Bedded by Blackmail

Diego moved his eyes from Portia to his hostess, the wife of the president of an Asian telecoms company with whom he was discussing opportunities to invest in the developing communications infrastructure of China.

‘San Cristo is further north than Singapore, but, yes, the summers are probably as hot as the climate here.’

‘San Cristo?’ said Mrs Ling politely.

‘The capital of Maragua—one of the more inconspicuous countries in Central America.’ Diego’s voice was dry. ‘Very little happens there to bring it to the attention of the rest of the world.’

‘Wasn’t there some turmoil there a year or two ago? Over elections?’ Mr Ling enquired.

‘Yes,’ his guest conceded. ‘A new popular front government was elected. It was not popular with everyone, however.’ Diego’s voice was even drier, but there was a grim tone lurking beneath.

Mr Ling gave a slight laugh. ‘No, I would imagine not. Still—’ he glanced across at his guest ‘—your interests, of course, Mr Saez, are global. And increasingly so.’

He went back to the topic of investment in China.

Portia reached for her cup of green tea. It was all she could face. The smell of the fragrant food made her feel ill. She took another sip of her tea and found that her hands were trembling. She tried to steady them, and could not.

She felt Diego’s eyes on her, lancing at her.

‘Are you all right?’

His deep voice cut through the miasma that was netting around her.

She looked at him. He was frowning.

‘Perfectly, thank you.’

For a moment he held her eyes, and as he did so she began to feel pressure welling up inside her.

The expression on his face changed. He went back to talking to Mr Ling.

Mrs Ling made some remark to her about sightseeing in Singapore, and Portia forced herself to respond. But that same sense of dissociation started to float through her. Mrs Ling’s voice seemed to drift in and out.

The pressure began to well up again inside Portia from very deep. Very slow, but inexorable.

She let her eyes rest on Diego. He was talking, completely absorbed in what he was saying to Mr Ling, who was listening attentively and nodding from time to time. As she looked at him she heard his words echo in her mind—Not popular with everyone… Heard the grim tone of his voice.

Nor popular with men like him. That was what he meant, she thought distantly. Maragua was probably one of those countries run by a dozen families, solely for their own interests, as their own personal fiefdom. They would resist any change of government, any threat to the power they wielded. When political changeover came men like him would pull out their capital and clear out, putting it somewhere much safer, like Swiss bank vaults and property in Mayfair.

Or invest it in telecoms in China.

With enough to spare for buying up ailing merchant banks and women who would not go to bed with them otherwise…

The pressure swelled in her head.

She set down her teacup and it clattered on the tiny saucer.

Mrs Ling paused in what she was saying. Portia had no idea what she had been talking about.

‘Are you sure you are all right, Ms Lanchester? You seem a little—feverish.’

Portia forced herself to drag her eyes from Diego.

‘I’m quite all right, thank you.’ Her voice sounded clipped.

Across the table, Diego’s eyes flickered over her.

There was a frown in them once more.