Bedded by Blackmail

Time to stop running…

But she had to run—had to get him to leave her alone! To accept that however many other women were stupid enough to fall into his bed for a month or two, she would not be among them!

However much he calmly intended to have her.

Diego Saez, hand still at her elbow, holding her at his side, was proclaiming to all the world that she was the woman he wanted—and was sublimely confident of getting.

Feeling as if she were some kind of conquered slave, trailing along with the triumphant Roman general, she could do nothing except let herself be steered through the room. Her lips were smiling, as if in a rictus, her voice was murmuring the required niceties, and all the time she was feeling the heat flushing through her like a ghastly wave machine, over and over and over again.

Heat and memory—memory of that kiss…

He did not move from her side—nor let her leave. As if in some kind of nightmare she had to talk, and smile, and endure the worst ordeal of all—the knowing looks, the pointed remarks, that Diego Saez’s constant presence at her side inevitably drew. She ignored them doggedly, desperately, calling on all her reserves of self-control to get her through to the end.

But was it going to end? After what seemed a perpetual eternity it came to her, with a new wave of horror, that they were progressing slowly but surely towards the exit. And then, through the blankness in her head, she heard that deep, accented voice saying to whoever he was speaking to at the time, ‘Another evening, perhaps. Tonight I have a prior engagement.’

He glanced down at her, and whoever it was gave a knowing laugh and moved away. And then one of the gallery staff was there, proffering her jacket, and the man at her side was slipping it on her, his hands drawing it up over her shoulders. Her face and her body were as stiff as board as, making smooth, bland farewells, Diego ushered her out on to the pavement.

She was like a zombie, without will or volition of her own. Diego Saez had taken her over.

Her heart slugged in her chest, panic prickling all through her body, as she climbed into the waiting car, where a chauffeur was holding open the door, and Diego Saez folded his long, lean body in after her.

This can’t be happening, she thought. It can’t!

She sat ramrod-straight in her seat, staring doggedly in front of her through the dividing glass at the back of the chauffeur’s head as he took his place, pulling the limo out into the street.

She wanted to scream, to shout, to leap from the car. But she could do none of those things. Something had taken control of her—something more powerful than she had ever felt in her life before.

Of their own volition—certainly not with her conscious will—she felt her head turn, her eyes rest on the tall, dark figure sitting beside her in the far corner of the wide rear seat of the limo. His long legs were stretched out.

He smiled. A slow, sensual smile.

‘Well, Portia—here we are. Alone at last.’

His mocking tone sent shivers through her.

From somewhere deep inside she found the strength to speak.

‘I would be much obliged, Mr Saez, if you would please drop me off at the next taxi rank or Underground station. I have no intention of spending any further time with you.’

She wanted her voice to sound arctic—but it merely trembled.

His presence overpowered her. It was like a physical weight—touching her, crushing the breath from her lungs.

‘We’re going to dinner,’ he replied, his casual indifference to her rigidly civil request galling her. ‘I’ve reserved a table at Claridge’s.’

Her eyes flashed in disbelief at what he had just said. Outrage soared up over the panicky feeling that was flushing through her.

‘Then you may un-reserve it, Mr Saez. I am not dining with you!’

Looking him in the eye had been a mistake. As she met that heavy-lidded gaze, resting on her, a feeling of hot, molten lava started to flow viscously through her veins.

Confusion churned in her.

What’s happening to me? Why is he doing this? How is he doing this? I don’t want him, I don’t like him, I want to get out of the car and run, and run and run…

Danger pressed all around her. It was tangible—a dark, disturbing presence.

And more than danger.