Blackmailed by the Rich Man: In the Millionaire's Possession / Blackmailed Into Marriage / Bedded by Blackmail

He paused. ‘An old friend has offered us his villa in the South of France. It stands on a headland above St Benoit Plage, and all the bedrooms have views of the Mediterranean. What do you think?’

‘You seem to have made up your mind already,’ Helen said. ‘So what does it matter?’

She thought she heard him sigh. ‘Then consider again about New York, Hélène. After all, how long is it since you had a holiday?’

‘I went skiing with the school in my last spring term,’ she said. ‘That’s what the passport was for.’ She paused. ‘But I can’t just leave here. I have things to do—responsibilities. Besides…’ She halted awkwardly.

‘Besides, spending time alone with me in America, or anywhere, is not your idea of a vacation?’ His voice was faintly caustic. ‘Is that what you were about to say?’

‘Something of the kind, perhaps,’ Helen agreed woodenly.

‘I suppose I should find your candour admirable, ma mie,’ he said, after a pause. ‘However, one day soon—or one night—we shall have to discuss your ideas in more detail.’

His tone sharpened, became businesslike. ‘In the meantime, I suggest you use some of the money I shall deposit in your account to begin recruiting extra staff for the house and grounds.’

‘But there’s no need,’ Helen protested. ‘We can manage quite well as we are.’

‘It is not a question of managing, ma chère,’ Marc told her crisply. ‘Monsieur and Madame Marland are no longer young, bien sûr, and at some point will wish to retire. In the meantime they will be glad of help, especially when there is entertaining to be done or when you are away.’

‘But I’m never away,’ she protested.

‘Until now, perhaps,’ he said. ‘But that will change. You will be my wife, Hélène, not merely my housekeeper. Perhaps I have not made that sufficiently clear. When my work takes me abroad there will be times when I shall require you to go with me.’

Her voice rose slightly. ‘You expect me to be your—travelling companion?’

‘My companion,’ he told her softly, ‘and my lover. Sleeping with you in my arms was so sweet, cherie, that I cannot wait to repeat the experience.’

‘Thank you.’ She kept her voice stony, telling herself that the faint quiver she felt inside was anger. Hating the fact that she was blushing.

She took a steadying breath. ‘Have you any more orders for me, or may I go now?’

He laughed. ‘If I gave orders, Hélène, you would be coming with me to New York.’ He gave her a second to consider that, then added more gently, ‘Sleep well, mon ange—but think of me as you close your eyes, hein?’

She murmured something incoherent, and replaced the handset.

His unexpected call had shaken her, and raised issues she’d not wanted to contemplate. Questions of autonomy, among others.

It was disturbing that he seemed to want her to share his life at all kinds of levels she hadn’t imagined. Starting with this—this honeymoon in the South of France. Exercising his power by taking her from her own familiar environment to his own domain, she thought, and shivered.

Slowly, she went up to her room. She took off his ring and placed it in the box which also housed her grandmother’s pearls—bestowed on her for her eighteenth birthday, and the only other real valuable that she possessed.

Jewellery like the ruby didn’t go with her lifestyle, and its non-stop cleaning and gardening. Nor would she take on extra staff, as he’d decreed. The arrival of his tame architect and his work crew was quite enough of an invasion of privacy, making her feel as if her personal hold on Monteagle was being slowly eroded.

But that wasn’t all of it, she thought, looking down at her bare hand. There was still part of her in rebellion against the decision that had been forced on her. And she didn’t want to admit to anyone, least of all herself, that both she and Monteagle would soon belong to Marc completely. Or display the symbol of that possession.

Think of me. His words came back to haunt her as she slid into bed and pulled the covers over her.

Oh, but he’d made sure of that, she thought bitterly. Turned it into an essential instead of a choice. Placed himself at the forefront of her mind each time she tried to sleep, making himself impossible to dismiss.

And when sheer fatigue overcame her, her sleep was restless and patchy, scarred by dreams that she burned with shame to remember in the morning. Dreams so real that when she woke she found herself reaching for him again across her narrow bed, before shocked realisation dawned.

She turned over, furious and humiliated, burying her heated face in the pillow.

‘Damn him,’ she whispered feverishly. ‘Oh, damn him to hell.’

She got up, late and listless, and searched for distraction. With Daisy’s assistance she finally removed the fragile bed and window hangings from the State Bedroom, folded them carefully into plastic sacks, and took them down to the village to deliver to Mrs Stevens at the post office.

The post mistress accepted them with a workmanlike glint in her eye. ‘Now, this will be a real pleasure,’ she said. ‘We’ll start on the cutting-out at once, while you decide on the new fabric.’ She gave Helen a kind smile. ‘So you’re courting, then, Miss Frayne—that French gentleman who stayed at the Arms a while back, I hear. Met him then, did you?’

The village grapevine, Helen realised, was in full operation already.

‘Oh, no,’ she said with perfect truth, aware at the same time that she was blushing. ‘It was before that—at a meeting in London.’ Just don’t ask how long before, that’s all.

Mrs Stevens nodded with satisfaction. ‘I knew it must be so,’ she said.

And I wish it had been. The thought came to Helen, unbidden and shocking in its implication, as she made the short trip to the Vicarage.

‘Oh, my dear girl.’ Marion Lowell hugged her ebulliently. ‘How amazing—a whirlwind romance. And such a gorgeous man.’ She turned to her husband. ‘Jeff, darling, now we have an excuse to drink that champagne we won in the Christmas tombola. I’m so glad we didn’t give it back.’

‘I hope none of the parishioners call,’ Jeff Lowell said, grinning as he passed round the fizzing glasses. ‘They’ll probably have me defrocked.’

‘Will you be getting married here in the church?’ Mrs Lowell asked, after they’d drunk to her happiness, and Helen shook her head, flushing.

‘I’m afraid not. It will be at the registry office in Aldenford.’

The Vicar looked at her quietly. ‘I’d be delighted to hold a short service of blessing afterwards, if you’d like that. Perhaps you’d mention it to your fiancé.’

‘Yes, of course,’ said Helen, hating herself for lying.

She felt sombre as she walked home. They were so kind, so pleased for her, as if she and Marc had really fallen headlong in love.

Thank goodness they had no idea of the soulless—and temporary—bargain she’d struck with him. His words still echoed in her mind. You do not profess undying love… I find that—refreshing.

And that, she thought wearily, seemed to say it all.

As she rounded the bend in the road a lorry carrying scaffolding poles went past her, and carefully negotiated its way between Monteagle’s tall wrought-iron gates.

She watched it bewilderedly, then began to run after it up the drive.

In front of the main entrance chaos confronted her. There seemed to be vans and trucks everywhere, with ladders and building supplies being briskly unloaded.

As she paused, staring round uncertainly, a man came striding towards her. He was of medium height, with brown hair and rimless glasses, and his face was unsmiling.

He said, ‘I’m sorry, but the house is no longer open for visitors.’

‘Where did you get that idea?’ Helen demanded coldly.

‘From Monsieur Marc Delaroche,’ he said. ‘The owner of the property.’