Читать книгу Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction: Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction - Robyn Grady, Jennifer Lewis - Страница 10

The following Thursday morning, Tristan swung out from behind his desk to greet his brother, who was striding into the city penthouse suite. Tristan clapped his arms around Josh and they gave each other a hearty hug.

When they broke apart, Josh jokingly tried to spin Tristan around. “Do you ever leave this office? I think you might be growing roots.”

Tristan laughed, always happy to see his younger, wisecracking brother, who many people mistook for his twin. “Just because you’re in love, doesn’t mean the rest of the world grinds to a stop.”

Josh’s dimples deepened. “You sure about that?”

Tristan pretended to cringe. “Ooh, you have it bad.”

“Bad enough to propose.”

Tristan’s jaw dropped. “Marriage?”

“Even got down on one knee.”

Tristan took Josh’s hand and shook with gusto. “Congratulations. That’s wonderful, just…unexpected. How long have you and Grace been dating?”

Looking every bit the high-powered executive in his tailored business suit, Josh crossed his arms and rocked back on his heels. “Three months and I’ve never been more certain of anything in my life. Grace and I are meant to be. I can’t wait to make her my wife.”

Just yesterday it seemed Josh had been captain of the under-nines football team and had scrunched his nose up at girls’ cause they smelled funny. Now he was tying the knot? Tristan ushered Josh over to the wet bar. This news deserved a toast.

He found two glasses. “If you can’t wait to exchange rings, I can’t wait to welcome her into the family.”

For some reason, an image of Ella came to mind—the sound of her soft laughter the other night, the subtle yet alluring scent of her skin. He couldn’t remember a time when he’d been more relaxed with a woman over dinner. Guess it was par for the course, given she served him that meal maybe five times a week.

Obviously Ella had enjoyed herself, too, but from day one he’d had the impression she’d be easy to please. After hearing her background, he was more convinced than ever. A loyal daughter who’d cared for her dying mother for years…his respect for her had increased tenfold.

As Tristan reached for his finest Scotch, Josh ran a finger and thumb down his tie. “Welcoming Grace into the family brings me to the second reason for this visit.”

Tristan stopped pouring. “You look worried.”

“We’re having a families’ get-together Saturday afternoon. I want you to come.”

Handing over Josh’s glass, Tristan arched a brow. “Let me guess. What you’re not saying is you want Cade to come, too.”

“Besides the fact Cade and I work together, he is our older brother.”

Before taking a sip, Tristan muttered, “Unfortunately.”

Josh exhaled. “This feud can’t go on forever.”

Tristan crossed to the floor-to-ceiling windows and a view of the Opera House shells. The surrounding silky-blue harbor glistened with postwinter sunshine. Narrowing his eyes against the glare, he sipped again, clenching his jaw as he swallowed. “You’re too young to understand.”

“I’m twenty-eight and I do understand that Mum would roll over in her grave if she knew about the rift between you two. You both need to get over it and on with your lives.”

“Because what Cade did to me wasn’t reprehen-sible, right?” Tristan’s voice was thick with sarcasm. If Josh even knew the half of it…

“If you’re talking about the board voting him sole chairman over you not long after Dad’s death, Cade offered to continue to share the seat.”

If Tristan went along with every decision Cade made. In Tristan’s book, that was called chronic egomania. No way could he agree to such terms.

Tristan turned to face Josh. “It was better for everyone for me to decline. The arrangement Dad put into place was never going to work.”

He and Cade were to jointly run the largely family-owned Australasian hotel chain. Josh was to be incorporated into the combined chairman’s role on his twenty-seventh birthday, which had, indeed, happened last year. If it were only himself and Josh running the show, no problem, they were great friends as well as brothers. But as for the eldest of the trio…

Tristan stared straight through Josh to the imagined figure of his adversary. “Cade and I have never got on,” he growled.

Too much competition, only one person willing to budge. As the older brother, Cade had always called the shots, won the praise and Tristan had been expected to smile and follow.

“Profits were down,” Josh recalled. “You both had different views on how to strengthen the figures. You wanted to borrow to refurbish the older hotels. Cade said the company couldn’t afford the debt. The board agreed.”

Tristan deadpanned, “Yet he found the money to buy me out.”

“If I remember correctly, you were the one who sug-gested the split.”

“And it was the best decision I’ve ever made.”

He’d examined the refurbishment proposal from every angle and had been certain of its viability. But, once again, Cade had played God.

Tristan knocked back his drink and smacked the heavy glass down on a corner of his desk. The echo reverberated through the room like the fall of a gavel.

He’d gotten out from under the Barkley Hotels’ weight and had started a property development company. No more kowtowing to big brother. This recent project would be his largest and most successful enterprise yet—if he got the nod on rezoning from Mayor Rufus.

Which brought to mind the other reason Tristan couldn’t care less if he ever spoke to Cade again—the fact that Cade had slept with Bindy Rufus while she and Tristan had been dating. Minutes before she’d driven off without him and died in that auto wreck, Bindy had announced to Tristan that she preferred his more mature and wealthier brother.

Talk about a kick in the gut.

Thoughtful, Josh swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “Tristan,there’s something else…I’d like you and Cade both to stand beside me when Grace and I say our vows.”

Tristan shoved a hand through his hair and tried to laugh. It was either that or cry. “You’re not making this easy for me.”

Josh’s smile was hopeful. “I want us to be a family again. All going well, one day soon you’ll both be uncles.” He pulled a card from his jacket’s breast pocket. “Cade asked me to give you his cell number.” He grinned wryly. “In case you’d lost it. He said to call anytime.”

Tristan put the card on his desk and changed the subject. They chatted for half an hour and, as soon as Josh was out the door, Tristan found and crushed Cade’s card in his fist. Taking particularly careful aim, he shot the wad into the trash basket.

He’d sort out something for the family get-together. He was happy for Josh. In fact, he envied him. Would he ever be fortunate enough to find a woman who didn’t think of marriage as nothing more than an astronomical weekly allowance with a single child to cement the deal? A woman who wasn’t a heartless gold digger as Bindy Rufus had so obvi-ously been.

Ideally, he wanted a woman who was in love with the idea of half a dozen kids and believed in the whole-some riches of “family comes first.” Wouldn’t it be great if he could simply whip up the perfect wife?

Later that day, on his way through his building to a midafternoon meeting, Tristan passed a jewelry store and an item caught his eye. The price tag was horren-dous, but the diamond and Ceylon sapphire earrings would look stunning dangling on either side of Ella’s slender neck. The dazzling blue stones matched the color of her eyes precisely.

He walked away remembering the impulse that had gripped him when they’d stood in the kitchen after their dinner out almost a week ago. He’d wanted to bring her near and taste her lips, see how they fitted with his. Crazy stuff. She was his housekeeper. Yes, he was looking forward to taking her to the black-tie affair tomorrow evening. She certainly was sexy out of that drab uniform. But she was also a simple, unassuming and honest soul.

He frowned, then slowly smiled.

The perfect wife?

At the dining table that night, Ella poured gravy over Tristan’s beef Wellington, feeling his lidded gaze not on the gravy boat but her arm—and inching ever higher. She bit her lip trying to tamp down the tingling sensation radiating from her center. What might happen if, instead of looking, he reached out and touched?…

The instant the thought hit, sizzling arrows shot heat to every corner of her body. She sucked in a breath and stepped back. She’d enjoyed their dinner out last weekend…perhaps a little too much. That time together had fed fantasies she’d secretly dreamed of for eight months. Fantasies about being a rich man’s bride.

She held the gravy boat before her, a reminder of her place. “Is there anything else I can get for you?”

His jaw jutted before he nodded, and Ella’s heart-beat skipped. Every night that he dined in, she asked Tristan that same question. He’d never once said yes. From the ardent look in his dark eyes now, she knew he didn’t want more ground pepper on his potato.

He sat back, elbows on the chair arms, tanned, mas-culine hands laced over his lap. “Have you eaten yet?”

Worried, she examined his meal. Did something look suspect? “I was about to sit down to mine.”

One corner of his mouth lifted. “In that case, join me.”

Ella could only blink. She ate in the kitchen or in her room. She’d never sat at this long, polished oak table. Never.

Then understanding dawned. He probably wanted to discuss something he needed from her tomorrow evening. Perhaps he wanted to fill her in on some background of the people attending so there’d be less chance of her feeling out of place. But it didn’t really matter what he wanted to discuss. If Tristan had suggested she eat with him, whatever was on his mind must be important.

She backed up toward the kitchen. “I’ll get my plate.”

When she joined him again, he was on his feet. After arriving home, he’d changed into jeans, the faded ones with the rip in the back pocket that sat like a dream on his lean hips. His white oxford was unbuttoned at the collar, revealing a V of hard chest and dark hair. His jaw was shadowed with daylong bristles that gave him a rugged look. A sexy look.

Ella swallowed.

And if she continued along that train of thought, she’d start to drool, which was not good etiquette.

He pulled out her chair. Holding her plate firmly in her suddenly buttery fingers, she smiled. “Thank you.”

He pulled in his own chair and joined her. “I thought you might enjoy a glass of wine with dinner.”

Her gaze skated to a bottle of red next to the condiments. He filled her crystal glass, which he must also have placed there while she’d ducked into the kitchen, then his.

After they’d both sampled the smooth-blend Shiraz, Tristan smiled at her. “Well, this is pleasant. We should have done it sooner.”

Ella flicked out her napkin. If nerves weren’t pum-meling her stomach like a drumroll she might agree. It was very pleasant indeed sitting beside this über-attractive man at his dinner table, surrounded by fine things. The scenario was so unbelievable, she couldn’t even have daydreamed about the possibility.

Slipping beneath his sheets isn’t in the cards, either, she thought, but she’d daydreamed about that, and more often than usual this week…

“Do you have a gown for tomorrow evening?”

Clearing her throat, Ella fumbled to collect her silverware. “I picked up a dress today.” It hadn’t been overly expensive. She’d set herself a limit and had very nearly stuck to it. “I hope it’s okay.”

“I’m sure you’ll look stunning.”

His eyes crinkled at the corners and flames leapt up from the kernel of heat building low in her belly. He could smile at her like that all day.

“What color is it?” he asked, then tasted the beef and made a groan of appreciation in his throat.

“Kind of a lemony-golden shade.”

“It’ll go with your hair.” Like a touch, his gaze trailed her long, loose braid, which lay over one shoul-der, leaving a smoldering line in its wake.

She concentrated to stop her heart belting against her ribs and mumbled, “So the sales assistant said.”

His lopsided smile lifted higher before his brows drew together, his gaze dropped and he cut his broccoli, which was bathed in a three-cheese sauce. “Were you going to wear those earrings?”

She remembered his hand near her cheek the other night and the buzz of sexual arousal that had ignited a flash fire over her flesh. She would melt if he ever touched her intimately.

She shook herself. As if that would ever happen. Supermodels. Starlets. Billionaire’s daughters—they were the breed of women with whom Tristan normally kept company.

“I’m not sure those earrings will suit,” she said, “but if you think I should wear them…”

Eyes still on his plate, he chewed slowly, then with a barely perceivable shrug dismissed it. “Totally up to you.”

They ate in silence, Tristan deep in thought, Ella still coming to terms with the current seating arrangements, until the phone on the sideboard rang.

Ella’s midsection turned to ice. She hadn’t forgot-ten that curious phone call the other night. Had it been Scarpini or her imagination working overtime? she wondered. Either way, the phone couldn’t simply go unanswered now.

Stomach churning, she rose but Tristan put his hand on her arm. The contact was like the charge of an electric current and her heart catapulted and pounded all the more.

“They can call back,” he told her.

The tension locking her muscles eased a fraction and her rubber band legs lowered her back into her seat. Letting it ring out was more than fine with her.

As the phone stopped, Tristan refilled her wine glass.

“The other night made me realize how little I know about you,” he said, as if he’d suspected something untoward from her body language. But surely that was only her guilty conscience, she thought.

“There’s not much else to tell.” She slid her laden fork into her mouth.

“No surprises other than that half brother?”

Nothing he needed to know about. She smiled and chewed, letting him take from that what he would, but he wasn’t satisfied.

“No royalty in your background,” he joked, “Nobel Peace prizes. No axe murders.”

She coughed as she swallowed. “Why would you say that?”

His smile was amused and a little intrigued. “Ella, I was kidding.”

She let out her breath. Of course he was. He didn’t know about Scarpini’s wild accusation of murder. No reason he ever should.

She patted her mouth with her napkin and apologized. “I don’t know what’s got into me tonight.”

“I do. You’re preoccupied, thinking about starting a new phase in your life. You’ll be missed.” He collected his fork and explained, “You’ve been excellent at keep-ing every aspect of this place running smoothly.”

Her cheeks heated. “You’re being kind.”

“I’m being truthful.” He speared some potato. “I’m surprised no man has snapped you up.”

It took a few moments for his words to sink in. He meant marriage. She groaned. “Now you are being kind.”

His eyes hooked on to hers. “So you’ve never found the right one?”

For a short time, she’d thought she had—a doctor, Sean Milford. She’d been sadly mistaken. “There’s a lot that goes into finding the right one.”

“At the top of most women’s lists would be a man who can support them.”

She slowly frowned. “I’d much rather know I could support myself.”

“Even if it meant cleaning houses for the rest of your life?”

Her chest tightened with indignation. What was he suggesting? “I worked in a doctor’s surgery before I resigned to look after my mother. I could’ve found other employment if I’d chosen to. And I certainly wouldn’t marry someone because they had money, if that’s what you mean.”

His smile was genuine. “I didn’t think you would. But I wasn’t talking about you. You’re not most women.”

Ella concentrated on his wry expression and it dawned. “You think the women you date are after your bank account?” She laughed. Had he looked in the mirror lately? she wondered. She waved her fork. “You’re crazy.”

“And you’re naive.” But his tone said he didn’t mind. “So you’d be as happy marrying a plumber as a CEO of a conglomerate?”

“It would depend on which one I loved.”

His lips twitched. “Ella the romantic.”

“Is there anything wrong with that?”

He smiled that smile. “Quite the contrary.”

He’d angled toward her, about to say more, when the phone rang again.

With a growl, he set his napkin aside. “Whoever that is, they’re not giving up.”

“I’ll get it.” She pushed back her chair.

Already standing, Tristan put his hand firmly on her shoulder. “Tonight you’re a guest at my table. Allow me.”

But she sprang up and wove around him toward the phone. “I insist.”

He frowned then chuckled as he shook his head. “You’re doing a lot of that lately.”

She wouldn’t have insisted if she weren’t worried it might be Scarpini. She didn’t want Tristan talking to that man, because it would mean explaining that sordid episode. And in two weeks, she’d be gone from this house for good. Tristan need never know about her visit from the police.

But she’d answered the phone dozens of times this week. No wrong numbers, no heavy breathing. No sign of Drago Scarpini. Nevertheless, her palms were damp by the time Tristan was seated again and she picked up the phone.

“Barkley residence.”

Three beats of silence then, “Eleanor? That is you, isn’t it?”

A concrete wall hit and knocked the breath out of her. She blindly reached for the sideboard and held on.

“If you’re wondering how I got the number,” Drago Scarpini said, “you can speak with the new reception-ist at your lawyer’s office. Thank you for the ten grand, by the way. It’s a start.”

The solicitor’s office had given out her number? She squeezed the receiver. “I said under no circumstances—”

Ella stopped, but she’d already let slip the acknowledgement Scarpini needed. He was indeed speaking with Eleanor Jacob.

“The receptionist stumbled over herself giving me your number so that a brother and sister could get in touch again.” He chuckled. “Some people are just so helpful.”

She stole a guilty glance at Tristan, who pushed back his chair again.

“Is everything all right?” Tristan asked.

Her brow prickled as perspiration beaded on her upper lip and nausea rolled high in her stomach. Somehow she managed an unconcerned face, nodded at Tristan then turned and, into the receiver, said very quietly but firmly, “Don’t call again.”

His laugh was pure evil. “Eleanor, you can run but you can’t hide. Not forever, anyway. See you soon, bella. Very soon.”

As the line went dead, the floor tilted under her feet, like the deck of a ship going under. Her stomach twisted and the light seemed to fade.

Tristan materialized beside her, his supportive arm around her waist. “You’re not all right,” he said. “Who was that?”

Giddy, she gazed up into his stormy eyes. If she told him that was Scarpini, he’d want to know the rest. She didn’t want Tristan to know…

Her father had told her once that mud sticks. In other words, bad opinions are darn hard to shift. Ella believed in being truthful, but in this case she didn’t want Tristan for even one moment to picture her as her mother’s murderer.

She made an excuse.

“It was a friend wanting to meet me for coffee to-morrow.” Her voice was threadbare but not trembling, thank heaven. “I’d already told her definitely not. It would have to be next week.”

The lie stuck in her throat. Not only did she hate fibbing, even for this good reason, but linking the word friend with Scarpini in any sense made her physically ill.

Tristan’s brows nudged together. “You didn’t seem pleased to hear from your friend.”

Her throat convulsed. “We…have some things to sort out.”

“Nothing I can do to help?”

She started to make another excuse, but he held her arms and willed her to look into his eyes. “Let me help, Ella.”

She held her breath then crumpled and let the whole story spill out.

“The man who says he’s my half brother—Drago Scarpini—that was him on the phone. He phoned a week ago, too, after you’d taken me to dinner that night. He said the money I left from the will was a start. He said he’d see me…see me soon. I’d hoped he’d go away, but—”

A bubble of panic caught in her throat.

“Hey, it’s okay.” Tristan brought her close and rubbed her back. His heat and scent wrapped around her like a warm winter cloak.

When she’d almost stopped trembling, he gently pulled away and looked at her more deeply. “Tell me the rest.”

She garnered her strength. Since she’d told him this much, she might as well tell him the rest.

“The day after the funeral the police knocked on my door. They wanted to investigate an accusation…”

When she hesitated, he tipped up her chin with a knuckle. “An accusation of what, Ella?”

She swallowed. “Matricide.”

“You?” When she nodded, Tristan laughed. “That’s absurd.” His amused expression dropped. “What evidence did they have?”

“More or less just Scarpini’s accusation.”

“More or less?”

“I administered morphine to my mother for the pain. Scarpini said I overdosed her. I had her prescribed supply but he said, because I’d known a doctor, I could access more.”

“What reason could you have for killing your terminally ill mother?”

“Scarpini was livid I hadn’t given in to his threats. Whether he’d called the police to intimidate me, or he’d hoped that they’d actually charge me, I don’t know. But he told them I was tired of looking after her. That she was about to change her will and I wanted it all.”

“The worst kind of gold digger,” Tristan murmured gravely.

His pupils dilated until his eyes were burning black coals. When he finally spoke, his voice was danger-ously low. “How long have you known this man?”

She was a little taken aback. “I told you. Just weeks before my mother died.”

He nodded, but the slope of his brows said he needed to absorb it. Could she blame him? His mind must be reeling.

“Tomorrow,” he said, “we’ll go to the police.”

“No. Please.”

She couldn’t forget the way the officers had looked at her the day after her mother’s funeral, as if, despite the lack of evidence, she was nonetheless a criminal. All those disgusting questions, the sensation of having her heart ripped out and trodden on again. She’d only ever tried to help her mother, yet she would always remember the cold suspicion shining in their eyes.

Mud sticks.

“Ella, this man isn’t going to back off without a less-than-friendly nudge.”

“I couldn’t bear to go through all that again. The questions, the looks, riffling through the details of my mother’s illness…”

He studied her pleading gaze for a long moment then nodded once. “It goes against my better judgment…but, all right. Only on the condition that if he calls again, you tell me straightaway. Now—” his hand curved around her jaw, “—I don’t want you to worry, okay?”

She eased out a shaky breath. “I’ll try.”

And she did feel a little better. But the best remedy for worry, she’d discovered long ago, was keeping busy.

Her gaze skated toward the table. She’d lost her appetite and after that episode she wouldn’t be much company. “I’ll clear the table.”

Crossing over, she swept up her plate, then his. When she turned, he was behind her.

He took both plates and set them resolutely on the table. “The dishes can wait. We have wine to finish.”

Mere inches divided their bodies but with that call still echoing through her mind…

She touched her clammy forehead. “I think I’ve had enough wine.”

“Are you that eager to get to the dishwasher?”

“No.” He grinned at her quick reply and she smiled weakly back. “It’s habit, I guess.”

“There’ll be a dance floor and music tomorrow night.” He paused. “Do you dance, Ella?”

She gave him a knowing smile. “You’re trying to take my mind off of that phone call.”

His head slanted. “Be that as it may…” He waited for her answer.

“I…have danced,” she admitted.

With a playful tilt to his mouth, he measured her hesitant expression. “But not recently.”

“Seems like a hundred years.”

She bit her lip. Too much information.

“Do you know how to waltz?”

She didn’t want to make a fool of herself—or him. “I’m really not very good.”

“Then perhaps we ought to practice. I can put on some music in the living room.” He took a step closer and the edge of his warm hand brushed against hers. “Or we could practice here.”

The intercom buzzed, loud and unexpected enough for Ella’s stomach to jackknife to her throat. She swung toward the door.

Oh Lord. It was Scarpini wanting in at the entrance gates, she just knew it.

Annoyed at yet another interruption, Tristan groaned and headed for the intercom panel.

“I can get it,” she called after him.

“I’ll get it. And if it happens to be your Mr. Scarpini, I’m more than ready for him.”

Ella’s knees turned to jelly. Eight months of calm, now the world was spinning out of control.

She straightened and pinned back her shoulders.

Whatever came, be damned if she would stand in the background, quaking in her shoes.

She followed Tristan to the intercom.

“Hello.” Tristan waited a beat before one hand clenched at his side. “Hello, who is this?”

The reply was deep and familiar, but not in the way Ella expected. It sounded somehow like Tristan.

“Tristan,” the disembodied voice came back. “It’s Cade. We need to talk and we need to talk now.”