Bedded by Blackmail

For a moment he did not move. She levelled her gaze at him—though it meant looking up at him.

The dark eyes swept over her face one last time, and for one last time she felt that hot wire jerk.

Her lips pressed together. Anger spurted through her. She moved to step around him, and then immediately he had stepped away, clearing the way for her.

‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice even more clipped, simultaneously dropping her eyes. She marched forward, still angry.

Behind her, Simon hurried to catch up.

Diego let his gaze linger on her receding form for a few more seconds, then cut back to Sir Edward.

‘Loring Lanchester…’ he said speculatively. ‘Are they as vulnerable as they look, do you think?’

At his side, Piers Haddenham’s eyes gleamed. So, not sex after all, then. He listened with acute attention to Sir Edward’s reply.

‘Sinking faster than the Titanic,’ the older man said succinctly. ‘Unless they get a tow—and by a pretty damn large ship!’ His shrewd eyes met Diego’s speculatively.

Diego’s expression did not change.

Far across the room, he could see the elegant, slender form of Portia Lanchester walking out.

CHAPTER TWO

‘NEXT Thursday at two? That would be wonderful. Thank you so much!’

Portia put the phone down. Descendants of the Coldings still lived at Hathwaite, and were happy for her to inspect their remaining portraits and compare them with the photos she’d taken of the mysterious Young Lady with Harp. Their family papers had been deposited with the county records archive years ago, and she would do a search through them the following day if her suspicions about Miss Maria Colding proved well-founded. With a feeling of satisfaction she tidied the papers on her desk.

Her work at a small but prestigious art history research institute never failed to fascinate her. She knew she was very fortunate to have been taken on, though she was also well aware that the institute director, Hugh Mackerras, considered it a definite plus that she possessed an ample private income of her own. It meant not only that he could pay her very modestly indeed, but that she was more than ready to fund her own travel expenses. But she was pleased to do so—she knew she was fortunate not to be financially dependent on her salary, which meant she was able to pursue a career that really interested her, rather than one that kept body and soul together.

A slight pang of guilt assailed her. She enjoyed her substantial private income thanks to Loring Lanchester—and it was thanks to poor Tom, incarcerated there, that the family merchant bank kept going. Poor Tom. He really wasn’t cut out to be a banker—he was much happier tramping through fields in his gumboots and Barbar, getting stuck in to the muddy side of agriculture.

Thinking of Tom made her remember that awful dinner the night before—and that brought another memory in tow.

A shiver went through her.

That wretched man had disturbed her, whether she wanted to admit it or not. There had been something about him that had seemed to threaten her.

In her mind’s eye she saw him again, lounging back in his chair, cradling his wine glass, his hooded eyes resting on her, looking at her.

Even as it had last night, she felt her skin begin to prickle.

With a shake of annoyance at such a ridiculous over-reaction to a man whose name she did not even know she returned her attention to her notes. As she did so she realised she was suppressing a slight yawn. She was not surprised. She had not had a good night. The wine had made her sleepy, but although she’d slept as soon as her head hit the pillow, she’d had dreams she wished she hadn’t.

Dark, intent eyes had haunted her dreams.

Dreams of being watched, assessed.

Desired.

The phone rang, jolting her out of an unpleasant train of thought.

She lifted the receiver and cleared her mind.

‘Yes?’ Her voice was crisp and businesslike.

‘May I speak to Portia Lanchester?’

She stilled disbelievingly. The voice at the other end of the phone was deep, with a distinct foreign accent, plus echoes of American. The line was distorting the voice, changing the balance of the mingled accents, but she recognised it.