Bedded by Blackmail Read online

  He was haunting her. There was no other word for it.

  No, that was wrong. Diego Saez was hunting her.

  And now, for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be a hunter’s quarry. Diego Saez was relentless. He had her in his sights, and he intended to bring her down.

  “Come,” said Diego, and slid his hand under her elbow.

  Portia jerked away violently. She was trembling with emotion. It was rage—she knew it was rage. Cold, icy rage that this man—this vile, arrogant man—was simply assuming that she would fall into his bed like a ripe peach, just because he wanted her to….

  He’s got her firmly in his grasp and she’s only got one chance of survival—surrender to his blackmail…and him…in bed!

  Bedded by… Blackmail!

  The big new miniseries from Harlequin Presents®…

  Dare you read it?

  Coming next month:

  The Blackmail Pregnancy

  by

  Melanie Milburne

  #2468

  Coming in July:

  His Convenient Mistress

  by

  Cathy Williams

  #2479

  Julia James

  BEDDED BY BLACKMAIL

  For my long-suffering, fabulously patient and, above all, inspiring editor, Kim—all my thanks for everything.

  CONTENTS

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  CHAPTER TEN

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  CHAPTER ONE

  ‘NOW, that one there. She interests me. Who is she?’

  Diego Saez indicated with his wine glass before sweeping it back up to his lips to take another mouthful of the extremely expensive vintage wine. He lounged back in a stiff-backed chair, long legs extended under the damask-covered table. He looked relaxed, despite the formality of his evening dress. One hand lay on the tablecloth, the natural tan of his skin colour accentuated by the white linen. His dark, hooded eyes were very slightly narrowed, and his strong, compelling features held a considering expression.

  The man beside him looked across the large, crowded dining hall. Stained glass windows pierced the outer wall, emblazoned with the arms of the City livery company where tonight’s banking industry dinner was taking place. A wash of people, predominantly men, all attired in black-tie and evening dress, sat at the fifty or so tables filling the room. There was an aura of expensive wine, port and brandy, and faint fumes from cigars, for the Queen’s toast had already been given so smoking was now permitted, as the several hundred guests relaxed for a while after dinner, before the evening’s guest of honour—a senior politician—rose to give his speech.

  ‘Which one?’ asked the man sitting next to Diego Saez, craning his neck slightly to see where his companion was looking.

  ‘The blonde in blue,’ replied Diego laconically.

  An unpleasant smile appeared briefly on the other man’s narrow face.

  ‘Not even you, Señor Saez, could do the business for Portia Lanchester. And even if you did get up her skirt you’d just meet iron knickers!’

  Diego took another mouthful of burgundy, savouring the bouquet a moment, and ignoring the comment. Its coarseness did not strike him as incongruous, merely repulsive. Upper class Englishmen might talk with plums in their mouths, but the sentiments they expressed—like that one—were by no means unusual amongst a certain type. And Piers Haddenham was definitely that type. His background might be moneyed, but his soul came from the gutter—and that was to insult the gutter. Diego had no illusions about him, or the rest of this collection of comfortably privileged company.

  But then he had no illusions about anyone.

  Especially women. They might play coy for a while, but they all came round in the end. Their reluctance never lasted long.

  Diego’s dark eyes narrowed again, studying the woman who had caught his attention.

  He could only see her profile, but it was enough to tell him that he’d like to see the rest of her. She had those classic English rose looks—fair hair, translucent skin, and facial bones that told her bloodline as clearly as if she’d been a racehorse.

  ‘Lanchester…’ he murmured.

  ‘Loring Lanchester,’ supplied Haddenham.

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Diego nodded.

  Loring Lanchester. Merchant bankers to Victorian industrialists and colonial expansionists. Now, a hundred and fifty years later, a complete anachronism. They should have been taken over by a global bank years ago if they were to have the slightest chance of long-term survival.

  His razor-sharp mind worked rapidly, filing through the complicated landscape of the City’s financial institutions, long since meshed into a global nexus that spanned the UK, Europe, America and the Pacific Ring like a spider’s web. And one of the most skilful spiders, who could sense and exploit to his own unerring advantage every tremor in that delicate, complex web, was Diego Saez.

  Quite who he was no one seemed to know. He was South American—but his Hispanic background, hinted at in the strong features was as far as anyone got in identifying him. Self-made; that much was evident. There was no Saez dynasty backing him, bankrolling him, opening doors for him. But then Diego Saez opened his own doors.

  He’d opened them in New York, Sydney, Tokyo, Milan and Frankfurt, and any number of the less influential financial centres. Now he was busy opening them in London.

  Not that he needed to exert any pressure. Doors opened magically for him the moment he expressed the slightest interest in any kind of venture or investment. His reputation as one of the most astute financiers operating on the global stage had gone before him. Saez made money. A lot of money.

  Out of everything he touched.

  And that made everyone—from chief executives to bankers, investment houses to industrialists—very, very keen to know what he was up to, and to get in on the act if they could.

  Frustratingly, Diego Saez had a habit of keeping his cards close to his chest.

  Piers Haddenham, despatched by his chairman to woo Saez during what seemed to be an impromptu visit to London, was doing his best to get a glimpse of those cards. But so far Diego Saez had done little more than make enticingly ambiguous remarks—possibly leading, more probably misleading—and sport a sardonic look in his eye whenever Piers tried to steer the conversation towards what might or might not be attracting his interest right now.

  Apart from Portia Lanchester.

  Piers looked at the woman again, this time with a different mindset. He’d assumed Saez was simply thinking of the night ahead, who he would warm his sheets with, but perhaps he was still running on his daytime agenda.

  Loring Lanchester. Was that the name on one of the cards Saez was thinking of playing during his visit to the UK?

  He decided to see if he could draw Saez out.

  ‘Not in the best of health these days,’ he observed. ‘Old man Loring lost his marbles years ago, but won’t give up the chairmanship. And young Tom Lanchester, the nephew, is even more useless.’ He paused a moment. ‘Took some reckless decisions recently, so I heard. Wouldn’t like their asset book myself.’

  He glanced at his dinner companion, to see whether his fishing line would twitch, but Diego Saez was merely looking bored, waiting for him to stop speaking.

  ‘So…’ mused Diego, flexing his legs slightly under the table—his chair was quite inadequate for his tall frame. ‘Why the ironclad underwear?’

  Piers’s face relaxed. His initial assumption had been right after all. Saez was simply after sex. Not that he’d get any from Tom Lanchester’s cold bitch of a sister. No one did. Certainly not that poor sod Simon Masters, who was sitting next to her and just about panting. Piers didn’t know anyone who’d got their leg over Portia Lanchester.

  His brow furrowed momentarily. Hadn’t she been engaged once? A few years back? Who the hell had volunteered to get his tackle frozen in that glacier? He’d bolted, anyway, whoever he was, and married someone else, and since then her name never came up when the brandy came out—well, not unless the subject was ice maidens.

  Not even Diego Saez could heat her up, thought Piers dismissively. Not that he didn’t roll an enviable number of women, but none of the ones he’d ever been seen with could have been described as cold. Hot ones, yes, like that Latino singer—Diana Someone—and the Italian opera diva, Cristina Something. Plus a French countess, a Moroccan model and a Hungarian tennis ace. And that had just been this year. A sour look, of male envy, lit his eye. Women fell over themselves to drool—and drop their knickers.

  The sour look vanished. Malice gleamed briefly. No way would Portia Lanchester go for Saez.

  He leant towards Diego and said confidingly, ‘Frigid, that’s why. Listen—’ he slid his hand inside his tuxedo and drew out a card that looked like an ordinary business card ‘—don’t waste your time on her. Phone this number and you’ll have someone waiting for you in your hotel suite. Tell them your spec and they’ll deliver whatever you want—and your choice of equipment.’ He proffered the card to Diego. ‘They’re all clean—I use them myself. And they take credit cards, of course.’

  Diego drew his arm away and suppressed an instinct to slam his fist into Haddenham’s corrupt, narrow face. Instead, he drained the last of his wine and reached for the port bottle, which had stopped its circulation conveniently to hand. He decanted a generous measure into the appropriate glass.

  ‘I believe we are about to suffer for our supper,’ he remarked, looking towards the top table, where the scarlet-coated Master of Ceremonies was stepping forward, gavel at the ready, to call for silence—and then the dreaded speeches.

  Diego lifted his port glass and prepared to be bored, instead of revolted.

  Then, as the politician was introduced and stood up to give his prepared speech on the state of the UK economy, his eyes drifted back to where Portia Lanchester was sitting. Ramrod-straight, her well-bred chin lifted, she displayed no emotion on her fine-boned, aristocratic face.

  Diego sat back again and wondered what she looked like naked.

  He had every intention of finding out.

  Portia sat motionless, hands in her lap, her face blank to conceal her acute boredom, as the speaker droned on, immensely pleased with the sound of his own voice.

  But then the whole evening had been exquisitely tedious. God alone knew why she had given in to Simon’s endless cajolings to come along as his partner. She’d done it out of a combination of exasperation and pity. Simon kept thinking that if only he didn’t give in she would take him seriously. His dogged determination to woo her both irritated and softened her. Though she would never be stupid enough to go out with him on a real date, lest he get hopeless hopes up, tonight’s stuffy City do, with wall-to-wall bankers, had seemed innocuous enough.

  She hadn’t realised just how incredibly dreadful it would be. Money and politics dominated the conversation, and she was interested in neither. She was also the only woman on her table—one of little more than a few dozen women in the whole room—and as the wine had gone down so the awareness of the several hundred men in the room to the presence of any females at all had increased accordingly. She had begun to be on the receiving end of some very open assessment—something she had always loathed.

  She had reacted by adopting her usual defence—total and deliberate freezing. By refusing to acknowledge how they were looking her over she could pretend they were not. Simon’s presence did not seem to deter them sufficiently—but then he was not particularly put out by the attention she was getting. Irritatedly she knew that he was actually enjoying having his escort lusted after—it made him feel envied, and he presumably liked the idea of that.

  Suppressing a sigh, half of annoyance, half of boredom, she reached out and took a sip of mineral water from her glass, then idly nibbled at a petit-four from the plate in front of her. The politician droned on, talking about interest rates and invisible earnings and fiscal instruments, none of which she had the slightest interest in.

  Poor Tom. She thought instinctively of her brother. He has to know all this stuff. Not that he liked it either. But the wretched bank needed him, so he had to put up with all this boring finance-speak. At least he was escaping this shindig tonight—from the looks of him he was coming down with flu, and he was keeping indoors. She didn’t blame him.

  She stared into the distance and let her mind drift away to something she was interested in—producing a definitive catalogue of the Regency portraitist Benjamin Teller. She still needed to trace several missing paintings—plus Mr Orde with Gun Dog, 1816 was proving tricky to attribute conclusively. And she still needed to identify the woman portrayed in the Young Lady with Harp, 1809. She was pretty sure she was Miss Maria Colding, of Harthwaite, Yorkshire, but needed proof. She would have to visit Harthwaite, she suspected, and check out what other family portraits were still hanging there, then sift through the county archives to see if there was a commissioning letter or bill of payment still in existence.

  Finally the speech concluded and the politician resumed his seat to polite applause.

  Talk broke out again at her table, and Simon leant across, patting her hand.

  ‘Phew, what a number! Were you completely bored?’

  He sounded so anxious she hadn’t the heart to agree too acidly.

  ‘Does anyone actually listen to these things?’ she asked, putting a slight smile on her mouth.

  ‘Lord, no. Well, only the hacks on the press table, I suppose. They’ll pounce on anything they can turn into a headline.’

  She reached for her water again, and took another, longer drink.

  ‘Are you up for a liqueur now?’ her escort asked attentively.

  She shook her head. The last thing she wanted was any more alcohol. She’d drunk champagne at the reception, then both white and red wine over dinner.

  ‘Coffee would be lovely. Is there any left in that pot there?’

  Simon immediately reached across to where the silver coffee pot hid behind the flower arrangement in the centre of the table. Portia slid her cup towards him. The back of her neck was stiff. It must be the effort of holding still for so long during that speech. Gracefully she twisted her head to the left, and then to the right, to ease the stiffness.

  And froze.

  A man was looking at her.

  Correction. A man was looking her over. His hooded eyes were resting on her with lazy assessment.

  Something like a hot thread of wire drew through her stomach.

  As if in total slow motion she felt her pupils dilate.

  She stared, unable to move her gaze away.

  He was sitting a few tables away, right in her eyeline through the mesh of heads and bodies at the other tables in between. He was tall; she could tell that even with him sitting back, lounged in his seat. His skin was dark for a European, but with a deep, natural tan. Mediterranean? Not quite. Too big to be Italian or Greek, anyway. High cheekbones. Strong nose. Deep lines running to the edges of his mouth. Eyes dark. Very dark.

  And still looking her over.

  As her eyes met his, she felt the hot wire draw out through her spine.

  Liquefying it.

  For one endless moment she could not move, and then, with an effort of will that made her weak, she averted her face.

  ‘Cream?’

  She jumped minutely, forcing her eyes to focus on the cream jug held in Simon’s hand over the cup of coffee he’d just poured her.

  ‘No, thanks.’

  Did her voice sound different? Shaky?

  She reache d for the cup and lifted it to her lips. The caffeine jolted her, and she was grateful. As she sipped, she recovered her composure.

  Oh, for heaven’s sake, she snapped to herself—he just took you by surprise, that’s all.

  Usually she was careful never to make eye contact when a man looked at her in that way. She’d just been caught off guard this time. That was all. A mistake, and one she must ensure she would not repeat. She schooled a look of blankness to her face, the one she usually fielded to members of the male population unless she knew she could trust them.

  She drank more coffee, trying to listen to whatever Simon was saying to her.

  But she felt uncomfortable still. Her nape was prickling now—and she knew why.

  Unbidden, his face leapt in her mental vision again—those strong features, that expression of cynicism mixed with an open sexual appraisal.

  The wire began to pull slowly through her again.

  Stop this!

  Her mind snapped away, concentrating on Simon. He was a nice enough escort, and certainly never pushed his luck with her or tried it on. She was easy enough with him, in a casually indifferent way. He didn’t threaten her.

  Not like the man watching her…

  Now that that the wretched speech was finally over, surely she could get away? She would finish her coffee and then get Simon to put her into a taxi. She wouldn’t let him come with her—he would probably get desperate and try to pounce, and she didn’t want that. She liked him, and didn’t want to hurt him. Better by far to end the evening in public and escape on her own.

  She wondered if Tom would still be up. She hoped not. He needed an early night. He hadn’t looked well at all.

  A faint furrow of concern marked her brow. Was it just flu? He’d seemed under the weather for a good few months now. She hadn’t seen a great deal of him recently—she’d been off in the States last month, tracking down some of the Tellers that had got sold to American buyers years ago. He ought to get out of London, spend some time at Salton. Catch up with Felicity.