Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James
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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.
One arm was round her shoulders and the other lay across her body, his hand curving round her hipbone, and her movement was further restricted by the weight of his long leg, which was lying slightly bent over both of hers, imprisoning her in an intimacy as disturbing as it was casual.
Dear God, she moaned silently. How did I let this happen?
Her only small comfort was that apart from their shoes, which were on the floor, they were both dressed. But she could hardly have felt more humiliated if she’d woken up naked.
And just how long had this been going on anyway? she wondered miserably.
The lamp was still burning, but the fire was a pile of grey ash covering just one or two glowing embers.
Moving her arm carefully, she glanced at her watch and saw that it was nearly four a.m.
She took a steadying breath. I have to get out of here, she thought. Right now.
It didn’t appear as if anything untoward had happened—in fact, she knew it hadn’t—but she felt totally vulnerable like this, in his embrace. She certainly couldn’t risk his waking and finding her there with him, in case he decided, after all, to—take advantage of the situation.
With the utmost caution she pushed his leg away, then slid, inch by wary inch, from beneath his arm, putting down a hand to balance herself before lowering herself slowly to the floor.
She sat motionless for a moment, listening intently, but he did not stir and there was no change in his even breathing.
In spite of the pounding in her head, she managed to get to her feet. Then, sandals in hand, she tiptoed to the door and let herself out into the dark house. She knew every step of the way, every creaking floorboard to avoid as she fled to her bedroom. Once safely inside, out of breath and feeling slightly sick, she turned the key in the lock, and for good measure pushed a small wooden chair under the handle.
Then she stripped, letting her clothes lie where they fell, and crept into bed, pulling the covers over her head.
All that damned brandy. She groaned, fighting her nausea and praying for the bed to keep still. I must have been insane. Why, anything could have happened while I was unconscious.
Only to her own bewilderment it was apparent that nothing had. Instead, Marc had let her sleep, peacefully and comfortably.
So he can’t have wanted me that much, after all, she thought, turning over and burying her face in the pillow. It’s the house—just the house. And found herself wondering why that particular realisation should sting so much?
She certainly didn’t need to be desired by a serial womaniser, she reminded herself forcefully.
She had to think, clearly and rationally, she told herself. Find a watertight reason for turning him down and dismissing him from her life, whatever the consequences for Monteagle’s future.
But her mind was still teeming with images and sensations, and it was difficult to focus somehow. To stop wondering what form his promised wooing of her might have taken. And to forget, as she must, the way he’d looked at her, the things he’d said, and—his touch. That, dear God, above all else.
Once he’d gone she’d be able to put him out of her mind, and devote herself to the on-going struggle to make Monteagle financially viable. She wouldn’t have time to think about anything else—especially ludicrous might-have-beens.
She stayed awake, her brain going in weary circles, until sunlight penetrated the curtains, then dressed and went downstairs to go for a walk round the lake. Every movement was a penance, but the fresh air might help to clear her head, she told herself optimistically.
The door of the sitting room remained closed, and to her relief she had the kitchen to herself too, as she made some strong black coffee and drank it, wincing.
She stood by the water, looking across at the grey mass of Monteagle’s half-ruined keep, wondering how much longer she could keep it standing without a substantial cash windfall.
Football pools, she thought. The Lottery. Quiz shows paying out thousands. What hadn’t she considered in her efforts, however forlorn the hope? And now no other avenues suggested themselves.
However, she looked at it, Helen thought wretchedly, she was between a rock and a hard place.
Time was running out, and she still couldn’t figure how to frame her refusal to Marc Delaroche.
With most men a simple ‘I don’t love you’ would be enough. But he didn’t want her love anyway. He wants Monteagle, she thought, her throat tightening, and maybe a son to inherit it. And a wife who’ll pretend not to notice when he becomes bored and starts to stray. Or when he stops coming back altogether.
And, if I’m truly honest with myself, that’s what really scares me—that I’ll begin to love him because I can’t help myself. That last night I felt safe and secure, for the first time in months, with his arms round me. And that in the end I’ll be left alone and lonely, because that’s what he does.
And I know now I couldn’t bear that. It would kill me.
And that’s something I can never let him guess—which is why I have to say no, once and finally.
She walked slowly back to the house. She would bathe, she thought as she went upstairs, and change. Put on a brave face.
She