Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail. Julia JamesЧитать онлайн книгу.
use it to cheer up tomorrow’s chicken casserole, she thought.
The housekeeper had taken Helen’s halting news in her stride. ‘So, Mr Marc, is it?’ she’d said thoughtfully. ‘Well, I wish you happiness, my dear. Things often turn out for the best.’
Mrs Lowell was the only other one on Helen’s need-to-know list, because she’d have to explain why there’d be no more guided tours.
I’ll go round to the Vicarage tomorrow, she told herself.
As she walked through the hall the telephone rang, and in spite of the lateness of the hour she found herself reaching for it.
‘Hélène?’ His voice reached her huskily across the miles, making her start.
She steadied herself, trying to ignore the frantic drum of her heart. ‘Marc? What do you want?’
‘All the things I cannot have, because you are so far from me.’
She could hear the smile in his voice and stiffened, loading her tone with frostiness. ‘I mean why are you calling so late.’
‘To wish you bonne nuit,’ he said. ‘And sweet dreams.’
‘Oh,’ she said, nonplussed. ‘Well—thank you.’
‘And to tell you that, to my sorrow, I will not be with you next week after all. I have to fly to New York.’
‘I see.’ She knew she should feel relieved at the news, if not be dancing in the streets. Instead, suddenly, there was an odd flatness. ‘It was—good of you to let me know.’
There was a pause, then he said softly, ‘You could go with me.’
‘To New York?’ An unbidden quiver of excitement stirred inside her, and was instantly quelled. She said stonily, ‘Of course I can’t. It’s quite impossible.’
‘Why? You have a passport?’
‘Somewhere, yes.’
‘Then I suggest you look for it, ma mie,’ he told her drily. ‘You will certainly need it for our honeymoon.’
‘Honeymoon?’ She was beginning to sound like an echo, she told herself with exasperation. ‘But surely there’s no need for that,’ she protested. ‘It—it’s not as if it is a real marriage…’
‘You will find it real enough when the time comes, cherie.’ His words were light, but she thought she detected a note of warning. ‘And we are certainly having a honeymoon—although it can only be brief because of my work commitments.’
He paused. ‘An old friend has offered us his villa in the South of France. It stands on a headland above St Benoit Plage, and all the bedrooms have views of the Mediterranean. What do you think?’
‘You seem to have made up your mind already,’ Helen said. ‘So what does it matter?’
She thought she heard him sigh. ‘Then consider again about New York, Hélène. After all, how long is it since you had a holiday?’
‘I went skiing with the school in my last spring term,’ she said. ‘That’s what the passport was for.’ She paused. ‘But I can’t just leave here. I have things to do—responsibilities. Besides…’ She halted awkwardly.
‘Besides, spending time alone with me in America, or anywhere, is not your idea of a vacation?’ His voice was faintly caustic. ‘Is that what you were about to say?’
‘Something of the kind, perhaps,’ Helen agreed woodenly.
‘I suppose I should find your candour admirable, ma mie,’ he said, after a pause. ‘However, one day soon—or one night—we shall have to discuss your ideas in more detail.’
His tone sharpened, became businesslike. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you use some of the money I shall deposit in your account to begin recruiting extra staff for the house and grounds.’
‘But there’s no need,’ Helen protested. ‘We can manage quite well as we are.’
‘It is not a question of managing, ma chère,’ Marc told her crisply. ‘Monsieur and Madame Marland are no longer young, bien sûr, and at some point will wish to retire. In the meantime they will be glad of help, especially when there is entertaining to be done or when you are away.’
‘But I’m never away,’ she protested.
‘Until now, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that will change. You will be my wife, Hélène, not merely my housekeeper. Perhaps I have not made that sufficiently clear. When my work takes me abroad there will be times when I shall require you to go with me.’
Her voice rose slightly. ‘You expect me to be your—travelling companion?’
‘My companion,’ he told her softly, ‘and my lover. Sleeping with you in my arms was so sweet, cherie, that I cannot wait to repeat the experience.’
‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice stony, telling herself that the faint quiver she felt inside was anger. Hating the fact that she was blushing.
She took a steadying breath. ‘Have you any more orders for me, or may I go now?’
He laughed. ‘If I gave orders, Hélène, you would be coming with me to New York.’ He gave her a second to consider that, then added more gently, ‘Sleep well, mon ange—but think of me as you close your eyes, hein?’
She murmured something incoherent, and replaced the handset.
His unexpected call had shaken her, and raised issues she’d not wanted to contemplate. Questions of autonomy, among others.
It was disturbing that he seemed to want her to share his life at all kinds of levels she hadn’t imagined. Starting with this—this honeymoon in the South of France. Exercising his power by taking her from her own familiar environment to his own domain, she thought, and shivered.
Slowly, she went up to her room. She took off his ring and placed it in the box which also housed her grandmother’s pearls—bestowed on her for her eighteenth birthday, and the only other real valuable that she possessed.
Jewellery like the ruby didn’t go with her lifestyle, and its non-stop cleaning and gardening. Nor would she take on extra staff, as he’d decreed. The arrival of his tame architect and his work crew was quite enough of an invasion of privacy, making her feel as if her personal hold on Monteagle was being slowly eroded.
But that wasn’t all of it, she thought, looking down at her bare hand. There was still part of her in rebellion against the decision that had been forced on her. And she didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all herself, that both she and Monteagle would soon belong to Marc completely. Or display the symbol of that possession.
Think of me. His words came back to haunt her as she slid into bed and pulled the covers over her.
Oh, but he’d made sure of that, she thought bitterly. Turned it into an essential instead of a choice. Placed himself at the forefront of her mind each time she tried to sleep, making himself impossible to dismiss.
And when sheer fatigue overcame her, her sleep was restless and patchy, scarred by dreams that she burned with shame to remember in the morning. Dreams so real that when she woke she found herself reaching for him again across her narrow bed, before shocked realisation dawned.
She turned over, furious and humiliated, burying her heated face in the pillow.
‘Damn him,’ she whispered feverishly. ‘Oh, damn him to hell.’
She got up, late and listless, and searched for distraction. With Daisy’s assistance she finally removed the fragile bed and window hangings from the State Bedroom, folded them carefully into plastic sacks, and took them down to the village to deliver to Mrs Stevens at the post office.
The post mistress accepted them