Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction: Bedded by Blackmail / Millionaire's Secret Seduction
strumming the soft strains of a ballad.
As the maître d’ left them, Ella perused the listed entrées. No prices. She couldn’t imagine how expen-sive each must be.
A waiter nodded a greeting at Tristan as he passed. Tristan nodded back.
Ella lifted a brow. “You obviously come here often.”
He kept his eyes on his menu. “Often enough.”
She wouldn’t ask with whom. Perhaps a different lady each time. He never spoke about the women he dated—she knew only what she occasionally saw in magazines. Tristan Barkley was a brilliant enigma who had yet to lose his heart. Frankly, she couldn’t imagine one woman being enough for him. She only had to look into those dark, hot eyes to know he’d be insatiable in the bedroom.
When a vision flew into her mind—naked limbs, glistening and entwined on his sheets—Ella’s heartbeat deepened. She gripped her water glass and took a long, cool sip. This evening would be sweet torture.
They chose their meals—prime steak for him, sea-food for her. By the time their food arrived, they’d discussed music, politics and books. He was surprised that she liked mystery novels, too. When he poured their second glass of wine, she realized the nerves in her stomach had settled, almost to the point where she could have forgotten that handsome, intriguing man sitting opposite was her boss.
She was interested to know, “How’s your steak?” It smelled delicious and appeared to be cooked to perfection.
He dabbed the corner of his mouth with his napkin. “Almost as good as your filet mignon.” She laughed, unconvinced, and his brow furrowed. “It’s true.” He lifted his wine goblet to his lips. “Must be good not to have to think about the dishes tonight.”
“I clean up as I go. It’s not so bad with a dishwasher.”
“Did your mother teach you to cook?”
“She wasn’t much of a hand at cooking, even basics.” She gave a weak smile. “That’s how I got so good.” After her mother’s accident eighteen years ago, someone had to take care of those things, she thought.
“Bet your father appreciated your finesse.”
Her chest tightened and her gaze fell to the flicker-ing centerpiece candle. “He died when I was ten. A coronary. Heart disease runs in the family.”
Tristan slowly set down his glass. “I’m sorry about your dad.”
“So am I. He was an exceptional man.” She smiled at a memory. “He taught me to French knit. You wind wool around small nails tacked into the top of a wooden cotton reel and pull the knitting down through the hole—” She cut herself off and, embarrassed, shrugged. “Sounds kind of lame now.”
He searched her eyes. “It sounds as if you loved him very much. What did he do for a living?”
“He trained horses. We had stables. Dad got up every morning before dawn, even Sundays. His only vice was betting on the track. Not a lot, but always a few dollars each week.”
Perhaps Scarpini had inherited his thirst for gambling.
Ella gripped her cutlery tight. She would not let memories of that man intrude tonight.
“I’ve never understood some people’s need to gam-ble,” Tristan said. “If they thought it through, did the research, they’d understand you lose more than you win.”
Her smile was wry. “I think it’s more to do with the high when they do win.”
“Like a drug?”
She nodded.
“You like to gamble?”
She shook her head fiercely. “Not at all.”
“I’m sure you’ve already guessed, neither do I. I only bet on sure things.”
His gaze roamed her face and a delicious fire flared over her skin. While she fought the urge to pat her burning cheeks, he poured the last of the wine and changed the subject.“ Do you have any brothers or sisters, Ella?”
She inwardly cringed. Not her favorite subject. “It’s a matter for debate.”
One dark eyebrow hitched. “Sounds intriguing.”
“It’s a long story.”
He pushed his nearly clean plate aside. “I’m a good listener.”
She studied him across the table, the encouraging smile, the thoughtful dark eyes, and right or wrong she wanted to share—truly be more than the house staff, if only for a night.
As the waiter cleared their plates, Ella searched for words and the courage to say them.
“I have a half brother.”
“Doesn’t look as though you approve.”
“I have my reasons.”
His eyes rested on her, patiently waiting for more.
Did she want to get that familiar with Tristan? she wondered. She was a private person, too. The quiet one at school. The wallflower at the dance. But she wasn’t sixteen anymore. She was almost twenty-six and dining with a man she didn’t know a whole lot about yet trusted nonetheless. If she was ever going to stretch her wings, now was the time.
Her fingers on the stem, she twirled her glass on the table. “Over two years ago I gave up my job to care full-time for my mother when she was diagnosed with cancer. The disease metastasized to her bones and…” Ella swal-lowed against the emotion swelling in her throat. “It affected her organs,” she went on, “including her brain. Toward the end she sometimes forgot what year it was.”
Since her fall down the back stairs eighteen years ago, Roslyn had been “delicate.” She’d broken her col-larbone and both legs and had lain in a coma for six weeks. Her bones had slowly mended, but her cognitive functions never fully recovered. She’d still been a happy, loving person, just a bit…slow.
A pulse beat in Tristan’s jaw. “Taking care of your ill mother…that must’ve been hard for you both.”
At times unbearably hard, watching the person you love most withering away, losing any capacity to care for herself. “Finally she begged me to find a place for her in some facility. I couldn’t do it.”
His voice deepened. “She was lucky to have you.”
When he sat back, she could feel him waiting for the half brother to make an appearance.
She’d thought if she could banish that horrid man from her thoughts, memories of him might fade. She hadn’t spoken his name in eight months, but the image of his face was as vivid as the day the police had banged on her door, Scarpini smirking alongside of them.
But rather than bottling it up, perhaps talking about it would help exorcise some of the pain, humiliation and anger she still felt.
She concentrated on the candlelight casting sparkling prisms off her crystal glass. “A few weeks before my mother died, a man showed up claiming to be my father’s illegitimate son.”
“You didn’t believe him?”
That familiar battle raged inside of her. Was he? Wasn’t he? Did it make a difference if they were related? she wondered. After the agony Scarpini had put her through, she had no desire to find out.
“He was very convincing…” She thought back. “But I didn’t trust his eyes.”
“The windows to the soul.”
She looked from the candlelight across the table. Tristan’s eyes were clear and filled with unswerving strength and sound purpose.
“Drago Scarpini’s were empty. He seemed to look right through me. And his smile…” Icy tendrils trailed down her back and she shivered. “His smile was cold. But he charmed my mother