Bedded by Blackmail

He took another mouthful of whisky, and waited.

He had waited a long time for Portia Lanchester.

But soon, very soon, the waiting would be over.

Portia could hear her heels click on the marble floor of the luxury hotel fronting Park Lane. Once the site had been the lavish townhouse of an aristocratic family, torn down after the First World War to be replaced by an even more lavish art deco luxury hotel. Park Lane was lined by such hotels, from Marble Arch to Hyde Park Corner.

The one that Diego Saez patronised was one of the very best—in fact, one of the best hotels in the world. Well, for a man of his wealth—who could afford to buy a failing bank just to make sure of a woman he wanted—the outrageous cost of a suite here would be negligible.

She reached the front desk.

‘Mr Saez’s suite, please,’ she announced.

If there was a tremor in her voice she would not acknowledge it. She stood, poised and elegant, in a pale blue cocktail dress just right for this early hour of the evening. In the tea lounge opening off the main lobby she could hear a grand piano playing quietly. Chopin, she recognised absently.

She listened to the nocturne as the reception clerk phoned up to Diego Saez’s suite, then, a moment later, a bellboy was hovering attentively, ready to show her up.

She felt strange. Frozen somehow. Dissociated. As if none of this were real. For a moment, as she stepped out of the lift and the bellboy went ahead to rap on the door of the suite, she could not even remember what Diego Saez looked like.

Then the door opened and he was there.

She walked in.

Behind her, Diego Saez pressed the requisite note into the bellboy’s hand and closed the door. It closed silently, with only the barest click.

It was a very final click.

Somewhere deep, deep inside her, she felt her heart begin to thud.

Diego Saez let his eyes rest on the woman who had come to him, as he had known she would, to offer him her body in exchange for her family’s wealth. A sense of satisfaction went through him. She looked exactly the way he wanted her to look. She had resisted the temptation to come on too obviously to him, by wearing some seductive, sexy number. Instead she was wearing a dress that was the very opposite of that.

It was the colour of pale water, very plain, but beautifully cut, gliding over her fine-boned body, revealing nothing, baring only her arms. Her hair was dressed exactly the way he liked it. A low, elegant chignon nested at the nape of her neck, the hair swept back from her face, exposing her sculpted features, her wide-set grey eyes. She had used minimum make-up, and he liked that too. It was subtle, like the scent she wore. In fact, h

e mused, he doubted she was wearing perfume at all. The fragrance was so faint it was probably just soap and face cream.

Her lipstick was barely there, just a slight gloss, and there was nothing more than a sweep of mascara and the merest hint of shadow to deepen her eyes. There was no foundation or powder on her flawless skin.

He went on looking at her, taking in her whole appearance—from her freshly washed hair, down over her slender body to the cool blue material of her dress, down her slim legs to her small feet in modestly heeled shoes that exactly matched the colour of the dress.

She looked exactly what she was. A woman born into a world of Old Masters and vintage port, of landed estates and old money, of heritage and bloodlines—privileged, protected.

Protected from men like him.

His eyes rested on her, and for an instant so brief it was hardly there darkness clouded his gaze. Then it was gone.

Instead, he turned his mind to the physical sensations that had been releasing slowly inside him as he had looked at her.

She looked as cool, as untouchable as white marble. He felt his body surge. He had waited for her for so long—far longer than any other woman he’d wanted—and now, finally, she was here.

That pang he had felt earlier came again. For an instant, like a blade on his skin, he felt regret that it should be on terms such as this.

Then he put the thought aside. She could despise his lowly origins all she liked, but if she wanted to save her precious family home she would overcome her revulsion to him.

Something burned briefly in his eyes. Oh, yes, she would overcome her revulsion, all right. Portia Lanchester would enjoy every moment of her time in his bed…

He would make sure of that.

It was as if she had stepped into an abyss.