Robyn Grady - Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction - Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction

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.”

The relief seeping through Ella’s system was so wonderfully intense, she almost laughed.

It hadn’t been Drago Scarpini buzzing for access at the Barkley gate. As was true of most bullies, Scarpini was a coward, a cockroach. He wouldn’t knock on Tristan Barkley’s door and expose himself like that, even to get to the person he obviously still viewed as a worthwhile payoff, she thought.

Then Ella saw Tristan’s face, his tanned complex-ion paler than she’d ever seen it. His nostrils flared as he stared at the floor, then he slammed the back of his fist against the wall.

Her stomach muscles clutched in reaction.

“Tristan?” she murmured.

He turned and glared at her as if she were the enemy. Then he dragged a hand through his hair and his savage expression eased slightly. “Ella, you can clear the table now.”

He stabbed a button to open the gates and seconds later a car rumbled up the drive.

Ella let out the breath she’d been holding. Whoever this visitor was, clearly he wasn’t welcome. But that wasn’t any of her business. She was an employee with a job to do and despite Tristan now knowing her dirty laundry, that hadn’t changed.