Bedded by Blackmail

‘Wherever.’ Her friend shrugged haphazardly, still beaming at them both as she took another mouthful of champagne.

‘Nor is it a polo ranch,’ pointed out Diego, with a twitch of his lips.

Susie was undeterred.

‘I’m sure it’s gorgeous, wherever it is and whatever it is, and I’m sure you’ll be ecstatic and blissful and so ridiculously, wonderfully happy that people will stand up and applaud! And,’ she added lavishly for good measure, ‘you’ll have gorgeous, adorable children! Lots and lots.’

Portia felt Diego’s arm tighten around her.

‘Yes,’ he said, ‘we’ll have many, many children, Susie.’

‘We’ve got a good few already,’ added Portia. ‘And there’ll be many more to come.’ There was a husk in her voice she could not hide.

Susie’s eyes widened, confused.

‘Diego’s going to turn his estancia in Maragua into a children’s home, Susie,’ Portia explained. ‘He already funds refuges for street children, but this will be a place out of the city, with clean air and no pollution and no slums.’

Admiration glowed in Susie’s eyes.

‘Oh, I think that’s wonderful!’ she enthused. She gave another romantic sigh. ‘You’ve got it all, Portia! A man who’s sex on legs, has got buckets of money and is generous as well. You’ve definitely, definitely, got it all.’

She reached to kiss Portia’s cheek, and then, with a beneficent smile, Diego’s as well. They watched her head off, and Portia leant her head deeper against Diego’s shoulder.

‘I have got it all,’ she said. ‘All—and so much more! More than I ever knew existed.

Diego’s hand came up to tilt her face towards him.

‘Then we are alike,’ he said softly, brushing her lips with his, his eyes warm. ‘For with you I have everything my heart can desire.’

For a long, timeless moment they gazed at one another, and then into their silent communion came the tap of a knife against a glass. A voice called for attention.

‘The bride and groom!’

Glasses were raised, the toast drunk. Portia drank too. And standing on their own, beside the towering white wedding cake, her brother and his bride, resplendent in morning suit and yards of white satin and lace, accepted their toast.

Diego looked down at her, his eyes questioning.

‘This should have been your wedding. This is where you belong.’

His voice sounded troubled.

She shook her head.

‘I belong with you,’ she said simply. ‘Nowhere else. And I have had my wedding—and it was perfect. Perfect in every detail.’

As if it had been yesterday she saw again the tiny chapel at the refuge, saw herself walking down the narrow aisle wearing a wedding dress the teenage girls had made for her, and all the under-tens following behind her in a vast procession of flower girls and pageboys, until she reached the man waiting for her by the altar rail. As they had both knelt they had looked up into the wise eyes of the priest who was to marry them.

‘You chose well,’ he had said softly to Portia.

Tears pricked in her eyes now, at the memory. Yes, she had chosen well—for her heart had chosen, and her soul and body too. All the elements of her being. She looked up at Diego, the man she loved and who loved her. Despite everything that had happened.

Or because of it?

It did not matter.

All that mattered was that they had come through.

Come through to this state of perfect happiness, perfect understanding.