Bedded by Blackmail

Think of the devil and he’ll come calling…

The words leapt in her mind and she pushed them aside. For a second only she paused, getting back her composure.

‘Speaking,’ she answered. The breath seemed tight in her chest.

‘Miss Lanchester? My name is Diego Saez—I noticed you last night at the dinner. Are you free for lunch today?’

Her chest tightened even more.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Her voice chilled the line.

‘Are you free for lunch?’ he repeated. She heard a trace of amusement in his voice, as if her answer had been predictable.

For the briefest second she paused, then, in crystal-cut accents she said succinctly, ‘I’m afraid not.’

She put the phone down.

Her heart, she realised, seemed to be beating most unevenly.

She’d been rude, she knew she had, but she excused herself. She had just wanted to get him off the line.

Urgently. Instinctively.

Slowly, deliberately, she let the breath out of her lungs. Her eyes rested on the phone. She wondered if it was going to ring again. But it stayed silent.

Diego Saez.

So that was what his name was.

Her mind ran automatically. Spanish—or Hispanic at any rate. South American? Latino?

How did he know my name? My work number?

She pursed her lips. It didn’t matter how he knew, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her.

Why not?

The question slid into her brain like a stiletto knifeblade. In answer, her lips pursed even more. Why not? What kind of question was that? The man had eyed her up like a slab of meat and she had to ask Why not? about him?

Angrily, she flicked through the papers on her desk, looking for the one she wanted. She found it and started to read. Within minutes she was back in the world of early-nineteenth-century portraiture.

Two hours later a massive bouquet of flowers arrived—exotic scented lilies and tropical ferns. The accompanying card simply said ‘D.S.’ on it. She fetched a vase from the kitchen in the basement of the old Georgian house in Bloomsbury that housed the institute and plunged the flowers into water. Their scent filled her small office—rich and overpowering.

As she left the institute that evening she took the vase downstairs with her, and left it in Reception. She didn’t want it in her office.

The scent disturbed her.

A mile or two west of Bloomsbury, Diego Saez glanced at the ticket that had just been couriered to his hotel suite. It lay on the glass coffee table in the suite’s lounge, next to a freshly typed dossier that had been delivered before noon that day. It outlined in considerable detail a great deal of personal information about the individual who was the subject of investigation. Although Diego had been in meetings all day he’d had time to peruse it and take action accordingly.

He had the main facts that he required, from her ag

e—twenty-five—to her employer, her home address, family connections and key friends, and social interests.

That Portia Lanchester had not jumped at his invitation to lunch neither surprised nor bothered him. On the contrary, it pleased him. Had she proved, like other women, to be eager for his attentions after all, she would have already started to bore him.

A leisurely pursuit of her would be far more enjoyable.