Bedded by Blackmail Read online

  They really ought to get on with it and marry, Portia found herself thinking—a familiar refrain. They were so obviously ideal for each other. Neither liked London, and both were far happier at Salton. Felicity would be ideal for Salton, Portia knew. She had an instinctive feel for the place. She wouldn’t muck it up. She’d leave things alone.

  Portia had lived in dread that Tom would marry some woman who would summon an army of ghastly fashionable interior designers and turn Salton into some vile ‘showpiece’—but Felicity Pethridge would never do that. She’d just settle in, be devoted to Tom, give him a brood of tumbling children, and take her place as one of the long, long line of châtelaines who had kept Salton going through the centuries.

  A poignant look softened Portia’s clear grey eyes. It was one of the painful ironies of the English land inheritance system that daughters never got to live in the houses they grew up in—not unless there was no son to inherit, of course. Daughters had to go off and look after someone else’s place. A guilty look entered her eye. That had been the main appeal of Geoffrey Chandler, she knew—not him, but the prospect of running his vast Elizabethan pile in Shropshire, which came complete with an art collection.

  But although the art collection had been to die for, it hadn’t proved sufficient to marry for. Poor Geoffrey. If he hadn’t managed to persuade her—against her better judgement—to pre-empt their wedding night, she might have gone ahead and married him. As it was, a month in Tuscany with him had made her realise she couldn’t possibly go ahead with the wedding. Not even holing up in the Uffizi for sanctuary during the day had been compensation for the ordeals of the night.

  Instinctively her mind shied away from the memories. He’d tried so hard, and she’d still hated it. And even though she’d tried desperately not to let her revulsion show, of course he had realised—and that had just made things even more unbearable.

  Ending the engagement had been awful too—painful and embarrassing, and making her feel so guilty. And when Geoffrey had announced a whirlwind engagement to one of her own schoolfriends not two months later she’d felt more than guilty.

  She’d felt totally inadequate.

  A shiver went through her. After the disaster with poor Geoffrey she’d simply given up on sex, and had found abstinence a huge relief. She knew that the men of her acquaintance thought her frigid, but she didn’t care. She just wanted them to leave her alone.

  She didn’t even like them looking at her.

  The nape of her neck prickled again. That wretched man was still over there, keeping his eyes on her.

  Dark, hooded eyes…

  She straightened her back and pushed her coffee cup away. For one extraordinary, inexplicable moment she’d wanted to turn her head and check whether he was, indeed, still keeping her in his eyeline.

  Instead, she turned to Simon.

  ‘I don’t mean to be a wet blanket, Si, but I’ve got quite an early start tomorrow. Do you think you could get me a cab? I’d better make a move.’

  Disappointment showed in his pale blue eyes.

  ‘Must you? I thought we might be able to take in a club…’

  He sounded so hopeful she hated to turn him down. But what was the point of going on anywhere with him? He’d just get ideas. Hopes.

  She laid a hand on his sleeve. ‘I don’t think so, Simon—I’m sorry.’

  There had been pity in her eyes, and she saw him flinch and hated herself for it.

  She got to her feet, and the rest of the men at the table, realising she was leaving, stood up as well. She took her leave, bidding them all goodnight, and one of the younger ones asked her to give his regards to Tom.

  ‘No show tonight, I see,’ the man said. ‘Well, it’s understandable.’

  ‘He’s got flu,’ said Portia.

  Another of the men laughed. ‘He’s certainly caught a cold, all right!’

  The others laughed, exchanging glances. Portia frowned. She hadn’t a clue what they meant, and didn’t want to know. She just wanted to head for home.

  She bent down to retrieve her evening bag from under her chair and stood away from the table. Simon took her arm and they started to make their way to the exit, on the far side of the room. With the speeches over there was a lot of movement, with people heading out to the restrooms or to the bar in the reception lobby, or just to go and catch up with diners at other tables.

  As she made her way on Simon’s arm several people stopped to greet him and chat innocuously. Dutifully she paused, making whatever responses were called for. Their progress was slow, however, and at one point she realised they had become stalled just beside the table occupied by the man she had intercepted looking her over. A faint prickle of unease went through her and she felt herself tensing, then becoming irritated by her own reaction. She risked a brief glance towards the table.

  His place was empty, and she felt an irrational spurt of relief. Then, as her eyes swept back to Simon, engaged in conversation with a man who appeared to be a former colleague at another brokers, she stiffened abruptly.

  He was talking to two other men. One was slightly built, with a narrow, fox-like face she didn’t like. The other was in his sixties, portly, smoking a cigar and red-faced. She heard the narrow-faced man call him ‘Sir Edward’ in obsequious tones.

  The man who had been looking her over said something. It was deep and laconic, with an accent that sounded more American than anything else, though there was definitely something foreign about it. English, even American English, was not his first language, she guessed.

  He was tall, all right. Easily over six feet, with broad shoulders. He made the narrow-faced man look like an unhealthy weasel, and the older man like an overweight bear.

  But then, Portia found herself thinking, he would make any man look disadvantaged.

  For all his height, and breadth of shoulder, there was an innate grace about him. As if his body were under perfect control.

  It was certainly in good shape, that was for sure. His torso was lean, his legs long and muscled…she could see how the material of his dinner suit was pulled taut over his thighs.

  What on earth am I doing? she suddenly thought. She tried to drag her eyes away, but they swept over his face as she did so. She wished they hadn’t, because all over again it had the same impact on her as it had before. The deep, curving lines from his nose to his mouth drew her eyes, the high cheekbones, the plane of his jaw. Those hooded eyes…

  Suddenly, and without warning, his eyes flickered to hers.

  The hot wire jerked through her.

  For one long, unbearable moment he held her gaze.

  Heat flushed her skin, and she was suddenly vividly aware of her bare arms and shoulders. Even though her dark blue evening dress was not in the least décolleté she suddenly felt hideously, horribly exposed.

  She wanted a shawl, a wrap—a blanket!—anything to cover herself up under that gaze.

  But she had nothing. Nothing to conceal herself with.

  Automatically, unconsciously, her chin went up and she looked away, back to Simon.

  Three feet away from her, Diego Saez smiled.

  Seducing Portia Lanchester was clearly going to be an amusing enterprise.

  And different, very different, from his usual affairs.

  Typically, the women he selected for his bed required nothing more than an indication on his part that he found them desirable. His problem was getting rid of them, not getting them in the first place.

  Not that he envisaged any serious problem with Portia Lanchester.

  Her reaction to him demonstrated that amply. She was aware of him, all right, and that was the first step of the journey for her. The journey that would end in his bed.

  Not tonight, however. There was no point hurrying her. He wanted to take his time over this one. Enjoy every stage of the seduction. By midday tomorrow he’d have a complete dossier on her, courtesy of his security agency, and then he’d take it from there. For now, he would just enjoy continuing to make her aware of him.

  He flicked his attention back to what Sir Edward Porter, a former but still influential chairman of a major bank, was saying about the current level of merger and acquisition activity in the City, and made some appropriate comment.

  With more animation that she was feeling, Portia joined in the chit-chat with Simon and the other man. Then, as she recovered her composure, she decided enough was enough. Taking ruthless advantage of a momentary pause, she spoke up.

  ‘Simon—my cab?’ she prompted.

  Reluctantly he moved off, or tried to, but suddenly, and she didn’t quite see how, her way was blocked. The trio ahead of her seemed to have shifted somehow, and now the man who’d been looking her over was right in her path.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  Her tone was clipped.

  For a moment he did not move. She levelled her gaze at him—though it meant looking up at him.

  The dark eyes swept over her face one last time, and for one last time she felt that hot wire jerk.

  Her lips pressed together. Anger spurted through her. She moved to step around him, and then immediately he had stepped away, clearing the way for her.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, her voice even more clipped, simultaneously dropping her eyes. She marched forward, still angry.

  Behind her, Simon hurried to catch up.

  Diego let his gaze linger on her receding form for a few more seconds, then cut back to Sir Edward.

  ‘Loring Lanchester…’ he said speculatively. ‘Are they as vulnerable as they look, do you think?’

  At his side, Piers Haddenham’s eyes gleamed. So, not sex after all, then. He listened with acute attention to Sir Edward’s reply.

  ‘Sinking faster than the Titanic,’ the older man said succ
inctly. ‘Unless they get a tow—and by a pretty damn large ship!’ His shrewd eyes met Diego’s speculatively.

  Diego’s expression did not change.

  Far across the room, he could see the elegant, slender form of Portia Lanchester walking out.

  CHAPTER TWO

  ‘NEXT Thursday at two? That would be wonderful. Thank you so much!’

  Portia put the phone down. Descendants of the Coldings still lived at Hathwaite, and were happy for her to inspect their remaining portraits and compare them with the photos she’d taken of the mysterious Young Lady with Harp. Their family papers had been deposited with the county records archive years ago, and she would do a search through them the following day if her suspicions about Miss Maria Colding proved well-founded. With a feeling of satisfaction she tidied the papers on her desk.

  Her work at a small but prestigious art history research institute never failed to fascinate her. She knew she was very fortunate to have been taken on, though she was also well aware that the institute director, Hugh Mackerras, considered it a definite plus that she possessed an ample private income of her own. It meant not only that he could pay her very modestly indeed, but that she was more than ready to fund her own travel expenses. But she was pleased to do so—she knew she was fortunate not to be financially dependent on her salary, which meant she was able to pursue a career that really interested her, rather than one that kept body and soul together.

  A slight pang of guilt assailed her. She enjoyed her substantial private income thanks to Loring Lanchester—and it was thanks to poor Tom, incarcerated there, that the family merchant bank kept going. Poor Tom. He really wasn’t cut out to be a banker—he was much happier tramping through fields in his gumboots and Barbar, getting stuck in to the muddy side of agriculture.

  Thinking of Tom made her remember that awful dinner the night before—and that brought another memory in tow.

  A shiver went through her.

  That wretched man had disturbed her, whether she wanted to admit it or not. There had been something about him that had seemed to threaten her.

  In her mind’s eye she saw him again, lounging back in his chair, cradling his wine glass, his hooded eyes resting on her, looking at her.

  Even as it had last night, she felt her skin begin to prickle.

  With a shake of annoyance at such a ridiculous over-reaction to a man whose name she did not even know she returned her attention to her notes. As she did so she realised she was suppressing a slight yawn. She was not surprised. She had not had a good night. The wine had made her sleepy, but although she’d slept as soon as her head hit the pillow, she’d had dreams she wished she hadn’t.

  Dark, intent eyes had haunted her dreams.

  Dreams of being watched, assessed.

  Desired.

  The phone rang, jolting her out of an unpleasant train of thought.

  She lifted the receiver and cleared her mind.

  ‘Yes?’ Her voice was crisp and businesslike.

  ‘May I speak to Portia Lanchester?’

  She stilled disbelievingly. The voice at the other end of the phone was deep, with a distinct foreign accent, plus echoes of American. The line was distorting the voice, changing the balance of the mingled accents, but she recognised it.

  Think of the devil and he’ll come calling…

  The words leapt in her mind and she pushed them aside. For a second only she paused, getting back her composure.

  ‘Speaking,’ she answered. The breath seemed tight in her chest.

  ‘Miss Lanchester? My name is Diego Saez—I noticed you last night at the dinner. Are you free for lunch today?’

  Her chest tightened even more.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  Her voice chilled the line.

  ‘Are you free for lunch?’ he repeated. She heard a trace of amusement in his voice, as if her answer had been predictable.

  For the briefest second she paused, then, in crystal-cut accents she said succinctly, ‘I’m afraid not.’

  She put the phone down.

  Her heart, she realised, seemed to be beating most unevenly.

  She’d been rude, she knew she had, but she excused herself. She had just wanted to get him off the line.

  Urgently. Instinctively.

  Slowly, deliberately, she let the breath out of her lungs. Her eyes rested on the phone. She wondered if it was going to ring again. But it stayed silent.

  Diego Saez.

  So that was what his name was.

  Her mind ran automatically. Spanish—or Hispanic at any rate. South American? Latino?

  How did he know my name? My work number?

  She pursed her lips. It didn’t matter how he knew, he wasn’t going to get anywhere with her.

  Why not?

  The question slid into her brain like a stiletto knifeblade. In answer, her lips pursed even more. Why not? What kind of question was that? The man had eyed her up like a slab of meat and she had to ask Why not? about him?

  Angrily, she flicked through the papers on her desk, looking for the one she wanted. She found it and started to read. Within minutes she was back in the world of early-nineteenth-century portraiture.

  Two hours later a massive bouquet of flowers arrived—exotic scented lilies and tropical ferns. The accompanying card simply said ‘D.S.’ on it. She fetched a vase from the kitchen in the basement of the old Georgian house in Bloomsbury that housed the institute and plunged the flowers into water. Their scent filled her small office—rich and overpowering.

  As she left the institute that evening she took the vase downstairs with her, and left it in Reception. She didn’t want it in her office.

  The scent disturbed her.

  A mile or two west of Bloomsbury, Diego Saez glanced at the ticket that had just been couriered to his hotel suite. It lay on the glass coffee table in the suite’s lounge, next to a freshly typed dossier that had been delivered before noon that day. It outlined in considerable detail a great deal of personal information about the individual who was the subject of investigation. Although Diego had been in meetings all day he’d had time to peruse it and take action accordingly.

  He had the main facts that he required, from her age—twenty-five—to her employer, her home address, family connections and key friends, and social interests.

  That Portia Lanchester had not jumped at his invitation to lunch neither surprised nor bothered him. On the contrary, it pleased him. Had she proved, like other women, to be eager for his attentions after all, she would have already started to bore him.

  A leisurely pursuit of her would be far more enjoyable.

  He gave a slight, self-mocking smile. Even if it meant enduring an evening spent in surroundings even less congenial than last night’s City dinner. Still, the evening would have its compensations.

  He strolled off to his bedroom, ready to shower and change.

  Portia eased her way through the crush of people in the foyer, following her old schoolfriend Susie Winterton and her mother as they crowded into the auditorium. The two-minute bell was sounding and she wanted to get to her seat. In the pit the orchestra was already tuning up, and she glanced around at the familiar red and gold glory of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden. A sense of pleasant anticipation filled her. La Traviata was one of her favourite operas. But as she reached their row in the front stalls, and started to thread her way along it, her sense of pleasant anticipation drained away totally, replaced by cold shock.

  Diego Saez had the seat next to her.

  He stood up as she took her place.

  ‘Miss Lanchester,’ he said politely. His eyes were mockingly amused.

  On her other side, Susie, leaning forward, said brightly, ‘Oh, do you two know each other?’ Her eyes gleamed with curiosity.

  ‘No,’ said Portia tightly, and opened her programme.

  ‘We met the other evening,’ he contradicted, and bestowed a smile on Susie. She, treacherously, reacted predictably and returned the smile with an openly questioning look on her round face.

  ‘Diego Saez—’ He held out his hand.

  There were introductions all round, and a lot of speculative looks cast by Susie at Portia. Portia continued to bury her head in her programme as much as she could, uttering the barest monosyllables as Susie chattered away to the man she obviously found fascinatingly masculine. The arrival of the conductor and the dimming of the house lights as the overture started was a blessed reprieve.