Bedded by Blackmail

His hand reached out, the backs of his fingers drawing down the side of her throat, her jaw. She could not breathe. Could only feel the hammering of her heart. She wanted to move, but she could not—could not.

CHAPTER FOUR

WITHOUT her realising, without her even being aware of it, he had moved in on her. His body was closer to hers now, shielding her from the doorway on the far side of the room that led back to the reception. There was no one else here, it was just the two of them. She could inhale the scent of him, that mix of masculinity and expensive, exclusive aftershave. She could feel the heat of his body—and the heat of her own, as her skin flushed.

‘Don’t—’ Her voice came on a faint breath. The panicky, jittery feeling was shivering through her, her breath was shallow.

‘Don’t? Is that what you told your fiancé?’

There was mockery as well as questioning in his voice. And taunting too—she could hear that loud and clear.

She could feel his breath fanning her face, hear the husk in his voice. ‘They tell me you’re cold, Portia, as cold as the snow. But you’re not—I can feel it—here…’

His fingers pressed lightly, oh, so lightly, against the pulse in her throat. It leapt at his touch, flushing blood through her already heated veins. She was gazing up at him, eyes dilating.

Watching, breathless, helpless, as his mouth descended.

‘I can feel it here,’ he murmured, and his mouth took hers.

It moved with slow, leisurely movement across her lips, as his fingers splayed out across her throat, imprisoning her.

Blood drummed through her, blood and faintness and a sensation so blissful she wanted it to go on and on, as his mouth moved on hers.

It was a different world, another universe. Never, ever, had any man kissed her like this. She didn’t like being kissed much—even by those few men she had liked enough to let them do what they had so evidently wanted to do, even though she’d wished they hadn’t, had wished they’d been content, as she had been, with a comfortable brush of the lips—swift and soon over and done with.

This kiss was neither.

It was cool—with possession, with casual tasting, with an assumption of intimacy, of pleasure, that dissolved the very bones in her body.

He let her go, lifting his mouth from hers, slipping his fingers from her skin, and she stood there, swaying, blinded, dazed.

‘Fools,’ he mocked. ‘To call you cold…’ He touched along her parted lips with the tips of his fingers. ‘At my touch, for me, you are not cold…’

He dropped his hands away from her face to her bare upper arms and put her away from him. She would have stumbled but for his hold, steadying her. He stood looking

down at her a moment, his hands still around her arms, surveying her.

His eyes lit with amusement—and more—as he looked at her unflattering attire.

‘Did you really think that you could disguise your beauty in a dress like that?’ His voice dropped, ‘Do you think that you can run from me? It’s time,’ he said softly, and something in his voice sent shivers down her spine. ‘Time to stop running, Portia. It has been amusing, but…’ His voice changed again, becoming nothing more than its familiar accented timbre. ‘Now…’ His left hand slipped down to cup her elbow and he let go of her other arm, steering her from the room. ‘We had better return to the reception or our absence will draw comments.’

The heat in her skin flared, and she realised suddenly, horribly, just what had happened. Diego Saez had kissed her. A man who represented everything that she hated most—the kind of man who treated a woman like a conquest and herself as his quarry. Stomach churning, she stalked at his side, back into the crowded reception. Her breath was coming and going sharply in her throat and she had to fight down her emotions, slam the lid of social conduct down tightly upon them—and make her escape as soon as she could do so.

Emotions chewed through her. Outrage at what he had just done so supremely casually, helping himself to her as if she were a fresh, ripe peach on a market stall! But worse, far worse that the stinging outrage, was the melting, dissolving weakness that was still echoing through her body, a physical memory of what she had just experienced.

Then, overlaying both, a new emotion thrust up into her. Blind panic.

A sense of danger pressed down upon her, so intense it was almost frightening.

But she could not get away. As if sensing her feelings, Diego Saez merely strengthened his hold on her elbow, walking her through the reception, pausing as he went to exchange social chit-chat with others as they passed.

And as they made their uneven progress Portia, through the emotions panicking her, became aware of yet something else.

People were looking at her. She could see it in their eyes—speculation, some covert, some blatant, over her presence at Diego Saez’s side.

And she realised with a horrible, hollowing sense of horror that finally he was making his move on her. He was not going to let her evade him any longer.

She heard his words in her head, terrifying her.