Bedded by Blackmail

Words stung in his mind. Scathing. Scornful.

Look in the mirror and tell me if you’re proud of what you see!

The taste of the brandy turned to gall in his mouth.

Guilt seared through him.

And something worse than guilt.

Loss. Loss of something he had never even had. Because he had never had her—never had the woman he had hunted down remorselessly, determined to possess her simply because he wanted her. And when his usual means had failed he had resorted to other methods—despicable ones.

And he had tried to justify himself for using them.

And that was the most bitter gall of all. There had been no justification for what he had done to her.

His mouth twisted. She thought him born with a golden spoon—one of the very kind he despised so much, who treated those like him as if they were trash, worked them to death, ran them down like dogs beneath the wheels of their fancy imported cars.

I thought she was like that—rotten and corrupt. Caring only for her money. Ready to sell herself to protect her wealth.

But she had sold herself to protect her brother—had paid for the privilege. A million pounds. Paid to claw back from him some shred of what he had stripped from her even as he had stripped the clothes from her body.

No! He mustn’t think—mustn’t think of that! Must not think of the worst, the very worst torment of all.

He looked into the face staring back at him and mocked it with a bitter, jeering look.

He had lost her for ever.

And his life had no meaning any more.

‘Diego! What shall I say to you? The prodigal returns?’

The welcome in Father Tomaso’s voice did not hide the dryness in it.

Diego cast a twisted smile down at the elderly priest. Father Tomaso had aged—that was not surprising—but he had not changed.

‘Then you must allow me to pay for the fatted calf myself, Father,’ he replied, matching his dryness.

‘I’m sure you can make it tax-deductible,’ came back the priest, his voice even dryer.

No, thought Diego, the old man had not changed.

Emotions churned in him. As he had got out of the car—despatching a visibly relieved chauffeur back to the rich side of town—they had assailed him, twisting like snakes inside him.

The past and the present slammed one into another. Memories into reality. Time collapsing in on itself.

He cast his glance around. The place looked just the same—the same brave flowers, assiduously watered, by the front door, the same white walls, the same brightly painted door.

And inside the same smell.

That hit him the hardest, making him pause in his long stride beside Father Tomaso’s brisk pace.

The years dissolved.

It had been the smell that had hit him the first time Father Tomaso had brought him here, with hunger gnawing like a dog in his empty, hollow belly. It was the smell of food. Hot food. Spicy food.

It was there still. He felt saliva run into his mouth, as it had done over twenty years ago.

The priest did not pause, continuing his brisk and busy pace, leading the way out into the central courtyard. Diego followed him. They must be cooking the midday meal right now, for when lessons ended. He found his mouth twisting again as memory sliced beneath the skin.