before him.
Edward Royce, Emily’s great-great-grandfather and a wealthy, respected pillar of British high society at the turn of the twentieth century, had founded the club on which he’d bestowed his name in 1904. Since then ownership of the prestigious establishment had been proudly passed down through three generations of Royces, all male heirs—until Emily. More than a hundred years later, The Royce remained a traditional gentlemen’s club and one of western Europe’s last great bastions of male exclusivity and chauvinism. A society of powerful, influential men who between them controlled a good portion of the world’s major industries, not forgetting those who presided over governments and ruled their own countries and principalities.
On occasion Emily amused herself with thoughts of how the majority of their members would react to learning that fifty per cent
