A Spanish Vengeance. Diana Hamilton

beg him to save her from the old treacherous longings Diego had woken within her. But they didn’t have the kind of passionate relationship that would make that possible. For years now she’d tried her best to appear coolly sophisticated, in control. He would hate it if she went to pieces.

      Her eyes stung with tears and she bent to adjust a strap on one of her shoes to hide them. Dear practical, sensible Ben would be mortified if he thought she was even considering—for one split second—prostituting herself to save the magazine.

      But she wasn’t, was she? she adjured herself silently. No way! Not ever! She straightened, willing herself to appear normal. ‘We can’t talk about it now. Later. We can stay another half an hour then you can take me home and we’ll discuss it.’

      A look of incredulity spread across his pleasant features. ‘The Dads will want to know what he said to you, you know they will. We can’t just walk out of our own party. People will think it’s odd, to say the least!’

      ‘No, they won’t.’ Lisa sighed resignedly, pointing out, ‘They’ll think we’re like all newly engaged couples—panting to be alone together.’

      ‘Don’t be crude, Lise—it doesn’t suit you.’ His frown deepened. ‘And why all this cloak-and-dagger stuff? Either the guy’s going to finish with us, or he isn’t. A straight yes or no will do.’

      Ignoring his reprimand—there had been no driven eagerness in their desire to be alone together so he wouldn’t understand what she’d been getting at—she tucked her hand beneath his arm and explained heavily, ‘It’s not as simple as that. Raffacani made a proposition. With strings attached. I need to tell you about them, in private, before everything comes crashing down round our heads.’

      That earned her a puzzled glance but stopped him arguing and they rejoined the party. And for the entire fifteen minutes or so while they mingled and chatted Lisa’s head felt as though her brains had been scrambled, the hopelessness of the situation making her stomach cramp and her heart bang against her ribs.

      She had it in her power to save her colleagues’ jobs, ensure them a brighter, more secure future. One word from her would prevent Arthur Clayton and her father from looking into the bleak face of failure. She owed them something, didn’t she?

      A light hand on her shoulder had her tensing her spine but it was only Maggie Devonshire, the Picture Editor. ‘Caught you at last!’ Her kindly face beamed with pleasure. ‘I’m so happy for both of you—two young things starting out together, that’s so beautiful!’ Ready tears misted her tired hazel eyes. ‘Show me the ring.’

      As Lisa put her hand into the older woman’s her own eyes stung. Maggie was one of the best; she bore her troubles with fortitude and grace. Her son had suffered brain damage at birth; Billy had the mind of a four-year-old in a young man’s body. Because Maggie’s husband had walked out on her many years ago she coped on her own, delivering Billy to the day care centre on her way to work, collecting him on her way home. And never one self-pitying word. If she lost her job she would never find another. In her mid-fifties all she could hope for would be something low paid and menial—cleaning offices, maybe.

      A clammy chill spread over every inch of her body as Maggie, her admiration of the diamond hoop voluble, released her hand and confided, ‘It was lovely of you to invite me but I really must be off. Billy’s spending the evening with a neighbour. I don’t want to impose on her good nature. You never know, I might need her again. A handsome millionaire might ask me out to dinner!’

      As she turned away with a light self-mocking laugh Lisa put an unsteady hand on Ben’s arm. ‘Let’s go,’ she murmured thickly.

      Could she barter her body for the sake of the magazine and the jobs it provided? And why did thinking about exactly what that would entail send dark heat surging through her veins?

      She would have to return Ben’s ring. How hurt would he be?

      Could a short affair—how long would it be before Diego decided she bored him?—leave her anything other than deeply humiliated?

      Even more deeply humiliated than she felt right now, she decided, angry with herself as her skin began to flutter and her heartbeat quicken at the mere thought of making love with Diego Raffacani.

      ‘You will do as he asks?’

      Slumped on the sofa, the coffee she’d made cold on the table in front of him, Ben had listened to all she’d had to say in heavy silence. Now he waited for an answer to his question.

      Lisa, pacing back and forth, driven by a gripping inner tension, couldn’t find one and only came to an abrupt, shocked standstill when Ben stated flatly, ‘You want to. You still want him. Five years ago you swore you were madly in love with him. Sophie and I thought it was teenage infatuation. None of us knew who he really was and I put the worst possible interpretation on the whole thing. I thought he was stringing you along for what he could wheedle out of you.’ His shoulders hunched in a wry shrug. ‘When he didn’t turn up that night I assumed that was the end of it, but it obviously wasn’t.’