Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James

Lottie’s tone was patient ‘—he’s incredibly rich and fabulously sexy. You don’t think that you’re being a mite picky?’

      Helen said in a low voice, ‘It’s not just that. I—I think I’m frightened of him.’ Her laugh cracked in the middle. ‘Isn’t that ridiculous?’

      Lottie’s expression was very gentle. ‘A little, maybe. But there’s not much he can do in a crowded restaurant.’ She frowned. ‘I wonder how the hell he managed to get a table at the Oxbow, it being Saturday and all.’

      Helen shrugged listlessly. ‘He’s someone who likes to have his own way. I don’t suppose he gets many refusals.’

      Lottie gave her a wry grin. ‘Then meeting you might be good for his soul.’ She paused, then added thoughtfully, ‘Or he might even be good for yours.’

      She picked up her beaker and rose. ‘Now, let’s have a quick scan through your wardrobe and see what might be suitable for the best restaurant in miles.’

      This is still such a bad idea, Helen thought a few hours later as she looked at herself in the mirror.

      The dress she was wearing was in a silky fabric the dark green of a rose leaf, and made in a wrap-around style, with a sash that passed twice round her slender waist and fastened at the side in a bow.

      It made her skin look exotically pale, and her newly washed hair glint with gold and bronze lights.

      Lottie had spotted it at once, of course. ‘So, what’s this?’ she’d asked, taking it from the rail. ‘Clearly never worn, because it’s still got the price tag. How long have you had it?’

      ‘Not that long.’ Helen moved a shoulder restively, her voice slightly husky. ‘I—I bought it for my engagement party.’ She forced a smile. ‘Counting my chickens again. Stupid of me, wasn’t it?’

      ‘Not at all.’ Lottie’s tone was comforting. ‘And you can put it to good use tonight instead,’ she added, spreading it across Helen’s bed.

      ‘No,’ Helen said sharply. ‘I got it for Nigel. I won’t wear it for anyone else. I can’t.’

      ‘What will you do with it, then? Wrap it in lavender and shed tears over it, like a latter-day Miss Havisham?’ Lottie gave her a swift hug. ‘Babe, you can’t waste the only decent thing you’ve got—especially when you need to make a good impression.’

      ‘And why should I want to do that?’ Helen lifted her chin.

      ‘Monteagle, of course,’ Lottie told her with a cat-like smile. ‘Did you get shoes as well?’

      ‘Green sandals.’ Helen pointed reluctantly. ‘They’re in that box.’

      ‘You’ll have to paint your toenails too,’ Lottie mused. ‘I’d better pop home and get my manicure stuff, because I bet you haven’t any. And you’ll need a wrap. I’ll lend you the pashmina Simon sent me. But don’t spill vintage champagne all over it.’

      The promised wrap was now waiting on the bed, together with the small kid bag that matched the sandals.

      I was so sure, Helen thought, her throat muscles tightening. So secure in my dreams of the future. And so blind…

      And now she had to work towards a totally different kind of future.

      She’d had plenty of time to think after Lottie had completed her ministrations and departed.

      Lying back in a scented bath, she’d reviewed her situation and come up with a plan. She could not afford to pay for the restoration of the entire house, of course, but perhaps Marc Delaroche might help her raise sufficient capital to refurbish the bedrooms at least, so that she and Daisy could offer bed and breakfast accommodation. Possibly with a few extra refinements.

      Spend the night in the haunted bedroom! she’d thought, with self-derision. See the ghost of the first Helen Frayne, if not the second.

      I could even rattle a few chains outside the door.

      Joking apart, the scheme had a lot to recommend it, she told herself. It could supply her with just the regular income she needed.

      And if she could prove herself, even in a small way, the conventional banking system might be more ready to back her.

      But first she had to persuade Marc that it was a workable plan, and an alternative to whatever assistance he was prepared to give.

      And therefore it was—just—worth making an effort with her appearance.

      Only now the moment had come. Daisy had tapped on her door to say that he was waiting downstairs, causing all her concerns and doubts to come rushing back.

      Because she was taking a hell of a risk. She’d said it her-self—Marc Delaroche was a man who liked his own way—so what on earth made her think she could manipulate him into doing what she wanted?

      Besides, she already knew he had his own agenda. On my next visit I shall expect to spend the night.

      She’d tried to block that out of her mind—as with so much else that had passed between them.

      But now the words were ringing loud and clear in her head, especially as she’d spent some considerable time getting herself dressed and beautified for him—like some harem girl being prepared for the Sultan’s bed, she thought, and grimaced at the analogy.

      Her skin was smooth and scented. Her eyes looked twice their normal size, shaded, with darkened lashes, and the colour of her dress had turned them from hazel to green. Her mouth glowed with soft coral, as did the tips of her hands and feet.

      She picked up her wrap and bag, and went along the Gallery to the broad wooden staircase.

      Marc was below her, in the entrance hall, pacing restlessly, but as he looked up at her he checked suddenly, his entire attention arrested and fixed on her, his eyes widening and his mouth suddenly taut.

      She felt a strange shiver of awareness rake her body, and for a moment she wanted to turn and run—back to her room, to safety. Back to the girl she really was.

      Because for the first time it occurred to her that she was not simply scared of Marc Delaroche.

      I’m frightened of myself, she whispered silently. And of the stranger I’ve just become—for him.

      She drew a deep shaking breath, then very slowly she walked down the stairs to meet him.

      CHAPTER FIVE

      THE restaurant was just as crowded as Lottie had predicted. Apart from their own, Helen could see only one vacant table, and that was reserved too.

      She was conscious of a surprised stir as they entered, and knew that she’d been recognised by at least half the people in the room, and that the rumour mill had been functioning well. She tried to ignore the speculative looks and whispered comments as, with Marc’s hand cupped under her elbow, she followed the head waiter across the room.

      But a shock wave was preferable every time to a ripple of sympathy, she thought, straightening her shoulders. Lottie had been right about that too.

      And it was difficult to feel too humiliated over Nigel when she’d been brought here in a chauffeur-driven car and was now being seated at a candlelit table in an alcove where a bottle of Dom Perignon on ice and two glasses were waiting for them.

      And also when she was being accompanied by the most attractive man in the room, she acknowledged reluctantly.

      Tonight, as she’d noticed in the car, he was freshly shaven, and the dark mane of hair had been combed into a semblance of order. Close-fitting dark pants set off his long legs, and his well-laundered white shirt was enhanced by a silk tie with the colour and richness of a ruby. The light tweed jacket, slung over his shoulder, shouted ‘cashmere’.

      Certainly there’d been no escaping the frank envy in some of the female eyes as they watched