The Spaniard's Blackmailed Bride. Trish Morey
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The Spaniard’s Blackmailed Bride
Trish Morey
MILLS & BOON
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For Anne Gracie, who introduced me to Diablo.
One fantastic author.
An even better friend.
Thanks, Anne, this one’s for you!
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
CHAPTER TWO
CHAPTER THREE
CHAPTER FOUR
CHAPTER FIVE
CHAPTER SIX
CHAPTER SEVEN
CHAPTER EIGHT
CHAPTER NINE
CHAPTER TEN
CHAPTER ELEVEN
CHAPTER TWELVE
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
EPILOGUE
CHAPTER ONE
IT WAS much too late for a social call.
Briar Davenport crossed the entrance hall uneasily, the click of her heels on the dusty terrazzo tiles echoing in the lofty space while a premonition that all was not right in the world played havoc with her nerves.
Late-night visitors rarely meant good news.
The chimes rang out yet again and she reined in an unfamiliar urge to yell for whoever it was to hang on. But Davenports never yelled through doors—even when their senses were strained tight from trying to work out which family heirloom to send next to auction—it was bad enough that these days they were reduced to opening them.
Her hand hovered over the door handle for a moment while she took a deep breath, trying to calm her frayed nerves and think logically. It didn’t have to be bad news. Sooner or later their run of bad luck had to change. Why not tonight?
Then she pulled open the door and bad luck just got worse.
‘You!’
Diablo Barrentes leant into the open doorway, one arm propped high above her head, his black-clad torso arching over hers, and it was all she could do not to reel back from the sheer force of his hard-wired body. In the spill of the entry lighting he looked more like an extension of the night sky than a man—dark and filled with untold dangers. Tonight his shoulder-length black hair was pulled back into a short ponytail that did nothing to detract from his masculinity and everything to emphasize his dramatic buccaneer looks, but it was the flash of triumph in those black-lit eyes, the slight upturn at the corners of his full lips, that turned her thoughts to sudden panic and had her fingers itching to jam that piece of timber right back where it had come from.
Instead she forced herself to stand her ground, jagging her chin higher as if it might increase her already not insubstantial height. In heels her eyes fell but an inch short of his.
‘What do you want?’
‘I’m surprised,’ he said, one side of his mouth rising higher as if amused by her efforts to match his height. ‘I half expected you to slam the door in my face.’
Oh, Lord, the last thing she needed was to be reminded of how much her fingers itched to do just that. Already her grip on the door had turned her knuckles white as she schooled her voice to clipped civility. ‘Then I don’t need to tell you you’re not welcome here.’
‘Still, I am here.’
Four words, four simple words, and yet spoken in the remnants of that rich Castilian accent like a threat. Fear tracked a spidery path through her veins.
‘Why?’
‘And how delightful to see you too, Briar,’ he said, ignoring her question while emphasizing her incivility. But being polite was hardly a concern to her right now. Not when his accent curled around her name as if he were devouring it.
As if he were devouring her.
She shivered. If he thought that, then he was definitely reading the wrong menu.
‘Believe me,’ she squeezed out, battling to keep her voice even, ‘the pleasure is all yours.’
He laughed, barely more than a chuckle, a low sound that rumbled, somehow insinuating itself into her flesh and right through to her bones.
‘Sí,’ he agreed, his eyes making no apology as they traversed her length, all the way from her eyes, searing a trail over her curves and down her designer denim-clad legs to her pink leather boots, and then all the way up again.
The slow way.
The hot way.
His eyes, heavy with raw heat and firm possession, finally returned to hers and it was all she could do to remember to breathe.
‘It’s been my pleasure, indeed,’ he murmured.
Anger bubbled to the surface with her very next intake of air, overtaking the slow sizzle his hooded gaze had left in its wake. How dared he look at her that way—as if he owned her? He had no right! Diablo Barrentes was kidding himself if he ever thought he would possess her. He’d never even come close.
Even so, she couldn’t stop herself crossing her arms over her chest. If her nipples looked anywhere near as rock-hard as they felt, he would be in no doubt as to how that seemingly lazy once-over had affected her, and she didn’t want him to know about it. She would rather not have to acknowledge that fact herself.
‘You still haven’t told me why you’re here.’
‘I’ve come to see your father.’
‘I doubt it. I seriously doubt my father would ever want to see you again—not after everything you’ve done to undermine his business and ruin our lives in the process.’
He shrugged, lifting his thick dark eyebrows in a way that told her he didn’t care what she thought, infuriating her even more.
‘Your doubts are not my concern. My business, however, is, and right now you are preventing me from conducting that business. So, if you’ll just move aside?’
She straightened, not budging an inch. ‘It’s late. And, even if it weren’t, you’re wasting your time. You’re the last person my father would want to do business with.’
His jaw shifted sideways as he leaned forward, his black eyes coming closer.
‘Then obviously you have no idea what your father is capable of.’
His warm breath brushed her face, testosterone laced with coffee overlaid with something far more potent—
Was it ruthlessness?
Or cruelty? And