Bedded by Blackmail

‘Which is yours?’

‘My brother’s,’ corrected Portia. ‘Over there on the far wall, third from the left.’

He walked towards it, dropping her elbow. She followed beside him.

He stopped a few feet from the painting and stood looking at it.

Portia gazed too, and felt a familiar emotion well through her. It was so powerful that it even, for a moment, blanked out the disturbing presence of the man beside her.

She gazed in familiar pleasure at the painting, which usually hung in their entrance hall at Salton.

Very little had changed since one of the greatest artists in the English canon had captured the likeness of Salton’s honey-coloured South façade. Some of the trees framing the lake from where the view had been taken were now gone, and some were far mightier than the saplings they had been two hundred years ago and more. There were more flowerbeds now, and her great-great grandfather had planted an azalea arboretum to the east of the house a hundred years ago, but otherwise she felt she might as well step straight into the picture for all the difference the intervening centuries had made.

She felt her expression soften. Though she would never live at Salton she had grown up there, and it was as beloved to her as her brother was. As for Tom—he was Salton. It was his home, and the place he belonged to. He held it in trust for his son to come, and for his grandson. For future generations of Lanchesters, just as past generations had held it in trust for Tom. An uninterrupted inheritance for over four centuries.

A voice beside her spoke.

‘Is it for sale?’

Her head swung round. She was totally taken aback.

‘Of course not!’ There was shock in her voice. ‘And nor is the Wilson!’ she added, before he could ask about that, too. ‘This is an exhibition of paintings for public view, a temporary exhibition gathered together from museums and private collections around the world, Mr Saez—it is not a saleroom!’

‘I was not referring to the paintings. I mean the house—Salton.’

The sardonic look was back in his face, but she ignored it. She was simply staring at him in total disbelief.

‘Salton?’

‘Yes.’

She took a deep breath. ‘Mr Saez, I appreciate that not being English, or indeed European, you may not understand that country houses traditionally continue within the same family unless adverse circumstances dictate otherwise. In the mid-twentieth century, for example, there was a great selling off of country estates for that reason, and many of those now do change hands fairly regularly—I’m sure any of the country house specialist property agencies could help you if you are interested in buying an estate in this country,’ she finished quellingly.

‘Thank you for the information, Miss Lanchester.’ The deep voice sounded even more sardonic, and she felt a flush go through her. ‘However, the concept of ancestral property is not unknown in South America—nor are the sentiments that accompany that concept.’

There was a bite in his voice that she could not fail to detect.

She felt colour flare in her cheekbones. Of course a man of his background—the South American megaplutocracy—would know all about vast inherited estates! But she ignored it. ‘In which case I can only be astonished that you thought to ask such an extraordinary question!’

‘Extraordinary?’ There was suddenly a flat note in Diego Saez’s voice. ‘You yourself concede that “adverse circumstances” can make selling an attractive proposition.’

She went on staring at him.

‘There are no “adverse circumstances” surrounding Salton, Mr Saez,’ she bit out. ‘And therefore no possibility whatsoever that it will ever come on to the market! It is not for sale, nor will it be—please disabuse yourself of that idea!’

Something showed in his eyes, and was veiled. Then, with a twist of his mouth, he said ‘Everything is for sale, Portia. Everything. Don’t you know that yet?’

There was mockery in his voice now, an open taunt. And more—derision.

She felt for a moment as if something had crawled over her flesh.

Then, recovering, she lifted her chin.

‘In your world, perhaps, Mr Saez. But not in mine!’

There was something strange in his eyes.

‘Do you think not?’ He paused. ‘Are you really the innocent you look?’ The expression in his eyes changed, and suddenly Portia felt that hot wire drawing through her again. ‘You look so extraordinarily untouched—and yet I’m told you were engaged for nearly two years.’