His Blackmailed Bride

‘Is that what you think I’m doing?’

‘Why else would you do it?’ she said with a bitterness that surprised her, and before he could answer she pulled free of his hand and stepped off the kerb.

Everything happened at once. A horn blared, almost in her ear, Quinn’s arm closed around her and lifted her on to the pavement beside him, and a blur of red shot by—a bus, Paige saw with horror—moving swiftly over the place in the road where she’d just been standing.

‘You little fool!’ Quinn snarled, spinning her towards him. ‘You almost got yourself killed.’

‘I… I forgot about the traffic,’ she said breathlessly. ‘I… ’

Inexplicably, her eyes had filled with tears. ‘What is it?’ he demanded. ‘Paige…’

She looked up at him. His eyes were fierce, protective. You’re my wife. Her pulse tripped and she swayed against him.

His hands bit into her. ‘Let’s go home,’ he said thickly.

Reality returned with a rush. ‘You’ll get what you paid for tonight, Quinn. Can’t you wait another few hours?’

Lines cut into the skin beside his mouth. ‘Paige…’

‘And that house isn’t my home. It never will be.’

His mouth hardened. ‘Damned right it isn’t,’ he growled. Her heels clattered against the pavement as he tugged her towards his car. ‘I’ll see to that.’

They were silent as he raced the car through the London streets, charging forward at light changes and sliding through traffic with reckless abandon. By the time he pulled to a stop before a brick house on a quiet street, they were as remote from each other as they’d been during the flight on the Concorde.

‘I’ve asked my solicitor to draw up some papers,’ Quinn said in clipped tones. ‘This won’t take long.’

Quinn’s solicitor was polite, but obviously uncomfortable.

‘We do this all the time, Mrs Fowler,’ he said, shoving a long, legal document across his desk.

‘What is this?’ she asked, but it was Quinn who answered.

‘A nuptial contract. In the event I should divorce you, you’re entitled to your clothing and ten thousand pounds.’ His eyes raked her face. ‘Fair enough, all things considered. Don’t you agree, Paige?’

Her eyes had met his without flinching. ‘And if I divorce you?’

Quinn had smiled. ‘You won’t,’ he’d said softly. ‘Or have you forgotten your father?’

The sight of his solicitor’s pale, disbelieving face had given her the courage she needed. ‘I won’t sign this,’ she’d said, shoving the papers aside.

Quinn had laughed aloud. ‘Now we get down to basics, hmm?’

Her smile had been cool. ‘Absolute basics. All I want from you is the price of a one-way plane ticket to the States.’

The solicitor had cleared his throat. ‘Really, Mrs Fowler, that’s most irregular.’

Her husband’s smile had been as cool as hers. ‘What’s the game this time, darling?’ he’d asked softly.

Paige had lifted her chin. ‘What does it matter? As long as you’re the winner.’

‘Done,’ he’d said.

Now, looking into the mirror, the velvet dress Quinn had bought her soft on her shoulders, Paige realised that he owned her, and he could discard her at will. And he would. The agreement she’d signed with such bravado convinced her of it. When he was tired of her, when he’d had enough of venting his anger on her body, he would send her away. Passion had nothing to do with why he wanted her. Not that it mattered: anger, desire, passion—it turned out they all led to the same end.

The clock chimed eight. Zero hour. Time for the dinner performance. Her hand reached to the light switch and she plunged the room into darkness.

Alan had tried to tell her that sex had nothing to do with love or happiness. It was just too bad she hadn’t believed him.