Bedded by Blackmail

Why had Diego Saez pursued her the way he had?

Surely he could see from looking at her that she was not the type to indulge in the kind of sordid little affairs he clearly specialised in? Nor was she his type either—from all the photos in the celebrity magazines that Susie had insisted on showing her it seemed Diego Saez went for the sultry type. She gazed at herself a moment longer, taking in the cool, classic features that looked back at her out of clear grey eyes. She was a million miles away from the spectacular, flashy females he obviously had a taste for!

So what on earth did he see in her?

Certainly Geoffrey Chandler, she thought with a sudden pang, hadn’t found it hard to find another woman to marry him, and his chosen bride was a very pretty brunette.

She turned away. She must not think about Geoffrey. It had all been such a mess. Such a horrible, painful mess. She’d hurt and humiliated him, and though it had superficially been a very civilised parting of the ways, the wound had gone deeper than she wanted to admit.

A thought drifted across her mind. Was Susie right? Did she need some kind of drastic ‘cure’ for her messy broken engagement? Such as a passionate, physical affair with someone like Diego Saez?

No! She wouldn’t even start to think like that! The man’s attitude to her—to sex—appalled her. Disgusted her. Treating it as if it were nothing but an appetite—to be sated on any female he decided to select, as if he were choosing from a wine list.

Her lips pressed together and she turned away from the looking glass.

As she did so she realised she was hearing the sound of a car coming along the long drive from the road, a good mile and a half away. Tom and his business guest were obviously about to arrive.

She performed one last rapid scan around the room, and waited while the car pulled up in front of the house on the gravelled forecourt. The engine cut, there was a sound of car doors slamming, feet crunching on gravel, then voices out in the hall, indistinct and muffled—Mr T taking coats, Portia assumed, as she stood, poised in front of the fire, ready for her brother and his guest. Then footsteps approached the drawing room. The double doors were opened, and in walked Tom.

Her eyes took him in, but only for the barest handful of seconds. Darkness seemed to be swirling around her. Her eyes were dragged over Tom’s shoulders to the man who had walked in behind him. She felt the blood drum in her ears, her chest tighten.

It couldn’t be. It just couldn’t be…

From far away she heard Tom’s voice, but it came dim, inaudible. The only sense that seemed to be operating was her vision.

And all she could see, like some horrible dream, was a tall, dark, dangerous figure that she had hoped, prayed, never to have to set eyes on again.

He was walking towards her. That same lithe, purposeful gait. The same dark, heavy-lidded eyes and strong, arresting features. His expression was shuttered, unreadable. He stopped in front of her, holding out her hand.

‘Portia—’ said Diego Saez, and took her nerveless hand in his.

It was like something out of a bad dream. A very bad dream. A nightmare.

It couldn’t be true, it just couldn’t! Diego Saez could not be standing here, in the drawing room at Salton, right in front of her.

She wanted to snatch her hand away. Was de

sperate to do so. But the fingers holding hers were like steel pincers. As if he knew her intention, her desire, her overwhelming instinct to pull away from him. His hand was hard, his grip unshakeable.

Then, abruptly, he let her go.

She was fighting for air. It was thick in her lungs, un-breathable. She could hear Tom speaking and with sheer force of will she turned her head towards him.

‘Have you two met already? You didn’t say, Señor Saez.’

There was polite surprise in his voice, and Portia was incapable of answering. Incapable of doing anything other than try and get breath into her lungs, stay upright in front of the hearth.

‘Several times,’ Diego Saez replied, his voice deep and accented. Portia felt the slightest shiver go through her, as though she were cold. Yet she could feel the heat from the fire diffusing through the fireguard on to the back of her stockinged legs.

‘I’ve been buying art,’ he continued, as if that was by way of an explanation.

‘Ah.’ Tom nodded. ‘Of course.’

‘In fact,’ Diego Saez went on, in that same smooth, deep voice that was sending chill shivers along Portia’s rigid spine, ‘only last week I chanced to be at the opening of an exhibition on British eighteenth-century landscapes. The Gainsborough of Salton was very…’ he paused minutely ‘…memorable.’

His eyes rested expressionlessly on Portia, and she knew it was not the Gainsborough he was referring to as memorable. Memory of his kiss bleached through her. She looked away.

Shock was still ricocheting inside her.