Ally Blake - Bargaining with the Billionaire - The Blackmail Bargain / The Billion-Dollar Bride / How To Marry a Billionaire

But when he spoke it was to say, ‘You didn’t comment on which parent she most resembles.’

Peta steadied her voice before answering, ‘She looks like herself, and judging by the set of her chin she’s inherited both her father’s and mother’s share of determination.’

Laughing quietly, he tucked her hand into the crook of his arm. The warmth of his body sent hot shivers roiling across her skin. I’m in real trouble, she thought confusedly. What am I going to do?

Stop fantasising about babies, to start with!

‘Lucia can wax eloquent about her strong will,’ he said, and sent an enigmatic glance down at her as they walked towards the door of the sitting room. ‘Enjoying yourself?’

‘Mostly,’ she admitted honestly.

He nodded. ‘Just remember the whole purpose of this exercise.’

Not exactly a threat, yet his words reminded her brutally that to him she was a pawn, someone to be used for a particular purpose and then discarded. OK, so he liked babies; big deal. Tyrants and dictators liked babies too.

The pain that accompanied her thoughts was bitter medicine, but if it cured her of this feverish desire she’d endure it.

Just outside the door he stopped her with a light touch on her arm, and bent his head. Heart hammering, she looked up—and read cold calculation in his eyes.

He didn’t kiss her on the mouth. Instead his lips touched the angle of her jaw, and then his teeth closed for a second on the lobe of her ear, firing a bolt of delicious sensation into the centre of her being.

It was over almost instantly, but the aftermath stayed in her eyes and the delicate colour of her skin. When he opened the door for her and ushered her back into the room, a possessive hand in the small of her back, she saw Ian’s face clamp into rigidity.

A needle of pain worked its way through her. It hurt to see Ian suffer, even though she could never return his feelings. Why did things—people—have to change?

When the evening was over she thanked Gillian and Ian civilly and said goodbye to the Radcliffes.

‘I hope it’s not goodbye,’ Lucia said promptly. ‘We don’t live that far away.’

Not in distance perhaps…

Peta smiled and said something casual and inoffensive.

Halfway home Curt asked, ‘Why did you brush off Lucia’s invitation?’ In spite of his matter-of-fact tone he wanted an answer.

Her face set. ‘Because I was there on false pretences,’ she returned on a hard note. ‘Besides, the princess was only being polite—we won’t meet again.’

‘Her manners are exquisite,’ he agreed, ‘but she’s learned to protect herself from people she doesn’t like. If she hadn’t wanted to get to know you better she wouldn’t have suggested it.’

‘We have nothing in common. Once this charade is over I’ll never see her again.’

‘You’re an inverted snob,’ he said coolly.

‘I am not .’ Furious, she flared, ‘Except for a relationship with you—a relationship based on blackmail!—what common ground could there possibly be between me and a princess who’s married to a millionaire?’

‘You seemed to have enough to talk about,’ he said neutrally. ‘You certainly didn’t hold back when it came to discussing the state of the world. And you share a certain forthrightness. Because she spent years having to watch every word she said, Lucia rather enjoys stating her opinions.’

Peta shrugged, but his words echoed in her mind after she’d given him a cup of coffee and tensely waited out the forty-five minutes he insisted on staying.

‘More camouflage,’ he said laconically.

By the time he finally left her nerves had shredded to rags, but this time he didn’t kiss her, although the glitter in his eyes told her that he too felt the swift uprush of hunger, hot and sweet and fiery.

Whenever she smelt the scent of gardenia, she thought wearily as she closed the door behind him, she’d remember his addictive kisses. And wondered if he was deliberately holding back, making her more hungry with each fugitive caress.

No. He might be trying to manipulate her, but not into his bed; he wanted her flushed and eager so that Ian was convinced.

She went back into the sitting room, looking around it with clouded eyes. The contrast between its elderly furnishings, chosen for economy and hard wear, and Gillian’s house couldn’t have been greater.

About as much contrast as there was between her life and Curt’s.

‘So stop the sneaky little wish-fulfilment fantasies,’ she told herself harshly. ‘Curt’s baby indeed! You must be mad.’

‘First ride in a chopper?’ the helicopter pilot enquired, stowing her pack away.

‘Yes.’

He grinned and said confidently, ‘You’ll love it. It’s a great day and all Northland’s going to be spread out like a map under us.’ He took an envelope from his pocket. ‘A note from the boss,’ he explained, handing it over.

Peta opened it with trembling fingers. It was the first time she’d seen Curt’s writing, and for some reason the occasion assumed ridiculous importance.

Like him, his writing breathed bold, aggressive power. He wasn’t able to meet her in Auckland; his personal assistant would pick her up.

He signed it simply, ‘C’.

Curt by name and curt by nature, she thought, chilled. He was probably making sure he didn’t sign any documentation she might be able to use against him.

Well, he didn’t need to worry. She knew exactly why she was there. She’d keep her side of the bargain.

The pilot was right; the trip down was fantastic. Peta exclaimed with pleasure as Northland’s long peninsula, barely a hundred miles across at its widest part, unrolled beneath them in a glory of gold and green, hemmed by the blue of the Pacific Ocean on the left and the dangerous green waters of the Tasman Sea on the right; estuaries gleamed in the opalescent blues and greens of a paua shell.

‘We need rain,’ she said, looking down at toast-coloured countryside as they neared Auckland.

‘Rain? Have a heart, it’s summer,’ the pilot expostulated. ‘Nobody wants rain in summer.’

And there in a nutshell was the difference between city people and those from the country. She thought of the bag she’d packed so carefully that morning, choosing and discarding clothes, getting more and more stressed until she’d realised that no matter what she took, she couldn’t match the exquisite simplicity of the clothes worn by Gillian and Lucia Radcliffe.

With as little taste for humiliation as anyone, she hoped Curt had remembered his promise to hire clothes.

He’d remember. She relaxed as the helicopter began its descent. Overbearing blackmailer he might be, but she’d put down good money on nothing escaping that formidable mind.

Besides, he had an image to sustain, one that home-sewn clothes would wreck. An ironic smile tilted her lips; try as she did, she just couldn’t see Curt worrying about his image!

His personal assistant turned out to be a middle-aged woman, elegant and somewhat distant, who nevertheless greeted Peta with a smile and a ready fund of conversation as she drove her to a large house overlooking the harbour in Herne Bay, one of Auckland’s marine suburbs.

‘Mr McIntosh will be here as soon as he can,’ she said, turning into a gateway. ‘He’s really sorry—an important colleague arrived in Auckland unexpectedly this morning.’

‘It’s all right,’ Peta said easily, trying to convince herself that she wasn’t gripped by aching disappointment.

Perhaps some of her feelings showed in her tone, for his assistant gave her a sideways glance. When the engine had died she said, ‘In the meantime, he told me that you need additions to your wardrobe. I’ve organised a woman who dresses people to come along to see you; I think you’ll like her.’ Her smile relaxed. ‘Of course, that might be because she’s my daughter.’