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.
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