Bedded by Blackmail

He gave a slight, self-mocking smile. Even if it meant enduring an evening spent in surroundings even less congenial than last night’s City dinner. Still, the evening would have its compensations.

He strolled off to his bedroom, ready to shower and change.

Portia eased her way through the crush of people in the foyer, following her old schoolfriend Susie Winterton and her mother as they crowded into the auditorium. The two-minute bell was sounding and she wanted to get to her seat. In the pit the orchestra was already tuning up, and she glanced around at the familiar red and gold glory of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. A sense of pleasant anticipation filled her. La Traviata was one of her favourite operas. But as she reached their row in the front stalls, and started to thread her way along it, her sense of pleasant anticipation drained away totally, replaced by cold shock.

Diego Saez had the seat next to her.

He stood up as she took her place.

‘Miss Lanchester,’ he said politely. His eyes were mockingly amused.

On her other side, Susie, leaning forward, said brightly, ‘Oh, do you two know each other?’ Her eyes gleamed with curiosity.

‘No,’ said Portia tightly, and opened her programme.

‘We met the other evening,’ he contradicted, and bestowed a smile on Susie. She, treacherously, reacted predictably and returned the smile with an openly questioning look on her round face.

‘Diego Saez—’ He held out his hand.

There were introductions all round, and a lot of speculative looks cast by Susie at Portia. Portia continued to bury her head in her programme as much as she could, uttering the barest monosyllables as Susie chattered away to the man she obviously found fascinatingly masculine. The arrival of the conductor and the dimming of the house lights as the overture started was a blessed reprieve.

But throughout the performance Portia was punishingly aware of the tall, dark frame beside her. He seemed to intrude into her personal space, though his long legs were slanted away from her, and not even the sleeve of his tuxedo touched her arm. But it was more than her body space that seemed threatened—it was her mental space too.

She was aware of him. Horribly, inextricably aware of him. She could feel him beside her, inhale the scent that had to be him—a mix of subtle, faintly spiced aftershave and his own masculinity. She wanted to pull away from him, but wouldn’t. But as the evening wore on awareness sharpened into hyper-awareness. The second interval was even worse than the first had been.

In the first, Portia had at least had the company of Susie and her mother. Diego Saez had managed to take over, somehow, though she hadn’t the faintest idea how he’d done it. He’d simply ushered them all along to the bar and sorted drinks for them in an instant. Then he’d stayed, chatting courteously to Susie and her mother, hardly saying a word to Portia. Not even looking at her. He had smiled down at Susie, and Portia’s lips had thinned as she sipped her gin and tonic. Susie had chattered away like an idiot, and her mother had smiled benignly, clearly equally impressed by this imposing, attentive male.

But now, in the second interval, Susie proved even more treacherous. As they took their drinks, she suddenly squealed, ‘Oh, look, there’s Fiona and Andrew—do let’s say hello!’ She dragged her mother across to the other couple, pointedly deserting Portia.

Diego Saez glanced down at her.

Her lips tightened, fingers pressing on the stem of the glass holding gently fizzing mineral water—a second gin and tonic would be unwise, she knew. She steeled herself. He was probably going to try and invite her out again, suggest post-theatre dinner, or make some reference to the flowers he’d sent, or explain how he’d managed to find out she’d be here tonight and get the seat next to her. She instinctively knew—accident it had not been!

But he did none of those things. To her stunned disbelief, she felt his fingers stroke along the nape of her neck.

‘I’m told,’ said Diego Saez, in a low, considering voice, ‘that you’re frigid. Is that so?’ His fingers moved on her skin, then stilled, feeling the instant trembling, quivering reaction to his touch, and rested. ‘No, I think not,’ he drawled, and dropped his hand away.

She couldn’t move. Not a muscle. Her anger was so great that for a second she thought she would not be able to stop her arm swinging up and her palm swiping right across his face.

Something moved in his eyes.

It was amusement.

‘Try it,’ he murmured. ‘It should go down well in a place like this.’

She turned on her heel, but in that instant her wrist was caught and held. ‘Sometimes,’ he told her, his voice quiet, ‘a delicate courtship is…inappropriate.’

He let her go. Then abruptly he walked away, heading for the foyer. She stood watching him, staring blindly, anger washing in icy waves through her.

And something else. Something she wouldn’t think about.

Wouldn’t.

For the rest of the evening her stomach churned, as if she had swallowed live worms. It was a horrible feeling.

There was only one source of relief. Diego Saez had left before the final act. Portia could only be grovellingly grateful—though her gratitude was severely curtailed by the fact that his absence only meant that Susie felt free to interrogate her thoroughly in low, excited tones, all the way out to the taxi at the end of the opera.

‘Portia!’ Susie gripped her arm. ‘He’s gorgeous! So sexy!’ She spoke in a low voice, so her mother wouldn’t hear. ‘I’m going to phone you tomorrow and you’ve got to tell me all about him!’