Blackmailed Bride

His eyebrows rose and he gave her an odd look. “Suit yourself.”

Jonas paced the room with studious purpose, pulling facts from the files of his mind. His hasty movements took him in and out of the shadows as if he belonged equally in the worlds of light and dark. Lover or murderer? She shook her head to dispel the grisly thought.

“Your name is Alana Chandler Shades,” Jonas said. “Your mother’s na—”

“My name is Cathlynn.” She couldn’t help it. Submitting meekly wasn’t her style. “I told you I can’t use hers.”

He stopped pacing and stood hands on hips. “Must you be so difficult? We don’t have time to waste.”

“Why, yes, I must.” She mimicked his voice, his movements, and felt a smile tug the corner of her mouth. Yes, this was better. Having Jonas unstrung and struggling for control was much better than the other way around. This she could handle.

“My wife’s name is Alana, how do you expect me to explain the discrepancy?”

“Use your imagination.”

He grumbled something about cursed luck under his breath and resumed his pacing, giving her a terse history of his life with Alana.

They’d met while he’d interned over summer vacation at the U.S. branch of Chandler Pharmaceuticals. Encouraged by Alana’s father, their attraction had grown swiftly; the summer had passed quickly. Promises had been made and honored a year later.

“Alana is British?”

“By birth. She was raised in Boston.”

Jonas’s voice faded and Cathlynn waited for him to continue. He’d recounted his story with factual dryness. Flat and cold like the air in the room. Were the memories too painful, or had deeper feelings never existed?

“What happened?” she prodded when he didn’t speak.

“We married. I finished my degree. I was offered a permanent research position with Chandler Pharmaceuticals.” He flicked on the bedside light as a distraction to the obvious pain flitting through his expressive eyes, making him human, vulnerable for a moment. The chiseled sternness returned swiftly, making her wonder if she’d been mistaken.

He stood silent by the window, offering her a view of his profile. The crisp creases in his winter-weight wool pants matched the furrowed lines on his face. Sadness or guilt? Unexpectedly, Cathlynn wanted to hold him and unburden him from his grief. But she didn’t move. Being a wife wasn’t part of the deal, only acting.

He stuck his hands in his pockets, tightening the fabric of his pants over his buttocks, and stared deep into the dark thickness of night. “Both were a mistake.”

A mistake? Curiosity had her longing to pursue that thread, but she sensed it would be a blunder.

“Is there anything else I should know?” she asked. Watching him stare blankly out the window made her uneasy because she didn’t know what to expect—from him; from her. “What about preferences—food, drink, activities, et cetera?”

For a moment she thought he wouldn’t answer, then he turned from the window and leaned his trim backside on the sill. “She liked everything expensive. Quality didn’t matter, only price. She drank a lot. To forget, she said. As for activities, I’d prefer you not emulate her in that department. I suggest you simply act naturally. Sterling’s bound to sense a forced performance.”

He glanced at his watch. “It’s time. Why don’t you run a brush through that mane of yours, and we’ll go down to dinner.” Flexing his thighs, he pushed himself off the sill.

“You’ll be all right?” he asked, giving her a queer little look that shivered all the way to her toes.

“I’ll be myself,” Cathlynn said. Her smile cracked her face despite an attempt to suppress it. As long as she fought him, she wouldn’t fall.

Being herself was no problem, but it might not quite meet Dr. Jonas Shades’s expectations.

THE DINING ROOM proved as formal and gloomy as the rest of the house. Wraithlike shadows played across the tall ceiling. Three multitiered crystal chandeliers hung evenly spaced over the table’s length. The long table could have seated twenty-four easily, but the crisp white linen cloth was set with only three places. The tall red and gold–upholstered chairs dwarfed their occupants. The heavy sideboard stood empty. Here again a series of solemn black-hooded monks stared at them from their gilt frames on the striped wallpaper, passing judgment, it seemed, at the affluence denied them in life.

All that’s missing is the cobwebs and the rattling of ghostly chains, Cathlynn thought as she sat in the chair Jonas held for her.

Valentin pushed a squeaky cart laden with silver-domed trays while Sterling regaled them with the woes of his transatlantic flight. His voice boomed with disquieting loudness in the cavernous room. “Can you imagine being stuck beside such a chap for all those hours?”

Cathlynn downed her chuckle with a sip of water. Her pity sided with Sterling’s unfortunate seatmate.

“Are you still afraid of flying, Alana?” Sterling asked, then tested the wine in his goblet.

“Please call me Cat—”

Jonas tapped her ankle under the table with his foot and glowered an icy warning at her. She stomped slyly on his toe with the heel of her shoe while she smiled graciously at Sterling. Jonas’s pinched lips told her she’d found her mark.

“That’s Jonas’s pet name for me, and I’ve grown rather fond of it over the years.”

She snatched a roll from the bread basket, tore off a piece and slipped easily into her role. She had to play it well; her dream was at stake, not only Jonas’s. But playing it Jonas’s way wouldn’t work, and as much as he scared her with his frosty charm and tempestuous eyes, she had nothing to fear until he held the trust—then she’d be gone before she could suffer his wrath.

“If I’d gotten over my fear of flying,” Cathlynn continued, “I’d surely have flown to England to visit you. I’d forgotten what an interesting person you are. But there’s just something about trusting your life to a shell of metal thirty thousand feet above the ground.” She scrunched her shoulders and feigned a shiver.

“It’s really quite safe, you know.” Sterling picked at the plate Valentin placed in front of him, removing the orange sauce from the chicken breast with the side of his fork. “Tell me, dear boy, is that butler of yours the only servant you’ve got left? I rang the service bell for half an hour before I got an answer.”

Jonas sawed his meat. His jaw twitched once before he answered. “Times have been hard lately. We do the best we can.”