Bedded by Blackmail

‘I asked you if you were ill?’

There was a hectoring tone to his voice.

Portia turned away.

They were back in the hotel suite. Not answering, she walked across to the recessed section which housed the bar area, opening up the cabinet with its beautiful contemporary marquetry. She took out a bottle of gin and a tin of tonic, then opened up the concealed freezer to take out some ice, dropping a couple of cubes into a tumbler. The ice crackled as she poured the gin over it, and the tonic hissed and fizzed.

‘Answer me!’

She took a sip of the drink, watching her hand shake slightly, and turned back to him. That strange, ballooning pressure that had swollen inside her in the restaurant had gone. It had disappeared as they’d come up here in the lift.

Something else had taken its place.

‘Of course I’m not ill,’ she answered.

‘Then what the hell is wrong with you?’

She looked at him. The question was so unbelievable she could only stare at him.

‘Portia—’

There was an odd note in his voice. She said nothing, only went on staring. He gave a rasp.

‘Are you so incapable of speech?’ he demanded.

She looked at him. From somewhere, she did not know where, the invisible armour slid over her.

‘What would you like me to say?’

‘What did you do today? Where did you go?’

She wondered why he was asking. What did he care what she did in the daytime? She only existed in the night-time. In his bed.

But she answered him all the same.

‘I went to Sentosa.’

‘Sentosa?’ He looked taken aback.

‘It’s the island beach resort south of Singapore,’ she answered indifferently. ‘You get there by cable car from Mount Faber.’

‘I know where it is! What did you go there for?’ He seemed to be controlling his voice.

Her expression did not alter.

‘To get away.’

His eyes narrowed.

‘From what?’

From you. From this. To find, for a few brief hours, my sanity again.

She kept silent. It was all she had left.

She took another mouthful of her drink, and stood looking across at where he stood.

He was in a lounge suit tonight, the superb line of the tailoring moulding around his shoulders. She felt a kick go through her that was nothing to do with the gin.