But this time it was a very different thing she was doing.
The first time she had come up in this lift she’d been about to sell herself to a man.
This time—
Her mouth pressed into a tight, hard line.
This time a different transaction would take place.
The lift slowed and the doors sliced open. She stepped out into the quiet, hushed corridor. Diego Saez still had the same suite.
Definitely déjà-vu, she thought.
She hadn’t known when he would be back in London. She’d kept a request open with Tom’s secretary at the bank. She would, Portia knew, be able to find out from the new Saez-appointed chief executive’s secretary when Diego Saez was passing through again.
The call had come this morning. Mr Saez, she had been informed, had an afternoon meeting scheduled, but nothing thereafter. Yes, he was booked into the same Park Lane hotel as last time.
Portia had dressed carefully. The business suit was freshly dry-cleaned, her court shoes newly polished. Her hair was drawn back into a French pleat. Her make-up was the bare minimum.
She knocked on the door.
It opened at the first touch, drawing back wide.
For one long, hideous moment she just stood, motionless, then with Herculean effort she stepped inside.
Diego Saez stood there.
His tall frame seemed to tower over her, his dark presence dominating her vision.
She felt weakness sweep through her, as if every bone in her body were incapable of holding her upright.
‘Portia.’ Diego’s voice cut through her. ‘How—unexpected.’
His voice was as deep as ever. But there was something else about it.
A jagged edge to the voice, leashed under tight control.
She didn’t let herself look at his face, just looked past him as she walked forward slightly, moving into the room as he shut the door behind her. She heard it close with a final sound.
She clicked open her handbag and drew out a piece of paper, placed it down on the surface of the glass coffee table.
This time she looked at him.
His face was a mask, eyes like slivers of obsidian.
‘This is for you,’ she said in a steady voice. She clicked her handbag shut again.
She watched him pick up the paper, watched him register that it was a cheque, watched him register the sum it was made out for. And the payee.
He seemed to still. Then, expressionlessly, his eyes went from the cheque to her.
‘And this is—?’
His voice was as expressionless as his face.
She looked at him. She was calm—completely calm.
Only somewhere very deep inside that bubble of pressure had started to build.