‘At the moment I’m taking unscheduled leave from my work. I need to know how much more I need to request.’
He laid down his newspaper
‘Tell me, Portia, what if your request for more leave is turned down? What then?’
His eyes baited hers.
She didn’t miss a beat.
‘I would take unpaid leave. If necessary I would resign my job, effective immediately. Why do you ask?’
‘To make sure,’ he spelt out, ‘that you understand the terms and conditions of your presence here. You are with me until I say otherwise. Do you understand?’
For one long moment she looked at him. There was nothing in her eyes.
‘You started this, Portia,’ he said softly. ‘And I promise you, I will finish it.’
He held her gaze a moment longer, then let it drop and went back to his paper, a tightness lashing inside him.
She reached for the coffee pot and poured herself another cup. As she set the pot back on its stand she found her hands were shaking again.
Kuala Lumpur, Manila, Taipei. The most prestigious hotels, the most luxurious suites. Days to herself, to do the round of the tourist spots, wander the shopping malls, sleep by the pool. Shut down her mind.
Endure.
And wait.
Wait for the night-time. Not the formal dinners or the business socialising that she did at Diego’s side every night—poised, well-dressed, well-bred, with a flow of social chit-chat, trying not to drink too much, trying not to look at the tall, dark figure of the man of whose presence she was always, constantly aware. No, that was not what she waited for.
It was midnight. The midnight hours when she could finally sate her addiction for Diego Saez in what he did to her, what she let him do, what she felt in his arms, his bed. Addicted to his touch. Addicted to his possession.
It was a fever in her blood, in her body.
And it was burning her away.
Down to the bone.
Because, like every addict, she knew with a sick, hideous despair that there was a poison, destroying her.
But she had no choice. No choice.
Except to endure what he was doing to her.
Manila, Jakarta, Hong Kong.
He was pushing himself at a punishing pace. Something was driving him to it. He was doing business at a relentless speed, occupying every minute of the day.
Racing to get to the night.
When he could have Portia to himself again.
Not ringed around by other people, not with that cool, polite social smile pinned to her face, talking inanities because social convention demanded it, being that uptight, reserved, oh-so-English upper class female with her cut-glass accent and her sang-froid.
His mouth twisted. Cold blood?
Not when he had her under him, with the flush of her climax coursing through her! Not when she wound herself around him, feverish with desire.
Then—then her blood was hot…