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

“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.