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

‘Not yet,’ Helen said with a snap. ‘I’m Helen Frayne, and the house still belongs to me.’ She paused. ‘I presume you’re the architect?’

‘Yes,’ he acknowledged slowly. Behind the glasses his eyes had narrowed, as if he was puzzled about something. ‘I’m Alan Graham. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Frayne,’ he added, with no particular conviction.

‘Marc mentioned you’d be coming—but not all this.’ She gestured almost wildly around her. ‘What’s going on?’

He shrugged. ‘He wants work to start as soon as possible.’

She said, ‘I can see that. But how? You can’t have arranged all this in twenty-four hours—it simply isn’t feasible.’ She stopped, dry-mouthed. ‘Unless this was all planned some time ago, of course,’ she added slowly. ‘And you were just waiting for his word to—swing into action. Is that it?’

Alan Graham fidgeted slightly. ‘Is it important? The house needs restoring, and we’re here to do it. And time is of the essence,’ he added with emphasis.

His tone implied that there was no more to be said. ‘Is there a room I could use as an office, Miss Frayne?’ He paused. ‘Marc suggested that your late grandfather’s study might be suitable, but any decision must be yours, naturally.’

Helen bit back the angry words seething inside her. Marc must have made his decision and given his orders almost as soon as they’d met, she realised with incredulity. As if he’d never had any doubt that she would ultimately accede to his demands.

How dare he take her for granted like this? she thought stormily, grinding her foot into the gravel in sheer humiliation. Oh, God, how dare he?

But it was done now, and she could see no way to undo it.

She took a deep breath. ‘My grandfather’s study has been unoccupied and unfurnished for some time,’ she said expressionlessly. ‘But you may use it if you wish.’ She hesitated, still faintly stunned by all the activity around her. ‘May I ask where all these people are going to stay?’

‘That’s not a problem. Accommodation has been arranged for them in Aldenford, and I’ve got a room at the Monteagle Arms.’

‘Oh.’ Helen digested this. She gave the architect a small cold smile. ‘I’m afraid you won’t be very comfortable there.’

‘So Marc has told me.’ For the first time Alan Graham’s face relaxed a little. ‘But it won’t be for long. My wife is joining me today to look for a cottage to rent for the duration.’

‘I see,’ Helen said woodenly. ‘And meals?’ She had a horrified vision of cauldrons of soup and platters of sandwiches to be prepared daily.

‘Packed lunches will be delivered.’ He paused. ‘Perhaps you’d direct me to the study, so that I can unpack my papers and drawings?’

‘Of course,’ Helen said, turning and leading the way to the house.

It seemed that Mr Graham shared Lottie’s disapproval of this lightning marriage, she brooded over a mug of coffee a little later, having left the architect sorting out his workspace with chilling efficiency.

‘Well!’ Daisy exclaimed, bustling into the kitchen. ‘You could have knocked me down with a feather when all those men started arriving. Mr Marc certainly doesn’t waste any time.’

‘No,’ Helen agreed through gritted teeth. ‘None at all.’

‘They’re starting on the State Bedroom,’ Daisy informed her with excitement. ‘The Helen Frayne portrait is being sent to London to be cleaned, and they’re turning the little dressing room and the room next door as well into a lovely bathroom, with a wardrobe area.’ She gave Helen a knowing look. ‘Seems as if Mr Marc intends to use the room when you’re married.’

‘Does he, indeed?’ was all Helen could find to say.

The master bedroom, she thought, her stomach twisting into nervous knots, being lavishly created for the master—and his bought bride.

When Marc telephoned that night, she was ready for him.

‘You had this planned all along,’ she stormed across his polite enquiries about her welfare. ‘Even before you came here and saw the place you knew you were going to take on Monteagle’s restoration. Why?’

‘I found your application for help—intriguing. Then I saw you, ma belle, and my fascination was complete.’ He had the gall to sound amused. ‘But it seemed I had a rival, so I decided to offer you an interest-free loan in the hope that my generosity might ultimately be rewarded.’

‘Then why didn’t you?’ Her voice was ragged.

‘Because I realised that Nigel was betraying you and soon there would be nothing to prevent me claiming you for myself. It seemed unlikely that you would become my mistress, so I offered the money as a wedding gift to you instead. Do you blame me?’

‘Blame you? Damned right I do,’ she flung at him. ‘I asked you to loan me that money—you know that. I begged you…’

‘But we are both getting what we want, mon coeur,’ he said softly. ‘And that is all that matters. Why question the means?’

‘Because you’ve deceived me,’ Helen said hotly. ‘You’ve behaved with a total lack of scruples. Doesn’t that trouble you at all?’

‘It is not of major concern to me, I confess,’ he drawled. ‘Particularly when it involves something—or someone—I desire. But if you wish it I will practise feeling ashamed for five minutes each day.’

Helen struggled to speak, failed utterly, and slammed down the phone.

He did not call her the following night, or the one after it. Gradually a week passed, and there was still silence.

And, Helen realised, she had no idea how to contact him. How ridiculous was that?

She presumed he was still in New York, and found herself wondering how he was spending his time, once work was over for the day. But that was a forbidden area, she reminded herself stonily. How Marc passed his evenings, or his nights, was none of her business. Or not until he spent them with her, of course.

Her only concern was, and always would be, Monteagle—not this ludicrously small, lost feeling that had lodged within her over the past days. There was no place for that.

All around her was a welter of dust, woodchips and falling plaster, as damp was eradicated and diseased timber ripped out amid the thud of hammers and the screech of saws and drills. Her dream was coming true at last, and Monteagle was coming slowly and gloriously back to life.

Alan Graham might still be aloof, but he knew his job, and his labour force were craftsmen who loved their work. No expense was being spared, either. Marc was clearly pouring a fortune into the project.

And that, as she kept reminding herself, was all that really mattered. She would deal with everything else when she had to.

She watched almost with disbelief as the State Bedroom was beautifully restored to its seventeenth-century origins, and, discreetly hidden behind a door, a dressing room and a glamorous twenty-first-century bathroom were created out of the adjoining room, all white and silver tiles, with a state-of-the-art shower stall and a deep sunken bathtub. Big enough for two, she noted, swallowing.

Members of the village embroidery group were already stitching the designs from the original hangings on to the pale gold fabric she’d chosen for the bed and windows, and had also promised a fitted bedcover to match.

Without the dark and tatty wallpaper, and with the lovely ceiling mouldings repaired and cleaned, and the walls painted, the huge bedroom looked incredibly light and airy, she thought. Under other circumstances it could even have been a room for happiness…

She stopped, biting her lip. Don’t even go there, she told herself tersely. Happiness is a non-word.

Particularly when there had still been no contact from Marc. Clearly he was enjoying himself too much in America to bother about a reluctant bride-to-be in England.

But on the following Wednesday, while she was standing outside watching, fascinated, as the new roof went on, she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

She didn’t look round because there always seemed to be cars and vans coming and going, until she suddenly heard Marc’s voice behind her, quietly calling her name.

She turned sharply, incredulously, and saw him a few feet away, casual in pale grey pants and a dark shirt. He held out his arms in silent command and she went to him, slowly and uncertainly, her eyes searching the enigmatic dark face, joltingly aware of the scorch of hunger in his gaze.

As she reached him he lifted her clear off the ground, and held her tightly against him in his embrace. She felt her body tremble at the pressure of his—at the pang of unwilling yearning that pierced her. Her throat was tightening too, in swift, uncontrollable excitement.

All those lonely nights, she thought suddenly, shakily, when she’d been able to think of nothing else but his touch—and, dear God, his kisses… All those restless, disturbing dreams that she was ashamed to remember.