Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail. Julia James
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to you for Monteagle. What kind of man does something like that?’
‘A rich one.’ He sounded appallingly casual—even amused. ‘If something I want is for sale, cherie, then I buy it.’
‘No matter what the consequences?’
He shrugged. ‘For me, they are good. I am gaining a house I want and a woman I desire. And maybe I have reached a time in my life when a home and children have become important to me.’
Her lips parted in a gasp. ‘You think for one minute—you really expect me to have your baby?’
‘Another consequence of marriage,’ Marc drawled unsmilingly. ‘If you still believe in the stork, ma mie, you have been misinformed.’ He paused. ‘But I am forcing you to do nothing, Hélène. Understand that. I merely offer you a solution to your most pressing problem. It is for you to decide whether you accept my proposal or deny me.’
He gave her a measuring look. ‘And you have twenty-four hours in which to make up your mind,’ he added coolly.
She picked up her glass and took a mouthful of cognac, feeling it crackle in her throat. At the same time she was conscious of a faint dizziness. It might be caused by the shocks of the past hour, but could also be ascribed to the amount of alcohol she’d unwittingly taken on board, she realised.
Well, there would be no more of that, at least. She wasn’t accustomed to it, and she needed to keep her wits about her now as never before, she thought grimly.
She looked back at him defiantly. ‘Is this how you usually propose marriage—by ultimatum?’
The hardness of his mouth relaxed into a swift, unexpected grin. ‘Until this moment, cherie, I have never proposed marriage at all. Other things, yes,’ he added shamelessly. ‘But not marriage.’
She gave him a fulminating look. ‘I suppose I should feel flattered,’ she said icily. ‘But I don’t.’ She reached for her bag. ‘May we go now, please?’
He was still amused. ‘D’accord.’ He signalled for the bill while Helen braced herself for the walk to the door, which would involve passing Nigel and his new fiancée.
But when she turned to leave she saw only an empty table, in the process of being cleared by the staff, and checked in surprise.
‘They left about ten minutes ago,’ Marc informed her quietly. ‘They did not seem to be enjoying their evening.’ He paused. ‘Or perhaps your Nigel feared another dousing—from an ice bucket.’
Helen ignored that. ‘Will you ask Reception to get me a taxi, please?’ she requested with dignity.
She realised uneasily that she was having to choose her words, and her steps, with care, so the sooner she was rid of her companion, the better.
His brows lifted. ‘My car and driver will be waiting,’ he pointed out.
‘But I really need to be alone,’ she said. ‘Surely even you can understand that?’
“‘Even you,”’ he repeated pensively. ‘I see I shall have to change your low opinion of me, cherie.’
‘By forcing me into marriage?’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’ She paused, lifting her chin. ‘And now I’d really like to go home.’
He said lightly, ‘As you wish,’ and went to the reception desk.
‘Your cab will be ten minutes,’ he told her on his return. ‘Shall I wait with you until it arrives?’
‘No,’ Helen said hastily, then added a belated, ‘Thank you.’
She’d half expected a protest, but all he said was a casual, ‘A bientôt,’ and went.
There was no avoiding the fact that she would be seeing him again—and soon, she thought wearily. After all, he’d given her only twenty-four hours in which to make up her mind—or rack her brains for a way out.
She still felt faintly giddy, so she made her way over to a high-backed chair in the shelter of an enormous parlour palm and sat down, leaning back and closing her eyes.
When she heard the main door open she assumed her cab had arrived early, but instead she heard Nigel’s voice peremptorily addressing the receptionist.
‘My mother seems to have mislaid her scarf. Could someone look in the cloakroom for me? See if it’s there?’
Helen, transfixed, had a fleeting impulse to climb into the palm and vanish.
But it was too late. Nigel had seen her and was crossing the foyer. She got to her feet, her fingers tightening defensively round the strap of her bag.
‘All alone?’ he asked unpleasantly. ‘Dumped you already, has he?’
She flushed. ‘No, he hasn’t,’ she said, adding recklessly, ‘On the contrary, I’ll be seeing him again tomorrow.’
‘Well, you’re certainly full of surprises, Helen. I’ll grant you that.’ He scanned her insolently from head to foot. ‘You do know who you’re dealing with, I suppose?’
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘I know.’
‘So, what the hell’s a high-flyer like him doing in this backwater?’ Nigel demanded.
She shrugged. ‘Perhaps you should ask him that yourself.’
‘Oh, I don’t know him that well,’ he said. ‘It’s Amanda. She’s met him at parties in London and she could hardly believe her eyes when she saw you together. You’re hardly his usual kind of totty.’
Helen steadied her voice. ‘I’m sorry if she’s disappointed.’
‘She’s not interested one way or the other,’ Nigel said rather stiffly. ‘He’s certainly not her type. Nor does he believe in long-term relationships,’ he added waspishly. ‘Just in case you were hoping. Apparently he has a very low boredom threshold where women are concerned. Two months is the top limit for his involvements. None of his girls are kept around for longer. He’s notorious for it.’ He grinned nastily. ‘And you haven’t even lasted the night, sweetie.’ He paused. ‘So how did you meet him—as a matter of interest?’
‘I can’t imagine why it should be any of your concern,’ she said, ‘but he happened to be on the committee that turned me down the other day and he was curious about the house. It’s as simple as that.’
Oh, God, she thought with a pang. If only it were…
‘Oh, the house,’ he said disparagingly. ‘That explains it.’
‘Thank you.’ Helen said coldly, wishing desperately that her cab would arrive—or that she would be abducted by aliens.
He flushed slightly. ‘Believe it or not, I’m trying to warn you for your own good. Although why I should bother after the trick you played on me this morning, God only knows,’ he added sulkily. ‘Do you know how long it took me to come up with an excuse for being soaked to the skin?’
‘Am I supposed to care?’ Helen threw back at him.
He shrugged, giving her a faintly injured look. ‘We’ve known each other for a long time. I assumed it might be possible to remain friends.’
‘Difficult,’ she said, ‘when we don’t even occupy the same planet. And here’s my taxi.’ She offered him a small polite smile. ‘Goodbye, Nigel, and—good luck.’
‘And you,’ he said venomously, ‘deserve everything that’s coming to you. When your house has gone, and your French millionaire has used you up and spat you out, don’t come to me for a handout.’
There wasn’t even a fountain to push him into this time, Helen thought, let alone the preferred swamp. And that was her sole regret as she walked away from him and out into