Читать книгу Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction: Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction - Robyn Grady, Jennifer Lewis - Страница 9

Finished applying her new lip gloss, Ella examined her reflection in the bedroom mirror and let out a sigh.

Life truly could turn on a pin. Only eight months ago she’d buried the poor wasted body of her mother, Roslyn Jacob, who’d finally succumbed to cancer. Later that same day, a man she would revile until the end of time had paid her a visit. A man Ella hoped she would never see again.

She’d first met Drago Scarpini some weeks before the death of her mother. He’d claimed to be her half brother, conceived out of wedlock by Ella’s father before he’d married her mother.

Scarpini’s own mother, an Italian who’d immigrated to Western Australia many years before, had recently passed away. On her deathbed she’d revealed the name of her son’s father, Vance Jacob. Scarpini discovered that Ella’s father had passed away long ago but Scarpini had wanted to visit his father’s widow to see if he had any brothers or sisters.

A well-packaged story, but from his first, Scarpini had sent chills up Ella’s spine. As days wound into weeks and Roslyn’s condition and faculties deterio-rated more, Scarpini’s visits continued and his ulterior motives became clear.

Ella had overheard Scarpini talking to her mother about his difficult life growing up without a father, without money. Although Vance Jacob couldn’t make recompense now, Roslyn could change her will and divide the estate between Ella and himself. That, Scarpini had said, would’ve made her husband happy. After all those years of unwitting abandonment, it was the right thing to do.

Ella had been disgusted at his prodding. Her mother had been so ill, so confused. And there had been no proof Scarpini was who he claimed to be. If she’d had a few thousand to spare, she’d have hired an investigator.

The second time Ella had heard him pushing Roslyn, she’d told him to get out. Roslyn had died the day after, sooner than doctors had anticipated. Scarpini had attended the funeral and had even played the sorrowful, supportive brother. Later, however, he’d arrived on Ella’s doorstep demanding she divide the estate. When Ella had reminded him she’d just buried her mother, he’d exploded. He needed money to pay off pressing gambling debts.

As she’d shut the door in his face, he’d shouted she would regret it.

The next day, the police had arrived. Scarpini had alleged Ella had murdered Roslyn with a morphine overdose to head off the change she had been about to make to her will. It had been an hour of horror Ella would never forget, but, of course, no charges were laid. The following day her front window was smashed and a condolence card left on the mantel. Scarpini had phoned—either she agreed to his suggestion, or he would get nasty. He’d said he intended to haunt her until he got what he deserved.

Quaking all over, she’d immediately called the police, who couldn’t do much about Scarpini’s threats. She could petition for a restraining order, the officer ex-plained, but perhaps it would be better to wait and see if Scarpini would cool down and disappear. If he physi-cally harmed her, she should get in touch straight away, the officer had advised.

Ella hadn’t slept that night. She’d given up her job to care for her mother and, after medical expenses, there was no cash to speak of. The house, as well as an investment property, needed to be sold before the estate could be settled. That would take several weeks, if not months.

By dawn Ella had made two decisions. One, she needed a job to survive until the estate came through. Two, she didn’t intend to wait around for Scarpini’s next sadistic game. She’d bought a prepaid phone, or-ganized a post office box for correspondence from the will’s executor—the husband of a longtime friend of her mother’s—and dyed her hair a different shade for good measure. Then she’d applied for the house-keeper’s position at the Barkley mansion.

It had been a bold move, particularly without refer-ences, but she certainly knew how to cook and clean and do laundry. When she had secured the job, she’d settled and kept very much to herself.

She’d heard nothing from her harasser since. She hoped the police were right and Scarpini had slid back beneath the rock from which he’d crawled. Now with the house and investment property sold and all of her inheritance in hand—just over a million dollars—the time was finally right to take a deep breath, emerge from her cocoon and start afresh.

And what a way to mark the occasion…asked to dinner by the thoroughly enthralling, undeniably dreamy Tristan James Barkley.

Tingling with anticipation, she gazed into the mirror and clipped on her rhinestone eardrops.

She’d lived through a nightmare. How wonderful if dreams could come true…

A knock on her bedroom door made Ella jump.

Tristan’s familiar, deep voice reached her from beyond the timber frame. “The reservation’s at eight. We need to leave soon.”

Swallowing against the knot of nerves stuck in her throat, she called back, “Be right there.”

She grabbed her clutch bag then took one last look at her cocktail-length white dress and matching sling-backs. Socialite material? Not even close. But, as Mr. Barkley had said, this wasn’t a date. It was a thank-you from employer to employee…infatuated with her boss though that employee may be.

“Ella?”

She blew out an anxious breath. Here goes.

When she entered the kitchen—the room adjoining her own—Tristan’s expression opened in surprise then appreciation, and delicious warmth washed from Ella’s perfumed crown all the way to her polishtipped toes.

One corner of Tristan’s perfectly sculpted mouth hooked upward as his hands slipped deep into his trouser pockets. “Sorry. I’m still not used to seeing you out of uniform.”

Crossing to join him, she fought the urge to smooth the jacket that adorned the magnificent ledge of his shoulders. In an open-neck collared shirt and impec-cably tailored trousers, he was tall and muscular and held himself as a powerful man would—with a casual air of authority and an easy yet mesmerizing gaze. She’d always felt so safe here in his house. So appreciated.

As a housekeeper, at least.

She pushed the silly pang aside and straightened her spine. “I’ll be back in my uniform tomorrow.”

He withdrew his hands from his pockets and moved to join her. “But you really don’t like your uniform, do you, Ella?”

No use fibbing. “Not especially.”

“My parents’ house staff wore uniforms, so I’ve always provided them, too. But if you’d rather wear regular clothes these last three weeks, I don’t know a reason you shouldn’t.”

Ella’s heartbeat fluttered.

Wear above-the-knee hems? Pretty colors? Fem-inine heels that echoed as they clicked upon these imported marble tiles?

She shook her head. “It wouldn’t feel right.” Wouldn’t feel…appropriate.

“It’s up to you, but don’t think I’ll object.” The lines bracketing his mouth deepened more. “Really, it’s not a big deal.”

Maybe not to him.

Absurd, but tonight, more than ever, she couldn’t help but compare herself to the glamorous sorts with whom Tristan had been pictured in glossy magazines. Eleanor Jacob was an ordinary woman who was destined for an ordinary life. She’d best remember that.

Still, this weekend her relationship with her boss had changed, if only slightly. Soon their association would end and it was likely they wouldn’t see each other again. In fact…

She let out a breath.

Heck, maybe he was right. Doing away with her uniform wasn’t such a big deal.

She smiled. “If you’re sure.”

She couldn’t quite read the look in his dark, all-knowing eyes before he moved away to check the back door. “I’m sure.”

As he rattled the handle, she let him know, “I locked it earlier.”

He worked the blinds shut. “Can’t be too careful.”

It was obvious what lay behind his security consciousness tonight. Her impetuous behavior the day before apparently made him concerned that she might have been harmed in some way.

She apologized again. “I’m sorry about giving you that fright yesterday, Mr. Barkley.”

“It’s forgotten.” But he checked the windows, too.

What must he have thought finding her clothes strewn across the room, her handbag dumped inside out? But she’d had no idea he would return a day early from Melbourne or she wouldn’t have donned that swimsuit. Some women didn’t mind flaunting their bodies, but she wasn’t one of them. She was mortified by the thought of exposing herself to her boss, although he clearly didn’t share her reserve.

That day a week ago in his bedroom when he’d turned to face her—muscled, bronzed and breathtakingly bare—he’d seemed surprised by her unexpected appear-ance, but not the least bit self-conscious. And why the heck would he be, with an amazing body like that?

Tristan left the last window and joined her, his face almost grave. “There’s one more thing we need to get straight.”

She held herself tight. What had she done now? “Yes, sir?”

“No more sir or Mr. Barkley, particularly tonight. We don’t want to confuse the waitstaff.” His dark eyes crinkled at the corners. “Deal?”

Returning the smile, Ella relaxed and nodded.

His hot palm rested lightly on the curve of her arm as he motioned her toward the connecting garage door. He couldn’t know the wondrous sizzle his casual touch brought to her blood.

Minutes later, she was buckled up in his sleek black Bugatti, surrounded by the smell of expensive leather and another intoxicating scent—woodsy, masculine, clean. Whenever she changed his bed linen, she was tempted to crawl over the sheets, bundle a pillow close and simply breathe in.

She stole a glance at Tristan’s shadowed profile.

What would it be like to have that beautiful mouth capture hers? Be held against his hard, steamy body?

When a bolt of arousal flashed through her, her heart began to pound and her hands fisted in her lap. That kind of make-believe could only get her in trouble. She needed to keep her mind occupied—needed to talk.

Pinning her gaze on the passing pine trees beside the drive, she put a bright note in her voice. “So, how was the function last night?”

The automatic gates fanned open and the European sports car purred out onto the street. “If you want to know, it was boring.”

She smiled to herself. No interesting women, then.

She sank back more into the leather. “I thought you were home early.”

“You waited up for me?”

When he grinned at her, his dark eyes gleamed in the shadows and her cheeks heated all over again. “I was watching an old movie and heard your car.”

She hadn’t been waiting up for him. Not really.

“Don’t tell me you like those Fred Astaire, Ginger Rogers kind of flicks.”

She grinned. “Not that old. Do you remember Love Story?” The score of that classic weepie was enough to give her goose bumps.

“I know it. You’re a romantic, then?”

“Most women are.”

He coughed out a laugh. “You think?”

She blinked over at him. What an odd thing to say. Women daydreamed about meeting Mr. Right. They imagined bouquets and church weddings and sparkling diamond rings. It was usually men who had a hard time committing, particularly when they were so desirable they could enjoy a veritable smorgasbord, Tristan Barkley case in point.

The car pulled up at an elite restaurant, which sat on the fringe of their exclusive Sydney neighborhood. When Tristan opened her car door, Ella asked, “Did you have a reservation already made for tonight?”

It was common knowledge bookings here were as rare as hens’ teeth.

He winked. “I said I knew some good chefs.”

And she wasn’t the least surprised when, inside, the attentive maître d’ fairly clicked his heels and showed them to the best table in the house: by an open window with a magical view of the twinkling harbor, secluded from the other guests and a comfortable distance from the live entertainment—a guitarist strumming the soft strains of a ballad.

As the maître d’ left them, Ella perused the listed entrées. No prices. She couldn’t imagine how expen-sive each must be.

A waiter nodded a greeting at Tristan as he passed. Tristan nodded back.

Ella lifted a brow. “You obviously come here often.”

He kept his eyes on his menu. “Often enough.”

She wouldn’t ask with whom. Perhaps a different lady each time. He never spoke about the women he dated—she knew only what she occasionally saw in magazines. Tristan Barkley was a brilliant enigma who had yet to lose his heart. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine one woman being enough for him. She only had to look into those dark, hot eyes to know he’d be insatiable in the bedroom.

When a vision flew into her mind—naked limbs, glistening and entwined on his sheets—Ella’s heartbeat deepened. She gripped her water glass and took a long, cool sip. This evening would be sweet torture.

They chose their meals—prime steak for him, sea-food for her. By the time their food arrived, they’d discussed music, politics and books. He was surprised that she liked mystery novels, too. When he poured their second glass of wine, she realized the nerves in her stomach had settled, almost to the point where she could have forgotten that handsome, intriguing man sitting opposite was her boss.

She was interested to know, “How’s your steak?” It smelled delicious and appeared to be cooked to perfection.

He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Almost as good as your filet mignon.” She laughed, unconvinced, and his brow furrowed. “It’s true.” He lifted his wine goblet to his lips. “Must be good not to have to think about the dishes tonight.”

“I clean up as I go. It’s not so bad with a dishwasher.”

“Did your mother teach you to cook?”

“She wasn’t much of a hand at cooking, even basics.” She gave a weak smile. “That’s how I got so good.” After her mother’s accident eighteen years ago, someone had to take care of those things, she thought.

“Bet your father appreciated your finesse.”

Her chest tightened and her gaze fell to the flicker-ing centerpiece candle. “He died when I was ten. A coronary. Heart disease runs in the family.”

Tristan slowly set down his glass. “I’m sorry about your dad.”

“So am I. He was an exceptional man.” She smiled at a memory. “He taught me to French knit. You wind wool around small nails tacked into the top of a wooden cotton reel and pull the knitting down through the hole—” She cut herself off and, embarrassed, shrugged. “Sounds kind of lame now.”

He searched her eyes. “It sounds as if you loved him very much. What did he do for a living?”

“He trained horses. We had stables. Dad got up every morning before dawn, even Sundays. His only vice was betting on the track. Not a lot, but always a few dollars each week.”

Perhaps Scarpini had inherited his thirst for gambling.

Ella gripped her cutlery tight. She would not let memories of that man intrude tonight.

“I’ve never understood some people’s need to gam-ble,” Tristan said. “If they thought it through, did the research, they’d understand you lose more than you win.”

Her smile was wry. “I think it’s more to do with the high when they do win.”

“Like a drug?”

She nodded.

“You like to gamble?”

She shook her head fiercely. “Not at all.”

“I’m sure you’ve already guessed, neither do I. I only bet on sure things.”

His gaze roamed her face and a delicious fire flared over her skin. While she fought the urge to pat her burning cheeks, he poured the last of the wine and changed the subject.“ Do you have any brothers or sisters, Ella?”

She inwardly cringed. Not her favorite subject. “It’s a matter for debate.”

One dark eyebrow hitched. “Sounds intriguing.”

“It’s a long story.”

He pushed his nearly clean plate aside. “I’m a good listener.”

She studied him across the table, the encouraging smile, the thoughtful dark eyes, and right or wrong she wanted to share—truly be more than the house staff, if only for a night.

As the waiter cleared their plates, Ella searched for words and the courage to say them.

“I have a half brother.”

“Doesn’t look as though you approve.”

“I have my reasons.”

His eyes rested on her, patiently waiting for more.

Did she want to get that familiar with Tristan? she wondered. She was a private person, too. The quiet one at school. The wallflower at the dance. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was almost twenty-six and dining with a man she didn’t know a whole lot about yet trusted nonetheless. If she was ever going to stretch her wings, now was the time.

Her fingers on the stem, she twirled her glass on the table. “Over two years ago I gave up my job to care full-time for my mother when she was diagnosed with cancer. The disease metastasized to her bones and…” Ella swal-lowed against the emotion swelling in her throat. “It affected her organs,” she went on, “including her brain. Toward the end she sometimes forgot what year it was.”

Since her fall down the back stairs eighteen years ago, Roslyn had been “delicate.” She’d broken her col-larbone and both legs and had lain in a coma for six weeks. Her bones had slowly mended, but her cognitive functions never fully recovered. She’d still been a happy, loving person, just a bit…slow.

A pulse beat in Tristan’s jaw. “Taking care of your ill mother…that must’ve been hard for you both.”

At times unbearably hard, watching the person you love most withering away, losing any capacity to care for herself. “Finally she begged me to find a place for her in some facility. I couldn’t do it.”

His voice deepened. “She was lucky to have you.”

When he sat back, she could feel him waiting for the half brother to make an appearance.

She’d thought if she could banish that horrid man from her thoughts, memories of him might fade. She hadn’t spoken his name in eight months, but the image of his face was as vivid as the day the police had banged on her door, Scarpini smirking alongside of them.

But rather than bottling it up, perhaps talking about it would help exorcise some of the pain, humiliation and anger she still felt.

She concentrated on the candlelight casting sparkling prisms off her crystal glass. “A few weeks before my mother died, a man showed up claiming to be my father’s illegitimate son.”

“You didn’t believe him?”

That familiar battle raged inside of her. Was he? Wasn’t he? Did it make a difference if they were related? she wondered. After the agony Scarpini had put her through, she had no desire to find out.

“He was very convincing…” She thought back. “But I didn’t trust his eyes.”

“The windows to the soul.”

She looked from the candlelight across the table. Tristan’s eyes were clear and filled with unswerving strength and sound purpose.

“Drago Scarpini’s were empty. He seemed to look right through me. And his smile…” Icy tendrils trailed down her back and she shivered. “His smile was cold. But he charmed my mother and tried to convince her that my father would want her to acknowledge him now.” In a lowered voice, she confessed the rest. “I heard him speak with her about changing her will.”

Tristan’s chin kicked up. “Sounds as if he was an expert at befriending vulnerable women. A real predator.”

“The doctors had given her a few months more to live but she died sooner than expected.”

“And Romeo didn’t get a slice of the pie.”

Her throat constricted. She wouldn’t tell Tristan the whole story. He didn’t need to hear how she’d been accused of murdering her own mother. It was just too ugly. “After a lot of soul-searching, I decided to gift him ten thousand dollars from the estate.”

Tristan looked disappointed. “Ella, you’re not even sure you share the same father. Even if you do, he shouldn’t have expected anything from your mother’s estate.”

“My lawyer said the same. But right now I don’t have any desire to go through the ordeal of finding out if we are related, and the money was something I felt compelled to give.” She half shrugged. “I guess to settle my conscience and be done with it.”

There was no right answer, just the memory of her father and what he might have done.

“I’m surprised he hasn’t hassled you,” Tristan said.

“Those types usually don’t know when to back down.”

A chill crawled up her spine. She had the urge to check over her shoulder, but she shucked it off and instead announced, “It’s all in the past now.”

The waiter took dessert orders and the rest of the evening they spoke about Tristan’s work—the same important project he needed to discuss with the mayor. Ella was sorry when the evening ended and they arrived back home.

As they moved through the garage door into the kitchen, she put her bag on the counter and turned around. Tristan stood close behind her, his expression unreadable, his presence overpowering…his kissable mouth almost too close to resist.

Pressing her palms against her jumping stomach, Ella manufactured an easy smile. “Can I get you anything before we go to bed?”

She withered down to her shoes.

Bad choice of words.

“Thanks, no.” His brow pinched. “But there’s some-thing I want to ask you, Ella. I have a function to attend next weekend. A black-tie affair. I wondered if you’d like to come.”

The flock of butterflies she’d been holding released in her stomach. Was he asking her on a real date? Her? Little Miss Ordinary?

“There’s a bigwig in property analysis going,” he went on. “I’d like the chance to speak with him in a more relaxed setting, but it’s a couples only night. Would you mind helping me out? After tonight, I realize you’d make the perfect companion for that kind of thing.” He laughed softly. “I’ll try not to make it too boring for you.”

She closed her parted lips and willed the silly stinging from behind her nose.

So this was a business proposition?

Well, of course it was. Ridiculous for her to think anything else. Next weekend he wanted a date who was polite, presentable and knew her place. A platonic someone who wouldn’t interfere with the business he wanted to discuss.

The housekeeper in her glad rags.

But she was being overly sensitive, she thought. Tristan was only being honest and it wasn’t as if she had anything better to do.

Her lips curved. “Sure. I don’t mind helping out.”

“Excellent.” He smiled but she glimpsed something else swimming in the depths of his eyes.

No, that was pure fantasy. The only stars in this room were in her eyes and she needed to see clearly or she was in danger of being hurt—and it wouldn’t be Tristan’s fault, but hers for being so silly.

And yet Tristan continued to hold her eyes with his, then his head slanted and he came a step closer. When he reached for her, Ella stiffened and her surroundings seemed to recede and dim. But he didn’t kiss her. Rather he touched her left earring, his hand near her neck warming the skin.

His voice was husky, deep. “I’ve wanted to say all night…these are very becoming.”

Could he hear her heart thumping? “They’re not real,” she managed to say.

“Pity. Diamonds would suit you.” His gaze lingered, over her ear, down her jaw, along her trembling lips, causing a fire to flicker up her neck and light her cheeks. For a moment she thought he might lean forward and touch his lips to hers, that he might take her in his arms and kiss her as she’d dreamed so often that he would.

The possibility seemed to hang between them, real and weighted with temptation, but then he merely smiled and moved away.

“Good night, Ella,” he said over his shoulder.

She let out her breath on a quiet sigh. “Good night.”

She was about to float off to her bedroom when the kitchen extension rang. Tristan had gone, perhaps already on the stairs that led to his bedroom. She’d take a message. Nothing could be that important this late on a Saturday night.

“Tristan Barkley’s residence.” She waited but no reply. “Hello.” Ella frowned. “Anyone there?”

As the clock on the wall ticked out the seconds, in a dark recess of her mind she imagined the hand clutch-ing the other receiver. Had a flash of the face smirking at her irritation.

Slamming the phone down, she tried to catch her sudden shortness of breath. She touched her brow and felt the damp sheen of panic.

But she was overreacting. It was the talk of Scarpini over dinner and the fact the inheritance had come through that had her jumping to conclusions. That call had merely been a wrong number.

Still, before going to bed, she checked the back door—not once but twice.