Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail

Helen took another restorative gulp of brandy. ‘It was mentioned,’ she said shortly. ‘But he seemed more interested in bad-mouthing you.’

His brows lifted. ‘I was not aware I had the pleasure of his acquaintance.’

‘But you know—his new lady.’ She had to struggle to say the words. ‘Apparently you’ve met—at parties in London.’

‘Ah,’ Marc said softly. ‘But I meet a great many people at a great many parties, cherie. She made no particular impression on me at the time.’

‘Well, she remembers you very well,’ she said, adding recklessly, ‘And your reputation.’

He laughed. ‘Do I have one? I was not aware.’

‘You’re said to be anti-commitment.’ Helen stared down into her glass. ‘You never continue any of your love affairs longer than two months.’ She paused. ‘Can you deny it?’

‘Certainement.’ He was still amused. ‘I can assure you, ma mie, that love has never entered into any of my affaires.’

She bit her lip. ‘Now you’re playing with words. But then you like to do that, don’t you, Mr Delaroche? Proposal versus proposition, for example. Not that it matters,’ she added, ‘because we both know that it’s just some private game for your own amusement, and that you haven’t the slightest intention of getting married to me—or to anyone.’

She drew a breath. ‘So, can it stop right now, please? I’m getting bored with the joke.’

He reached for his jacket, extracted something from the pocket, and put it on the table. Helen saw it was a jeweller’s velvet covered box, and nearly choked on the brandy she was swallowing.

‘This is not the moment I would have chosen,’ he said quietly. ‘But perhaps this will finally convince you that I have indeed asked you to be my wife. And that I am quite serious.’

The diamonds in the ring were a circle of fire surrounding the deeper flame of an exquisite ruby. Helen’s lips parted in a silent gasp that was part wonder, part horror.

‘So, do you believe at last?’ His smile was grim. ‘Now all you need do, ma belle, is make your decision.’

She said huskily, ‘You—make it sound so easy.’

‘Yes, or no,’ he said. ‘What could be simpler?’

She shook back her hair in a defiant gesture. ‘You seem to forget that I’m being asked to choose between freedom and a life sentence—with a stranger.’

‘And what does this freedom allow you, ma mie?’ His voice was hard. ‘The right to struggle, to work endlessly while the house you adore crumbles around you? Never to be able to indulge your beauty—your joy in life?’

He paused. ‘Besides,’ he added cynically. ‘If your informants are correct, the maximum term for you to serve would be only two months. Is that really such a hardship?’

Helen stared at him, aware of a strange icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she realised, with sudden paralysing shock. Yes, it would be—if, somehow, I started to care. If, however incredible it may seem, you taught me to want you—to love you—and then you walked away.

Because that would be more than hardship. It would be agony. And it could break my heart for ever…

She said in a small taut voice, ‘I suspect, monsieur, that even one month of your intimate company might be more than I could bear.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Is there really nothing else you would agree to—for Monteagle?’

‘You are brutally frank.’ His mouth twisted. ‘So let me be the same. My answer to that is nothing. I take the house and you with it, Hélène. Or you will be left to your—freedom. The choice is yours.’

Her fingers played with a fold of her dress. ‘I—I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘It is already tomorrow. You are running out of time, ma belle.’

She said with sudden heat, ‘I wish—I really wish you’d stop saying that. Stop pretending that I’m beautiful.’

He studied her for a moment with half-closed eyes. ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked quietly eventually. ‘Why do you so undervalue yourself?’

‘Because I’m a realist.’ She finished the brandy in her glass. ‘I loved Nigel and he chose someone else. Someone beautiful.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at her at the restaurant, so I assume she is—beautiful.’ Her glance challenged him. ‘You’re supposed to be a connoisseur, Monsieur Delaroche. What do you think—now that you’ve seen her again?’

He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘She has her charms. Dark hair, a sexy mouth and a good body. And a tigress in bed, I imagine,’ he added sardonically. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

Colour flared in her face, and her own completely unsexy mouth didn’t seem to be working properly.

She said thickly, ‘That’s rather—too much information.’

‘You hoped I would say she was plain and undesirable and that her only attraction is her father’s money?’ He spoke more gently. ‘I wish it was so.’

‘Don’t pity me,’ she said raggedly. ‘Just don’t—bloody pity me.’

He watched her for a moment, his expression wry. ‘I think, Hélène, that you have had enough brandy.’

‘Well, I don’t agree.’ She held out her glass defiantly. ‘In fact I’d like some more—lots more—if you don’t mind.’

Marc lifted the decanter. ‘As you wish. But it is really too good to be used as an anaesthetic, ma mie.’

Helen tilted her chin. ‘Maybe I want to be…’ She tried the word ‘anaesthetised’ under her breath, but decided not to risk it. The room seemed very warm suddenly, and her head was swimming. ‘Drunk,’ seemed a safer alternative, and she said it twice just to make sure.

‘I think you will achieve your ambition,’ he told her drily. ‘And sooner than you believe.’

She hoisted the refilled glass in his direction, aware that he seemed to have receded to some remote distance. Which was all to the good, of course. Perhaps, in time, if she went on drinking, he might disappear altogether.

‘Cheers, monsieur,’ she articulated with great care, and giggled at her success. Fine, she told herself defiantly, swallowing some more brandy. I’m—perfectly fine.

‘Salut, petite.’ His voice sounded very close. She felt the glass being removed from her hand, gently but firmly. Felt herself drawn nearer so that she was leaning against him, her cheek against his shoulder.

She knew she should resist, and swiftly, but her senses were filled with the warm male scent of him, and she was breathing the musky fragrance of the cologne he used. An odd weakness seemed to have invaded her body, and she wasn’t sure she could get to her feet even if she tried, or stand upright if she did.

She was suddenly aware, too, that his hand was stroking her hair, softly, rhythmically, and she was shocked by this unexpected tenderness from Marc of all men. Because it seemed as if he had, in some strange way, become her sole rock in an ocean of desolation.

But that, she knew, was impossible. The complete opposite of the truth. Because he was danger, not comfort. Her enemy, not her friend. The predator, with herself as prey.

She moved suddenly, restlessly, trying to free herself, but the arm that held her was too strong, and the caressing hand almost hypnotic as it moved down to smooth the taut nape of her neck and the curve of her shoulder.

‘Sois tranquille.’ His voice was gentle. ‘Be still, Hélène, and close your eyes. There is nothing to fear, I swear it.’

And somehow it was much simpler—almost imperative, in fact—to believe him and obey. To allow herself to drift endlessly as her weighted eyelids descended. And to surrender her own body’s rhythms to the strong, insistent beat of his heart against hers.

She was never sure what woke her, but suddenly she was back to total consciousness, in spite of her aching head and her eyes, which some unfeeling person had filled with sand.

She took a cautious look round, then froze, all self-inflicted wounds forgotten. She was still on the sofa, but stretched out full-length in the arms of Marc, who was lying asleep beside her, his cheek resting on her hair.

She was so close to him, she realised, alarmed, that she could feel the warmth of his bare, hair-roughened chest through the thin fabric of her dress.