Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail. Julia James
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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.
Suddenly she wanted to wind herself around him, her arms twined about his neck, her slim legs gripping his lean hips. And realised, swiftly and starkly, the danger she was in.
As Marc’s mouth sought hers she turned her head swiftly, so that his lips grazed only her cheek.
‘Marc.’ She tried to free herself, forcing a laugh. ‘People are watching.’
He looked down into her face, his mouth hardening. ‘Then that is easily remedied,’ he told her softly. He lifted her effortlessly into his arms and began to carry her towards the house.
Colour stormed her face as she heard faint whistles and laughing applause from the workmen, but common sense warned her that to struggle would only make her look even more ridiculous.
Once inside, she expected to be put on her feet, but Marc carried her straight up the main staircase and along to the State Bedroom.
She said breathlessly, ‘What the hell are you doing? Let me down at once.’
À votre service, mademoiselle.’ His voice was cold, almost grim, as he strode across the room to the bed. Gasping, Helen found herself carelessly dropped in the middle of the wide bare mattress.
She fought herself into a sitting position, glaring at him as he stood over her, hands on hips. ‘How dare you treat me like this? If you imagine I’m impressed by these—caveman tactics—then think again.’
‘I should not say too much,’ he told her with ominous quietness. ‘It is nothing to what I would like to do to you. And will,’ he added harshly, ‘if you refuse my kisses again, in public or in private, no matter what grudge you may be harbouring.’
She bit her lip, avoiding the starkness of his dark gaze. ‘You—you took me by surprise. I wasn’t expecting to see you.’
‘Évidemment,’ he said caustically. ‘Is that why you are not wearing my ring?’
Of course he would have to notice that!
‘I’m living on a building site,’ Helen returned a touch defensively. ‘I didn’t want it to get lost or damaged.’
He gave her a sceptical glance. ‘Or did it remind you too much of how soon you will be my wife?’
She bit her lip. ‘What do you expect—eager anticipation?’
‘No,’ he said softly. ‘But if not a welcome—a little cooperation, perhaps?’
Before she could move she felt his hands on her shoulders, pushing her back on to the mattress again. Then, lifting himself lithely on to the bed beside her, he pulled her close, and his lips began to explore her mouth with cool, almost languorous pleasure.
Taking, she realised, all the time in the world.
Her hands came up against his chest, trying to maintain at least some distance between them, but that was all the resistance she dared attempt. His warning still rang in her mind, and she knew she could not afford to provoke him again. She would have been wiser to offer him her lips in front of everyone just now rather than risk this.
She was too vulnerable, she thought, shut away with him here in this room they’d soon be sharing. And, because they were known to be together, no one would be tactless enough to come looking for them. No one…
The midday sun was pouring in through the high windows, lapping them in heated gold.
She seemed to be sinking helplessly, endlessly, down into the softness of the bed, her lips parting in spite of herself to answer the sensuous pressure of his mouth, to yield to the silken invasion of his tongue.
Inside her thin shirt, her breasts were suddenly blossoming in greedy delight as his kiss deepened in intensity. Her hardening nipples seemed tormented by the graze of the lacy fabric that enclosed them, aching to be free of its constriction.
As