‘You swan off from your job whenever you want,’ he replied dismissively. ‘Geneva—Yorkshire—America.’
‘But that’s for my work!’
‘And when you disappear down to Salton?’
Her face tightened. ‘I have leave owing to me.’
He looked at her impassively. His face was as closed as a book.
‘Take some leave now.’
‘But—’
He lifted a hand. ‘Portia. Save the debate. I’m a busy man. I have more to do in my life than bail out third-rate merchant banks in exchange for sexual favours.’
She whitened like chalk, the breath freezing in her throat.
For a second, so brief she did not see it, something changed in his eyes. Then it was gone.
‘I’m flying
out to Singapore tonight, Portia. You come with me—you don’t come with me. It’s your choice.’
His voice was flat. His face expressionless.
So was hers as she walked out of the suite in his wake.
Choice? The word mocked at her, just the way Diego Saez had mocked her with it. She had no choice. If she walked away from him now, when he had indicated that he wanted her to come to Singapore with him, for when he wanted sex again, would he go ahead with his bail-out of Loring Lanchester? Would Tom lose Salton, everything that meant anything to him?
No, she had no choice. No choice.
She barely had time to collect her passport from her bureau, throw together a small hand valise of essentials, and leave voicemails for Hugh and Tom to say that she had gone abroad at short notice. She did not specify her destination. It was not Hugh’s concern—only that she was high-handedly helping herself to yet more leave—and as for Tom…what could she possibly say?
Diego Saez’s brutal words seared in her mind—I have more to do in my life than bail out third-rate merchant banks in exchange for sexual favours…
Cold flushed through her.
And when Diego Saez has had his fill of you—he’ll leave.
Her mind sheered away. She must not think of that. Must not feel. From now on her only salvation was that frail armour she had donned.
She wore it now, as she sat beside him, separated only by the inset drinks table between their seats. He was working, rapidly scanning through dossiers, papers, making marks every now and then with a gold fountain pen. He was utterly self-contained. He had spoken to her only when necessary, in a terse, closed voice. She had done what he had told her—silently, obediently.
A heavy numbness descended over her. The throb of the engines resonated with the throb of her body as the plane ate through the night towards the eastern dawn. She turned her head to stare out of the dark porthole. No stars, no moon visible. Only blackness.
All around her.
It was the late afternoon of the following day when the plane landed at Changi Airport. By the time the chauffeured limo pulled in under the portico of the de luxe hotel on Orchard Road the tropical night was already curtained around them, pierced by the jewelled brightness of the city lights. For a few brief moments as she exited the car Portia felt the heat and humidity close over her like a steam bath. The air felt thick to breathe, filling her lungs with warm dampness. But when she walked into the chill of the air-conditioned lobby the cold made her shiver. Or something did.
She walked beside Diego, his long stride making it hard for her to keep up with him. Her feet felt swollen from the long flight, her shoes tight, and she longed for a shower.
She felt dazed, disorientated. Her body clock was completely awry. But even without the time difference she would have felt the same.
If she had thought the suite Diego Saez had occupied in London luxurious, she had to reclassify the one they were shown to now. It was vast—the size of an apartment in its own right. Instinctively she crossed to the huge window. One of the staff was there before her, bowing and asking if she would like to go out on to the terrace. She shook her head and turned back.
Awaiting orders.
Inside her, sickness ate like acid.