Blackmailed by the Rich Man. Julia James

a low opinion you have of me, ma chère,’ Marc drawled, pouring measures of brandy into the glasses. ‘But at least it releases me from any obligation to behave well.’

      He leaned towards her and Helen flinched instinctively, realising too late that he was simply putting her coffee and brandy within her reach on the table. She saw his mouth tighten with sudden harshness, but when he spoke his voice was casual.

      ‘And I made you a proposal, not a proposition. Perhaps you would like me to demonstrate the difference?’

      ‘No,’ Helen said too hastily. ‘I wouldn’t.’

      ‘To hear you,’ he said softly, ‘one would think that your namesake in the portrait had been a Vestal Virgin and that you were following her example.’ His gaze rested fleetingly on her mouth. ‘Yet all the evidence denies this.’

      ‘I dislike being railroaded,’ Helen told him, flushing. She was searingly aware of the lean body lounging so casually beside her—and alarmed by her awareness. ‘That does not, however, make me a prig.’

      ‘I am glad of the assurance.’ His tone was faintly mocking. ‘So,’ he went on after a pause, ‘what did Nigel say to you that has put you so much on edge?’

      Avoiding his gaze, she picked up her glass and drank some brandy. ‘I don’t know what you mean.’

      ‘But you don’t deny that there was another rencontre, I hope.’ He spoke pleasantly enough, but she was aware of a faint, harsh edge in his voice. ‘You are not the only one to take note of passing traffic, ma mie. I saw his car returning to the restaurant. You must still have been there. Also,’ he added judiciously, ‘you are paler than before, and your eyes look bruised. Was he angry, perhaps, at your attempt to drown him?’

      Helen took another restorative gulp of brandy. ‘It was mentioned,’ she said shortly. ‘But he seemed more interested in bad-mouthing you.’

      His brows lifted. ‘I was not aware I had the pleasure of his acquaintance.’

      ‘But you know—his new lady.’ She had to struggle to say the words. ‘Apparently you’ve met—at parties in London.’

      ‘Ah,’ Marc said softly. ‘But I meet a great many people at a great many parties, cherie. She made no particular impression on me at the time.’

      ‘Well, she remembers you very well,’ she said, adding recklessly, ‘And your reputation.’

      He laughed. ‘Do I have one? I was not aware.’

      ‘You’re said to be anti-commitment.’ Helen stared down into her glass. ‘You never continue any of your love affairs longer than two months.’ She paused. ‘Can you deny it?’

      ‘Certainement.’ He was still amused. ‘I can assure you, ma mie, that love has never entered into any of my affaires.’

      She bit her lip. ‘Now you’re playing with words. But then you like to do that, don’t you, Mr Delaroche? Proposal versus proposition, for example. Not that it matters,’ she added, ‘because we both know that it’s just some private game for your own amusement, and that you haven’t the slightest intention of getting married to me—or to anyone.’

      She drew a breath. ‘So, can it stop right now, please? I’m getting bored with the joke.’

      He reached for his jacket, extracted something from the pocket, and put it on the table. Helen saw it was a jeweller’s velvet covered box, and nearly choked on the brandy she was swallowing.

      ‘This is not the moment I would have chosen,’ he said quietly. ‘But perhaps this will finally convince you that I have indeed asked you to be my wife. And that I am quite serious.’

      The diamonds in the ring were a circle of fire surrounding the deeper flame of an exquisite ruby. Helen’s lips parted in a silent gasp that was part wonder, part horror.

      ‘So, do you believe at last?’ His smile was grim. ‘Now all you need do, ma belle, is make your decision.’

      She said huskily, ‘You—make it sound so easy.’

      ‘Yes, or no,’ he said. ‘What could be simpler?’

      She shook back her hair in a defiant gesture. ‘You seem to forget that I’m being asked to choose between freedom and a life sentence—with a stranger.’

      ‘And what does this freedom allow you, ma mie?’ His voice was hard. ‘The right to struggle, to work endlessly while the house you adore crumbles around you? Never to be able to indulge your beauty—your joy in life?’

      He paused. ‘Besides,’ he added cynically. ‘If your informants are correct, the maximum term for you to serve would be only two months. Is that really such a hardship?’

      Helen stared at him, aware of a strange icy feeling in the pit of her stomach. Yes, she realised, with sudden paralysing shock. Yes, it would be—if, somehow, I started to care. If, however incredible it may seem, you taught me to want you—to love you—and then you walked away.

      Because that would be more than hardship. It would be agony. And it could break my heart for ever…

      She said in a small taut voice, ‘I suspect, monsieur, that even one month of your intimate company might be more than I could bear.’ She took a steadying breath. ‘Is there really nothing else you would agree to—for Monteagle?’

      ‘You are brutally frank.’ His mouth twisted. ‘So let me be the same. My answer to that is nothing. I take the house and you with it, Hélène. Or you will be left to your—freedom. The choice is yours.’

      Her fingers played with a fold of her dress. ‘I—I’ll give you an answer tomorrow.’

      He glanced at his watch. ‘It is already tomorrow. You are running out of time, ma belle.’

      She said with sudden heat, ‘I wish—I really wish you’d stop saying that. Stop pretending that I’m beautiful.’

      He studied her for a moment with half-closed eyes. ‘Why do you do this?’ he asked quietly eventually. ‘Why do you so undervalue yourself?’

      ‘Because I’m a realist.’ She finished the brandy in her glass. ‘I loved Nigel and he chose someone else. Someone beautiful.’ She paused. ‘I didn’t get a chance to look at her at the restaurant, so I assume she is—beautiful.’ Her glance challenged him. ‘You’re supposed to be a connoisseur, Monsieur Delaroche. What do you think—now that you’ve seen her again?’

      He was silent for a moment, then he shrugged. ‘She has her charms. Dark hair, a sexy mouth and a good body. And a tigress in bed, I imagine,’ he added sardonically. ‘Is that what you wanted to hear?’

      Colour flared in her face, and her own completely unsexy mouth didn’t seem to be working properly.

      She said thickly, ‘That’s rather—too much information.’

      ‘You hoped I would say she was plain and undesirable and that her only attraction is her father’s money?’ He spoke more gently. ‘I wish it was so.’

      ‘Don’t pity me,’ she said raggedly. ‘Just don’t—bloody pity me.’

      He watched her for a moment, his expression wry. ‘I think, Hélène, that you have had enough brandy.’

      ‘Well, I don’t agree.’ She held out her glass defiantly. ‘In fact I’d like some more—lots more—if you don’t mind.’

      Marc lifted the decanter. ‘As you wish. But it is really too good to be used as an anaesthetic, ma mie.’

      Helen tilted her chin. ‘Maybe I want to be…’ She tried the word ‘anaesthetised’ under her breath, but decided not to risk it. The room seemed very warm suddenly, and her head was swimming. ‘Drunk,’ seemed a safer