Bound by their shock baby

Emily Royce is at her wit’s end. To save her family’s prestigious gentleman’s club, she needs to sell her father’s shares to ruthless Ramon de la Vega. But Ramon’s gaze pierces right through her, revealing her deepest desires! Unable to hide from their potent chemistry, Emily surrenders to one glorious night in Paris...

When he discovers that their passion resulted in an unexpected pregnancy, Ramon won’t leave Emily’s side. Beneath her cool exterior is a vulnerable woman he feels compelled to protect. He’ll make her his any way he can—even if that means tying her to him with his ring!

‘You are pregnant, Emily.’ Ramon’s voice turned a shade cooler. ‘With my child.’ He paced away, turned back. ‘Would you relegate me to the role of a part-time father? Someone who breezes in and out of our child’s life whenever the custody arrangement tells me I can?’

Emily felt her face blanch. That was exactly the kind of arrangement she’d assumed they would eventually agree upon. But Ramon’s description made her blood run cold. Made her think of all the times she’d curled up on her bed as a little girl and cried, believing her daddy didn’t care enough to visit her.

A fluttery, panicky feeling worked its way up her throat. ‘But what about us?’

He clasped her shoulders. ‘We’re good together, querida. Are you denying that?’

‘Lust is hardly a foundation for marriage.’

The hard line of his mouth softened. ‘But it’s a good starting point, sí?’

Ruthless Billionaire Brothers

These brothers have conquered everything—except love!

The de la Vega brothers may not be bonded by blood, but these billionaires are united by their legendary business success! Neither has failed in the acquisition of wealth and power. But they’re both about to realise there might be one thing just beyond their reach...

Two irresistible women are about to interfere in their well-laid plans—and the sparks that fly will result in burning seduction!

Read Ramon and Emily’s story in

A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

Available now!

And look out for Xavier and Jordan’s story

Coming soon!

A Night, A Consequence, A Vow

Angela Bissell

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ANGELA BISSELL lives with her husband and one crazy Ragdoll cat in the vibrant harbourside city of Wellington, New Zealand. In her twenties, with a wad of savings and a few meagre possessions, she took off for Europe, backpacking through Egypt, Israel, Turkey and the Greek Islands before finding her way to London, where she settled and worked in a glamorous hotel for several years. Clearly the perfect grounding for her love of Mills & Boon Modern Romance! Visit her at angelabissell.com.

Books by Angela Bissell

Mills & Boon Modern Romance

Irresistible Mediterranean Tycoons

Surrendering to the Vengeful Italian

Defying Her Billionaire Protector

Visit the Author Profile page

at millsandboon.co.uk for more titles.

MILLS & BOON

Before you start reading, why not sign up?

Thank you for downloading this Mills & Boon book. If you want to hear about exclusive discounts, special offers and competitions, sign up to our email newsletter today!

SIGN ME UP!

Or simply visit

signup.millsandboon.co.uk

Mills & Boon emails are completely free to receive and you can unsubscribe at any time via the link in any email we send you.

For Bron—author, mentor and friend.

Your support and encouragement have meant the world.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

Introduction

Ruthless Billionaire Brothers

Title Page

About the Author

Dedication

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

EPILOGUE

Extract

Copyright

CHAPTER ONE

‘YOU OWE ME for this, Xav.’

Ramon de la Vega dropped into a chair in front of his brother’s desk and stretched out his legs.

Eight hours on a transatlantic commercial flight, another hour in the back of a company limo inching through endless queues of bumper-to-bumper traffic, and he felt as if he’d been straitjacketed for a week.

His mood carefully harnessed, he lounged back and perched his feet on the corner of his brother’s desk. ‘I had planned to spend the weekend in Vegas,’ he added.

His brother, Xavier, sat in a high-backed chair on the other side of the massive oak desk—an antique heirloom their father had handed down along with the company reins to his eldest son. Behind him a thick pane of wall-to-wall glass framed a sweeping view of Barcelona that drew no more than a brief, disinterested glance from Ramon. Instead, he focused on his brother, who looked impossibly cool and immaculate in a dark tailored suit in spite of the mid-August heat. As always, Xav’s features were stern, his posture stiff. Only his right hand moved, his fingertips drumming an incessant beat on the desktop’s fine leather inlay.

The sound, amplified by the dearth of any other in the vast corner office, penetrated Ramon’s eardrums like a blunt needle and reminded him that flying and alcohol made for an unwise mix.

‘Doing what?’ Xav’s voice carried the hint of a sneer. ‘Gambling or womanising?’

Ramon ignored the disdain in his brother’s voice and unleashed his grin—the one he knew could fell a woman at fifty paces. Or tease the tension out of an uptight client in a matter of seconds. Against his only sibling, however, the impact was negligible. ‘It is called recreation, brother.’ He kept his tone light. ‘You should try it some time.’

The deep plunge of Xav’s eyebrows suggested he’d sooner lose an arm than indulge in such hedonistic pursuits. His fingers stopped drumming—mercifully—and curled into a loose fist. ‘Get your feet off my desk.’ His gaze raked over Ramon’s jeans and shirt before snapping back to his feet. ‘And where the hell are your shoes?’

Ramon dropped his feet to the floor. His loafers were... He squinted, trying to remember where he’d left them. Ah, yes. In the outer office. Under the desk of the pretty brunette whose name had already escaped him. He considered the rest of his appearance: stonewashed designer jeans; a loose open-necked white shirt, creased from travel; and a jaw darkened by eighteen-plus hours’ worth of stubble. A far cry from his brother’s impeccable attire and his own usual standard, but a man had to travel in comfort. Especially when his brother had had the nerve to issue an urgent summons and then deny him use of the company jet.

Ramon made a mental note.

Buy my own plane.

At least the curvy redheaded flight attendant in First Class who’d served him meals and refreshments during the flight from New York hadn’t minded his attire. But, yes, for the Vega Corporation’s head office in the heart of Barcelona’s thriving business district, he was most definitely under-dressed.

Still, Xav needed to chill. Cut him some slack. He had ditched everything, including a weekend in Las Vegas with his old Harvard pals, and flown nearly four thousand miles across the North Atlantic—all because his brother had called out of the blue and told him he needed him.

Needed him, no less.

Words Ramon had once imagined would never tumble from his proud brother’s mouth.

Yet, incredibly, they had.

Beyond that surprising entreaty, Xav had offered no more by way of explanation and Ramon had not demanded one. As CEO, Xav technically outranked him but it wasn’t his seniority that commanded Ramon’s loyalty. Xav was family. And when it came to family there was one truth Ramon could never escape.

He owed them.

Still, he allowed his grin to linger. Not because his mood leaned towards humour—nothing about being back in Spain tickled his funny bone—but rather because he knew it would irritate his brother. ‘Flying makes my feet swell,’ he said, ‘and your secretary offered to massage them while you were wrapping up your meeting.’

A look of revulsion slid over Xav’s face. ‘Please tell me you are joking.’

‘Sí, brother.’ Ramon broadened his grin. ‘I am.’

Though he had got the impression as he’d kicked off his shoes and settled in for a friendly chat with... Lola?... Lorda?...that she’d happily massage a lot more than his feet if he gave her half a chance. And maybe he would if she was willing. Because God knew he’d need a distraction while he was here. Some way to escape the toxic memories that sooner or later would defy his conscious mind and claw their way to the surface.

Xav pinched the bridge of his nose, a Lord give me patience gesture that reminded Ramon of their father, Vittorio. Not that any likeness could be attributed to genetics: Xav had been adopted at birth by their parents after two failed pregnancies. Four years later Ramon had come along—the miracle child the doctors had told his mother she’d never conceive let alone carry to term.

Miracle Child.

The moniker made Ramon’s gut burn. He hated it. He was no heaven-sent miracle. Just ask the Castano family, or the Mendosas. No doubt they would all vehemently agree and then, for good measure, throw in a few fitting alternatives.

Ramon could think of one or two himself.

Like Angel of Death.

Or maybe Devil Incarnate.

He snapped his thoughts out of the dark mire of his past. This was why he gave Spain a wide berth whenever possible. Too many ghosts lurked here. Too many reminders. ‘Tell me why I’m here,’ he demanded, his patience dwindling.

‘There’s a board meeting tomorrow.’

He frowned. ‘I thought the next quarterly meeting was six weeks from now.’ He made a point of knowing when the board meetings were scheduled for so he could arrange to be elsewhere. In his experience, day-long gatherings with a bunch of pedantic, censorious old men were a special brand of torture to be studiously avoided. ‘Since when does our board meet on a Saturday?’

‘Since I decided to call an emergency meeting less than twenty-four hours ago.’

Ramon felt his mood start to unravel. ‘Why the hell didn’t you say over the phone it was a board meeting you were dragging me over here for?’

‘Because you would have found an excuse not to come,’ Xav snapped. ‘You would rather waste your time at a poker table—or buried between the legs of some entirely unsuitable woman!’

Ramon’s brows jerked down. ‘That’s out of order,’ he growled.

Abruptly Xav stood up, stalked to the window behind him and stared out. Ramon glowered at his back. Xav was out of order. Yes, Ramon avoided the boardroom. Pandering to the board, keeping the old cronies happy, was his brother’s responsibility. Not his. But no one could deny that he gave his pound of flesh to the Vega Corporation. He’d done so every year for the last five years, in fact. Ever since he’d accepted the vice-presidential role his father had offered him on his twenty-fifth birthday. He’d side-lined his architectural career. Gone from designing luxury hotels and upscale entertainment complexes to buying them and overseeing their management.

He’d excelled—and he’d realised in that first year of working hard to prove himself that this was how he could repay his family. How he could compensate in a tangible way for the pain he’d inflicted, the destruction his eighteen-year-old self had wrought and the shame he’d brought on his family. He could stamp his mark on the business. Contribute to its success.

It had been a tall order. The de la Vega empire was well-established. Successful. It spanned continents and industries, from construction and real estate to hospitality and entertainment. Any contribution Ramon made had to be significant.

He had risen to the challenge.

First with his acquisition of the Chastain Group—a collection of luxury resorts and boutique hotels which had doubled Vega Corporation’s market share on the European continent, and then with the expansion of their portfolio of private members’ clubs into a lucrative network of sophisticated high-end establishments.

Yes, he had made his mark.

And yet to his brother—and most of the board—the spectacular results he’d achieved year upon year seemed to matter far less than how he chose to conduct his personal life.

It rankled.

He didn’t deliberately court the press but neither did he waste his time trying to dodge the attention. Evade one paparazzo and ten more would materialise from the shadows. It was easier to give them what they wanted. Flash his trademark grin at the cameras, drape his arm around the waist of a beautiful woman and the tabloids and their gossip-hungry readers would be satisfied.

But dare to deny them and they’d stalk you like prey. Look for scandal where none existed. Or, worse, where it did exist. And the last thing he needed was someone digging into his past and shining a spotlight on his teenage transgressions. Nurturing his playboy reputation served a purpose. The tabloids saw what he wanted them to see. A successful, wealthy, aristocratic bachelor who pursued pleasure as doggedly as he pursued his next acquisition.

He reined in his anger. ‘Why an emergency meeting?’

Xav turned, his expression grim. ‘Hector is making a play for the chairman’s role.’

Ramon narrowed his eyes. ‘I thought you and Papá had earmarked Sanchez for the role,’ he said, referring to their newest and most dynamic board member—an accomplished former leader of industry who Xav had persuaded the board to accept in an attempt to inject some fresh blood into the company’s governance. Aside from Xav and their father, who was about to retire as Chairman, Sanchez was the only board member for whom Ramon had any genuine respect.

Hector, on the other hand, was a nightmare. Their father’s second cousin, he craved power and status and resented anyone who possessed more than he did. The man was self-centred. Narrow-minded. Not figurehead material.

Ramon shook his head in disbelief. ‘He’ll never get the support he needs.’

‘He already has it.’ Xav dropped into his chair, nostrils flaring. ‘He’s been working behind my back, garnering support for a coup. Persuading the others that voting in Sanchez is a bad move.’

‘Surely Papá can pull him into line?’

His brother threw him a look.

‘Papá has already taken a step back. He’s too unwell for such drama—something you would know if you made an effort to visit more often,’ Xav said, the glint in his eyes hard. Accusatory.

A sharp jolt went through Ramon. He knew their father had high blood pressure, and had suffered from mild attacks of angina over the past two years, but he hadn’t been aware of Vittorio’s more recent decline. He tightened his jaw against the surge of guilt. He kept his distance from family gatherings for a reason. There was too much awkwardness there. Too many things left unsaid. No. Ramon would not let his brother guilt trip him. He did everyone a favour, himself included, by staying away.

‘The board members respect you,’ he pointed out, marshalling his thoughts back to the business at hand. ‘Win them back.’

Xav’s jaw clenched. He shook his head. ‘Whatever diamond-studded carrot Hector is dangling to coerce their support, it’s working. Lopez, Ruben, Anders and Ramirez have all avoided my calls this week.’

Ramon dragged a thumb over his bristled chin. ‘So what’s the purpose of the meeting?’

‘To confront Hector out in the open. Force him to reveal his hand and compel the others to choose a side—show where their loyalties lie so we know what we’re up against.’

‘“We”?’

‘I need your support. As does Sanchez, if we’ve any chance of seeing him voted in as Chairman. We need to provide a united front. A strong front. One that’ll challenge Hector and test his alliances.’

A single bark of laughter escaped Ramon. ‘I cannot see how my presence will help your cause,’ he said, and yet even as he spoke he could feel the sharp, addictive surge of adrenalin he always experienced in the face of a challenge.

Something else rose in him, too. A sense of familial duty he couldn’t deny. A compulsion to help his brother.

He studied Xav’s face for a moment. It wasn’t only anger carving deep grooves around his brother’s mouth.

‘You’re worried,’ he observed. ‘Why?’

‘The Klein deal went belly up.’

Without thinking, Ramon pursed his lips and let out a low whistle. Xav’s expression darkened.

‘I’m sorry,’ Ramon said, his sympathy genuine. He too had suffered the occasional business failure. Had experienced the disappointment and utter frustration that came after investing countless hours of manpower and resources into a potential deal only to see it fall over at the eleventh hour. ‘You’re concerned that your credibility with the board is damaged,’ he surmised.

‘Hector’s already laid the failure squarely on my doorstep. Called my judgement into question.’ Xav’s voice grated with disgust. ‘He’ll use it to undermine the board’s confidence in me. We need a win to regain the board’s trust. Something that will make them forget about the Klein debacle and give us some leverage.’ He sat forward, his grey eyes intense. ‘Have you managed to secure a meeting with Royce yet?’

Ramon felt his spine tighten.

Speaking of failures.

‘Not yet,’ he said carefully.

Xav leaned back, the intensity in his eyes dimming. He breathed out heavily. ‘It was always going to be a long shot.’

His tone was dismissive enough to needle under Ramon’s skin. Setting his sights on The Royce—one of London’s oldest, most prestigious and highly exclusive private clubs—was ambitious, but his brother shouldn’t be so quick to underestimate him.

‘Have a little faith, brother,’ he said. ‘I’ve hit a minor roadblock, that’s all. Nothing I can’t handle.’

‘A roadblock?’

‘Royce has a gatekeeper.’ He downplayed the matter with a one-shoulder shrug. ‘Getting access to him is proving...a challenge.’

Xav’s frown deepened. ‘Do they not know who you are?’ His voice rang with a note of hauteur. ‘Surely the de la Vega name is sufficient to grant you an audience with Royce?’

Ramon nearly barked out another derisory laugh.

The importance of the family name had always carried more weight in Xav’s eyes than his. Their mother and her siblings were distant cousins of the King of Spain and directly descended from a centuries-old line of dukes. Marry that blue-blood lineage to the vast wealth and success of their father’s industrialist family and the de la Vega name, since the early eighties when their parents had wedded, had been inextricably linked with affluence and status.

‘Are you forgetting the clientele The Royce serves?’ He watched Xav silently bristle over the fact that their family’s power and influence, while not insignificant, did not merit any special recognition in this instance. Not from an establishment that catered to some of the wealthiest, most powerful men in the world.

‘And yet if there is truth to the rumours you’ve heard, Maxwell Royce is not selective about the company he keeps. Surely a meeting with you is not beneath him?’

Ramon sensed a subtle insult in that statement. He gritted his teeth for a second before speaking. ‘It’s not rumour. The information I received comes from a trusted source. It’s reliable.’

As reliable as it had been surprising, for the discreet disclosure had come from his friend Christophe completely out of the blue. ‘Royce has a gambling problem and mounting debts,’ he said. ‘It came from the mouth of his own accountant.’ Who apparently, after indulging in one too many Manhattans in a London cocktail bar with a pretty long-legged accountant—who happened to be Christophe’s sister—had spilled the dirt on his employer. Christophe’s sister had relayed the tale to her brother and Christophe, never one to sit idly on useful information, had called Ramon.

‘Where trouble resides, so does opportunity,’ he said, voicing a belief that had served him well over the years when scouting out potential acquisitions. People resistant to selling could quickly change their tune when faced with a financial crisis. A buyout offer or business proposal that had previously been rejected could suddenly seem an attractive option.

The Royce had been owned by the same family for over a hundred years, but it wasn’t uncommon for third or fourth generation owners to opt to sell the family business. For legacies to be sacrificed expediently in favour of hard cash. And if Maxwell Royce needed cash... It was an opportunity too tempting not to pursue, long shot or not. Ramon’s clubs were exclusive, sophisticated and world-class but The Royce was in a whole different league—one that only a dozen or so clubs on the planet could lay claim to. An establishment so revered would elevate his portfolio to a whole new level.

Xav sat forward again. ‘I don’t need to tell you how much an acquisition of this nature would impress the board.’

Ramon understood. It would be the win his brother was so desperately seeking. A way to cut Hector’s critical narrative off at the knees, wrestle back control of the board and regain the directors’ confidence.

‘Deal with Royce’s gatekeeper, whoever he is, and get that meeting,’ Xav urged. ‘Soon.’

Ramon didn’t care for his brother’s imperious tone, but he bit his tongue. Xav was under pressure. He’d asked for Ramon’s support. How often did that happen?

Not often.

Besides, Ramon had as much desire as Xav to see Hector at the company’s helm.

He thought of the obstacle in his path.

Not a he, as Xav had assumed, but a she.

A slender, blonde, not unattractive she who had, in recent weeks, proved something of a conundrum for Ramon.

He’d readily admit it was a rare occasion he came across a woman he couldn’t charm into giving him what he wanted.

This woman would not be charmed.

Three times in two weeks she’d rejected him by phone, informing him in her very chilly, very proper, British accent that Mr Royce was too busy to receive unsolicited visitors.

Ramon had been undeterred. Confident he could net a far more desirable result in person, he’d flown to London and turned up at the club’s understated front door on a quiet, dignified street in the heart of fashionable Mayfair.

As expected, security had been discreet but efficient. As soon as he’d been identified as a visitor and not a member, a dark-suited man had ushered him around the outside of the stately brick building to a side entrance. Like the simple, black front door with its decorative brass knocker, the black and white marble vestibule in which he’d been left to wait was further evidence of The Royce’s quiet, restrained brand of elegance.

Ramon had got quite familiar with that vestibule. He’d found himself with enough time on his hands to count the marble squares on the floor fifty times over, plus make a detailed study of the individual mouldings on the ornate Georgian ceiling.

Because she had made him wait. Not for ten minutes. Not for twenty, or even forty. But for an hour.

Only through sheer determination and the freedom to stand up, stretch his legs and pace back and forth across the polished floor now and again had he waited her out.

After a while it felt like a grim little game between them, a challenge to see who’d relent first—him or her.

Ramon won, but his victory was limited to the brief surge of satisfaction that came when she finally appeared.

‘You do not have an appointment, Mr de la Vega.’ Grey eyes, so pale they possessed an extraordinary luminescence, flashed at him from out of a heart-shaped face, while the rest of her expression appeared carefully schooled.

Pretty, he thought upon first impression, but not his type. Too reserved. Too buttoned-up and prim. He preferred his women relaxed. Uninhibited. ‘Because you would not give me one,’ he responded easily.

‘And you think I will now, just because you’re here in person?’

‘I think Mr 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.

CHAPTER TWO

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 of their precious club was now owned by a woman.

She imagined there’d be deep rumblings of discontent and much sputtering of cigar smoke and Scotch beneath the lighted chandeliers in the Great Salon. But she also knew her grandfather had acted with calculated intent when he’d bequeathed half of the club’s ownership to his only grandchild. Gordon Royce had known his errant son could not be trusted with sole proprietorship. Rewriting his will to leave fifty per cent of the shares to Emily—the granddaughter he’d wished had been born a boy—had surely been an undesirable but necessary course of action in Gordon’s mind.

Not that her grandfather had been able to overcome his misogynistic tendencies altogether. He’d gone to significant lengths to ensure the Royce name would live on through a male heir.

It was terribly ironic—that her grandfather should manipulate her life from beyond the grave when he’d shown scarcely a flicker of interest in her while he’d been alive.

Emily closed her eyes a moment. Her mind was wandering. She needed to harness her thoughts, to wrestle her brain around the problem and come up with a solution. She needed time to think. Alone. Without the sinister presence of the man who sat in the upholstered chair on the other side of her desk.

She stood slowly, her features composed, her legs steady only through sheer force of will.

‘I think you should leave now, Mr Skinner.’

She spoke with all the authority she could muster but her cool directive failed to have any visible impact on her visitor.

His head tilted to the side, his thin lips stretching into a humourless smile that sent an icy ripple down Emily’s spine. ‘That’s a pity,’ he said. ‘I was just starting to enjoy our conversation.’

Emily didn’t like the way he looked at her. Carl Skinner—one of London’s most notorious loan sharks—looked old enough to be her father, yet there was nothing paternal in the way his gaze crawled over her body. She fisted her hands by her sides. Her pinstriped skirt and white silk blouse were smart and conservative and not the least bit revealing. There was nothing for him to feast his filthy eyes on, she assured herself—except maybe for the angry colour rising in her cheeks.

‘Our conversation is over.’ She gestured towards the single sheet of paper he’d produced with a smug flourish when she’d questioned the veracity of his claim. It lay upon her desk now, the signature scrawled at the foot of the agreement unmistakably her father’s. ‘I’ll be seeking a legal opinion on this.’

‘You can have a hundred lawyers look over it, sweetheart.’

Emily tried not to flinch at the endearment.

‘It was legally binding when Royce signed it seven days ago,’ he continued. ‘And it’ll be legally binding in another seven days when I collect on the debt.’ He leaned back, his gaze roving around the interior of her small but beautifully appointed office, with its view overlooking one of Mayfair’s most elegant streets, before landing back on her. ‘You know, I’ve always fancied myself as a member of one of these clubs.’

Emily almost snorted. The idea of this man rubbing shoulders with princes and presidents was ludicrous, but she endeavoured to keep the thought from showing on her face. Skinner’s business suit and neatly cropped hair might afford him a civilised veneer but she sensed the danger emanating from him. Insulting this man would be far from wise.

‘Mr Royce’s debt will be settled in full by the end of the week.’ She injected her voice with a confidence she prayed wasn’t misplaced. If her father’s gambling debt wasn’t settled within the week, the alternative—Carl Skinner getting his hands on a fifty per cent shareholding of The Royce—was an outcome far too horrendous to contemplate. She would not let it happen.

‘You sound very certain about that, little lady.’

‘I am.’

Skinner’s lips pursed. ‘You understand that assurance would carry more weight if I heard it straight from your boss?’

‘My boss is not here,’ she reminded him, instinct urging her now—as it had twenty minutes earlier when he’d turned up without an appointment demanding to see her father—not to reveal her surname. She’d introduced herself simply as Emily, Administration Manager and Mr Royce’s assistant, and agreed to meet with Skinner in Maxwell’s absence only because instinct urged her to hear what he had to say.

She coerced her cheek muscles to move, pulling the corners of her mouth into a rigid smile. ‘I’m afraid you’ll have to settle for my assurance, Mr Skinner,’ she said, walking around her desk as she continued to speak. ‘Thank you for your visit. I believe we have nothing more to discuss at this point. I do have another appointment,’ she lied, ‘so if you don’t mind...’

Skinner rose and stepped in front of her and Emily’s voice died, her vocal cords paralysed by the violent lunge of her heart into her throat. Her legs froze. He was standing in her space, two feet at most between them, and she wasn’t used to such close physical proximity with another person. Especially someone she didn’t know and had zero desire to. ‘Mr Skinner—’

‘Carl,’ he said, and took a step towards her.

She stepped backwards, glancing to the right of his thick-set frame to her closed office door. Her palms grew clammy. Why hadn’t she thought to leave it open?

His smile returned, the narrow slant of his lips ten times more unsettling than before. ‘There’s no need to stand on ceremony, Emily. This time next week I could be your boss...’

Her eyes widened.

‘And I’m not big on formality. I prefer my working relationships to be a little more...relaxed.’

Nausea bloomed anew and she fought the instinct to recoil. She tried to tell herself his sleazy innuendo didn’t intimidate her, but the truth was she felt horribly unnerved. She inhabited a world dominated by men but she wasn’t familiar with this kind of unsolicited attention. For the most part she was used to being invisible. Unseen.

She straightened her shoulders. ‘Let me offer you one more assurance, Mr Skinner,’ she said, her heart hammering even as common sense told her he couldn’t pose any physical threat to her person. Her admin assistant, Marsha, unless she’d gone for her morning tea break, would be sitting at her desk right outside Emily’s door, and Security was no further away than one push of a pre-programmed button on her desk phone. ‘Not only will you never be my boss,’ she said, a sliver of disdain working its way into her voice now, ‘But you will never, so long as I have any say in the matter, set foot on these premises again.’

No sooner had the final word leapt off Emily’s tongue than she knew she had made a grave mistake.

Skinner’s expression had turned thunderous.

Terrifyingly thunderous.

And he moved so fast—looming over her, his big hands clamping onto her waist like concrete mitts as he pinned her against her desk—that she had no time to react.

An onslaught of fragmented impressions assailed her: the sight of Skinner’s lips peeling back from his teeth; the dampness of his breath on her skin as he thrust his face too close to hers; the overpowering reek of his aftershave which made the lining of her nose sting.

Panic flared, driving the beginnings of a scream up her throat, but she gripped the edge of her desk behind her and smothered the sound before it could emerge. ‘Take your hands off me,’ she hissed. ‘Or I will shout for Security and an entire team of men will be here in less than ten seconds.’

For a moment his grip tightened, his fingers biting painfully into her sides. Then, abruptly, he released her and stepped away, his sudden retreat setting off a wave of relief so powerful her legs threatened to buckle. He ran a hand over his hair and adjusted the knot of his tie—as if smoothing his appearance would somehow make him appear less brutish.

‘Seven days, little lady.’ His voice was gruff. Menacing. ‘And then I collect.’ He jutted his chin in the direction of the paper on her desk. ‘That’s a copy, of course. You can assure your lawyer that I have the original tucked away safe and sound.’ He sent her a hard, chilling smile then showed himself out, leaving her office door standing open in the wake of his exit.

Emily sagged against her desk, just as Marsha rushed in.

‘My God!’ the younger woman exclaimed. ‘What on earth happened in here? The look on that man’s face—’ She stopped, her eyes growing rounder as they took in Emily’s slumped posture and the pallor she knew without the aid of a mirror had stripped the colour from her cheeks. ‘Emily...?’

Rousing herself, she pointed a trembling finger over Marsha’s shoulder. ‘Call Security. Tell them to make absolutely certain that man leaves the building.’

Marsha hurried back out and Emily moved on shaky legs to the other side of her desk. She picked up her phone, pulled in a fortifying breath and dialled her father’s mobile number.

The call went straight to voice mail.

Surprise...not.

She slammed the phone back down, frustration, fury and a host of other feelings she didn’t want to acknowledge building with hot, bitter force inside her.

Her eyes prickled and the threat of tears was as unfamiliar and unwelcome as the nausea had been.

What had Maxwell done?

Her lips trembled and she pressed them together, closed her eyes and pushed the heels of her hands against her lids.

She knew what he had done.

He’d borrowed a monstrous sum of money to enter a high-stakes poker game and put up his fifty per cent shareholding of The Royce as collateral.

And then he had lost. Spectacularly.

She wanted to scream.

How could he? How could he?

No wonder he’d been incommunicado this last week. He was hiding, the coward. Leaving Emily to clean up the mess, like he always did.

Bitterness welled up inside her.

Why shouldn’t he? She was his fixer, after all. The person who made things go away. Who kept his image, and by extension the image of The Royce, as pristine and stain-free as possible. Oh, yes. Her father might be a selfish, irresponsible man but he wasn’t stupid.

He’d finally discovered a use for the daughter he’d ignored for most of her life.

Emily dropped into her chair.

It wasn’t unusual for Maxwell to disappear. As a child she’d grown to accept his fleeting, infrequent appearances in her life, sensing from a young age that she made him uncomfortable even though she hadn’t understood why. As an adult she’d hoped maturity and a shared interest in The Royce’s future would give them common ground—a foundation upon which to forge a relationship—but within the first year after her grandfather’s death it’d become clear her hopes were misguided. The loss of his father had not changed Maxwell one bit. If anything he’d become more remote. More unpredictable. More absent.

It was Emily who had run the club during his absences, assuming more and more of the management responsibilities in recent years. Oh, Maxwell would breeze in when the mood took him, but he rarely stayed at his desk for more than a few token minutes. Why stare at spreadsheets and have tedious discussions about staffing issues and running costs when he could be circulating in the restaurant or the Great Salon, pressing the flesh of their members and employing his innate silver-tongued charm?

Emily didn’t care that her job title didn’t reflect the true extent of her responsibilities. Didn’t care that for seven years her part-ownership of the club had remained, by mutual agreement with her father, a well-guarded secret. She knew The Royce’s membership wasn’t ready for such a revelation. The club was steeped in tradition and history, mired in values that were steadfastly old-fashioned. Its members didn’t object to female employees, but the idea of accepting women as equals within their hallowed halls remained anathema to most.

Emily had a vision for the club’s future, one that was far more evolved and liberal, but changes had to be implemented gradually. Anything fundamental, such as opening their doors to women... Well, those kinds of changes would happen only when the time was right.

Or they wouldn’t happen at all.

Not if Carl Skinner got his grubby hands on her father’s share of The Royce. There’d be no controlling Skinner, no keeping the outcome under wraps. It would be an unmitigated scandal, ruinous to the club’s image. There’d be a mass exodus of members to rival establishments. In short, there would be no club. Not one she’d want to be associated with, at any rate. Skinner would turn it into a cheap, distasteful imitation.

Oh, Lord.

This was exactly why her grandfather had bequeathed half of the club to Emily. To keep his son from destroying the family legacy.

And now it was happening.

Under her watch.

She reached for the phone again, imagining Gordon Royce’s coffin rocking violently in the ground now.

Her first call, to the bank, told her what she already knew—they were at the limit of their debt facility. Raising cash via a bank loan wasn’t an option. Her second call, to The Royce’s corporate lawyer, left her feeling even worse.

‘I’m sorry, Emily. The contract with Mr Skinner is valid,’ Ray Carter told her after she’d emailed a scanned copy to him. ‘You could contest it, but unless we can prove that Maxwell was of unsound mind when he executed the agreement there’s no legally justifiable reason to nullify the contract.’

‘Is there nothing we can do?’

‘Pay Mr Skinner what he’s owed,’ he said bluntly.

‘We don’t have the money.’

‘Then find an investor.’

Emily’s heart stopped. ‘Dilute the club’s equity?’

‘Or convince your father to sell his shares and retain your fifty per cent. One or the other. But whatever you do, do it fast.’

Emily hung up the phone and sat for a long moment, too shell-shocked to move. Too speechless to utter more than a weak, distracted word of thanks when Marsha came in, placed a cup of tea in front of her and said she’d be right outside the office if Emily needed to talk.

Alone again, she absentmindedly fingered the smooth surface of the pearl that hung from a silver chain around her neck.

An investor.

Slowly the idea turned over in her mind. There had to be members of The Royce who would be interested in owning a piece of their beloved club. She could put some feelers out, make a few discreet enquiries... But the delicacy required for such approaches and any ensuing negotiations would take time—and time was something she didn’t have.

Whatever you do, do it fast.

Ray’s warning pounded through her head.

Abruptly, she swivelled her chair, dragged open the middle drawer of her desk and rummaged through an assortment of notepads and stationery until her fingers touched on the item she was seeking. She held her breath for a moment, then shoved the drawer closed and slapped the business card on her desk.

She glared at the name emblazoned in big, black letters across the card’s white background, as bold as the man himself.

Ramon de la Vega.

A bloom of inexplicable heat crept beneath the collar of her blouse. She’d intended to throw the card away as soon as she returned to her office after her brief encounter with the man, but at the last second she’d changed her mind and tossed the card into a drawer.

He had unsettled her.

She didn’t like to admit it, but he had.

Oh, she knew his type well enough. He was a charmer, endowed with good looks and a smooth tongue just like her father, except she had to concede that ‘good looks’ was a rather feeble description of Ramon de la Vega’s God-given assets.

The man was gorgeous. Tall and dark. Golden-skinned. And he oozed confidence and vitality, the kind that shimmered around some people like a magnetic force field and pulled others in.

She had almost been sucked in herself. Had felt the irresistible pull of his bold, male charisma the instant he’d stepped into her zone—that minimum three feet of space she liked to maintain between others and herself. She’d taken a hasty step backwards, not because he had repelled her, but rather because she had, in spite of her anger, found herself disconcertingly drawn to him. Drawn by the palpable energy he gave off and, more shockingly, by the hint of recklessness she had sensed was lurking beneath.

They were qualities that didn’t attract her, she’d reminded herself sharply. Not in the slightest. And not in a man whose audacity had already set her fuming.

She leaned back in her chair, her breathing shallow, her pulse feeling a little erratic. Was she mad even to consider this?

Or would she be mad not to consider it?

Forced to choose between Carl Skinner and Ramon de la Vega, she couldn’t deny which man was the lesser of two evils. De la Vega had a pedigree, not to mention an impressive business acumen. She knew because she’d done an Internet search and, once she’d got past the dozens of tabloid articles and photos of him with beautiful women, the long list of accolades lauding his accomplishments as both an architect and a smart, driven businessman had made for interesting reading.

Before she could change her mind, she snatched up her phone and dialled the mobile number on his card.

Two seconds later, she almost hung up.

Maybe this needed more thought. Maybe she should rehearse what she was going to say...

‘Sí?’

The breath she’d unconsciously bottled in her lungs escaped on a little whoosh of surprise. For a second time that day, her vocal cords felt paralysed.

‘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.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.