The Brazilian's Blackmail Bargain. ABBY GREEN

to get a grip. Had to play the part she’d planned. The only way she knew how to protect herself.

      She moved briskly away, dislodging his hand, and searched her mind for something, anything, to deflect his intense focus. She seized on the first thing and whirled around, a bright forced smile on her face. ‘Clothes!’

      ‘What about them?’ Caleb was very watchful, arms crossed. He couldn’t figure it; in the space of a split second she’d gone from blushing just saying his name to clothes? One thing he knew for certain—he couldn’t trust her an inch. She was up to something. And, from what he knew of women, that something always amounted to something financial.

      Maggie twirled a lock of hair around one finger, something she normally did out of unconscious habit but this time contrived to look as coquettish as possible. ‘Well, I expect you’ll want me to look my best…and I’ve left all those sorts of clothes in London…so unless you like this casual look…’ She gestured disdainfully at her chain store outfit. She hated this. It went against every sensibility she had to ask for anything, but she wanted him to think the worst.

      Her abrupt volte-face jarred with him but then a world-weariness seeped into his bones. She was just like all the others. No different. But then he’d hardly expected her to be different, had he? And he didn’t want her in some other man’s cast-offs. The very thought made his fists curl. She was his now. She would dress for his pleasure—no one else’s.

      ‘Just tell me where and I’ll set up an account—you can go this afternoon. I have to go to Monte Carlo for two days tomorrow—something that’s just come up—so you can come too. I presume your passport is in order?’

      Maggie blanched, her sham of confidence abruptly shaken, and nodded dumbly, taking in the rapid-fire delivery. Monte Carlo? She really was in another world now…

      Caleb had moved back to his desk and was picking up the phone, looking at her expectantly, impatiently. Maggie furiously tried to remember his question and mentioned the double-barrelled name of an exclusive store nearby—somewhere she’d never normally go.

      After a quick, brusque conversation it was done. Caleb stood and came around to Maggie, tilting her face to his with long fingers. ‘Stay away from the cheap tarty stuff, if you can. I don’t want a repeat performance of that dinner, where I had to endure every man in the room tripping over himself to get a look at your…’ he flicked a glance down to her chest ‘…assets.’

      She burned with humiliation at his mention of the dress her stepfather had forced her to wear. A memory rushed back. Tom Holland’s mottled, angry red face in hers.

      ‘You can wear this or go naked. If you don’t…you’ll be responsible for what’s going to happen to your mother.’

      Maggie willed the image away and clenched her jaw against Caleb’s hand.

      ‘I’ll do my best. But I still have the dress, so I might just surprise you.’

      The look on his face was chilling. ‘Do that and I’ll rip it off and dress you myself. Don’t play games with me. You won’t win.’

      A finger of fear clutched at her throat. She didn’t know what had made her want to provoke him just then. Of course she didn’t still have the dress; it had been relegated to a bin that awful night. She would have burned it if she could.

      Finally he released her. She went on wobbly legs to the door. Just as she was about to leave, he called her name. She turned around reluctantly.