Blackmailed Into His Arms. Margaret Mayo
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never thought of her voice as sultry before. A little low and raspy at times, but never sultry.
“You have a touch of your father’s accent, did you know that? Like a hint of Mexico just beneath the Texas twang.”
Considering his own Texas drawl was as thick, if not thicker, than her own, she didn’t think he had much room to talk. But still, the compliment—and she did take it as a compliment—washed over her, warming her from the inside out.
“Maybe you could read to me again tonight,” he continued. “In bed. Something sexy and a little naughty.”
Nerves jangled in her stomach, unexpected desire skating down her spine like an Olympic hopeful going for the gold.
“Do you have any sexy or naughty reading material?” she asked, surprised when the words came out strong and surprisingly sensual. For the first time, she heard the sultriness he’d spoken of, as well as an unspoken, almost unintentional invitation.
And from the look in his eyes, she knew he heard it, too.
“Not here,” he said, his voice tight and graveled with lust. “But I’ll find something by this evening even if I have to buy up every book and magazine publisher on the West Coast.”
He held her gaze and it was all she could do not to wiggle in her seat, both from nerves and a growing sense of longing. How he could have such an effect on her after such a short amount of time, she didn’t know. But it was there, strong and powerful and alive.
“Unfortunately,” he went on, dragging his gaze away from her to check his watch, his voice returning to normal, “I have to get going or I’ll be late for my first meeting.”
Pushing his chair away from the table, he stood and dug out his billfold. “I’ll be busy pretty much all day, so I’m afraid you’ll have to find something to keep yourself occupied. Here, take these.” He handed her a gold card and a stack of crisp bills in large denominations. “Go shopping, do lunch, have fun. I’ll see you back here around four. We have another business dinner I’ll want you to be ready for, all right?”
She took the cash and credit card, even though she didn’t like it. Being handed money to “keep herself occupied” made her feel cheap, entirely too much like a paid companion. But then, she supposed that was just part of the job when one agreed to become a man’s mistress.
Throwing back the last swallows of his coffee, he crossed the room for his briefcase, then headed for the door. With his hand on the knob, he tossed an already distracted “See you later” over his shoulder before disappearing into the hall.
The door clicked closed behind him, leaving Elena alone in the sprawling suite. She glanced down at the wad of bills in one hand and the credit card in the other.
Well, that had gone from interesting to disappointing in the blink of an eye, she thought. But this wasn’t a vacation; it was a work week for Chase, and the fulfillment of a business agreement for her.
So she would find something to fill her day like a good mistress, and be back in time to get ready for her next dinner performance.
Where the hell was she?
Chase stood in front of the bedroom bureau, straightening his tie in the mirror for what had to be the fifth or sixth time.
He was showered, dressed and ready for the dinner meeting. The only thing missing was his date.
He glanced at his watch again, even though only a minute had passed since the last time he’d checked, and muttered a colorful oath.
She was almost an hour late. He’d told her to be back in the room by four o’clock, and here it was going on five.
She was probably busy burning up his credit card with dozens of clothes, shoes and expensive trinket purchases. What more could he expect of a spoiled, selfish debutante like Elena Sanchez?
The problem was, she hadn’t acted spoiled or selfish since meeting him at the airport. He hadn’t even seen any signs of the shallow girl she used to be—her bossiness at breakfast that morning notwithstanding.
He’d actually found her strong-arm tactics during that little incident amusing … followed by highly erotic when she’d agreed to use that husky, arousing voice of hers to read to him in bed.
Of course, now he knew the last day and a half was more of a fluke than anything else. He’d given her his gold card and a stack of cash in fairly large bills, and she’d apparently found a way to blow through it all. Enough so that she was still busy shopping.
Which didn’t surprise him in the least. Truth be known, he’d given her such a long lead line to prove—to himself, if no one else—exactly what he knew deep down in his bones. Elena Sanchez hadn’t changed. She was still indulgent, self-involved, too beautiful for her own good, and she put her own comforts and desires above the feelings or well-being of others.
The pointed reminder was worth paying a few thousand dollars to his credit card company.
But if she didn’t get back soon, if she made him late for this very important business dinner, he would not only make her pay the charge bill herself, but he’d put her on the first plane back to Gabriel’s Crossing and have her father’s company bought out and in his portfolio by morning.
He swore again and was just turning his wrist to check his watch for the ten millionth time when he heard the door to the suite click open.
“Finally,” he breathed, following that by another grumbled curse.
“Where the hell have you been?” he charged, turning on his heel and marching into the other room.
He expected to find her grinning from ear to ear, her hands full of boutique bags, her arms piled high with ribboned boxes. She’d probably want to show him everything he’d bought her, maybe model some designer dresses and sexy new lingerie.
He might even be willing to sit through a lingerie fashion show … later, after they got back from dinner and he wasn’t in such a foul mood.
“Sorry,” she apologized, rounding the corner of the kitchenette.
She looked rumpled and windblown, her simple, sleeveless cotton blouse and denim skirt wrinkled, her hair starting to fall out of its now-crooked ponytail. Her face and shoulders rosy from the glaring Las Vegas sun.
As far as he could see, there wasn’t a single bag or box anywhere near her.
He paused in mid-step, momentarily confused.
Maybe she was having everything delivered. But just to be sure, he walked the rest of the way across the room and glanced toward the door.
Nothing.
She didn’t look overly happy or bubbly or excited, either, the way most women would after what amounted to a carte blanche shopping spree.
“You’re late,” he pointed out, uncomfortable with the knowledge that she’d knocked him off his guard, managed to sidetrack him from his focus on her whereabouts and their dinner schedule.
“I said I was sorry,” she told him, not the least intimidated by his accusatory tone or thunderous expression. “But I won’t take long to get ready, I promise.”
Pulling the ponytail holder from her hair, she started for the bedroom, already unbuttoning her blouse. “I’ll only be twenty minutes.”
She left the connecting doors open and he could hear her moving around. Shedding clothes. Opening dresser drawers and closet doors. Stepping into the bathroom, out, then in again. The bathroom door closed and he heard the shower turn on.
Regardless of what she said, he fully expected her to take at least an hour to change and do her hair and makeup. He didn’t know any woman who wouldn’t.
A quick glance at his watch showed that if she took an hour—an hour, and not one minute more—they could still make it down to the hotel restaurant on time. Barely, but they would