He reached a hand out. She tensed, her breath solidifying. He fingered the filmy material of the sarong.
‘Very pretty. Have you been out shopping as well as enjoying the pool?’
She shook her head. He let his hand fall.
‘You’d better go out this afternoon, then. You’ll need clothes while we’re here. Especially evening wear. There’s a reception tonight. Buy whatever you think appropriate. Do you know Singapore?’
She shook her head again.
‘Well, simply mention your preferred designers to the concierge, and they’ll direct a car to take you. Obviously you will charge all purchases to me. Do you want a personal shopper?’
This time she managed to answer.
‘No—no, thank you.’
He nodded cursorily. His eyes were frowning now.
‘Did you bring any jewellery?’
For a moment she wondered if he was being sarcastic, but then he was speaking again.
‘Then make sure you buy a dress that goes with diamonds.’
Words blurted from her. ‘You’re not buying me jewellery!’
He gave a derisive smile.
‘I don’t need to, Portia. I’ve already bought you. And the family bank, of course—and the stately home to go with it. You sold yourself to me, remember? Speaking of which…’
He reached forward again and flicked loose her sarong. It fluttered to the floor.
His dark eyes flickered over her. She felt as if she were naked. The damp swim suit outlined every curve of her body, clinging to her breasts, her stomach, outlining her pubis between the high-cut legs.
‘Such a pity,’ he said softly. ‘I have an appointment with a government minister in forty minutes.’
He turned and walked away, back to his screen full of stock prices.
‘Buy something—interesting—to wear tonight.’
She bolted for the sanctuary of her room.
CHAPTER NINE
THE car wound along a long, curving drive. On either side flambeaux flared, extravagantly lighting the way to a huge house set back in manicured grounds off the exclusive Tanglin Road. It was ablaze with light and people thronged within, visible through the acres of glass windows.
As always, as Portia stepped out of the limo, the heat of the tropics hit her after the air-conditioned cool of the car. Her high heels scrunched on the gravel as she lifted her long skirt minutely to make it easier to walk the short distance into the house. At her side the tall tuxedoed figure of Diego Saez kept pace.
The evening passed in a blur. The majority of people at the reception were Singaporeans, but there was a sizeable sprinkling of other nationalities, from European to African. She must have been introduced a hundred times, she realised, but she had taken almost nothing in. Apart from some of the younger European women, whose eyes openly speculated and who reached their own conclusions about what she was doing in Diego Saez’s company, no one was interested in her. Diego Saez was the one they wanted to talk to. She was profoundly grateful.
Habit got her through the evening. She made polite chit-chat, dutifully admired Singapore’s achievements, talked a little about opera and art, and sipped at her champagne. Inside her the knot of tension tightened with every passing moment. She was continually aware of the dark presence at her side.
Dreading the moment when he would take her back to the hotel suite.
No, don’t think. Don’t think about that. Don’t think about anything.
She took another mouthful of champagne.
Diego listened impassively as the chairman of one of Singapore’s largest shipping companies commented on the growing cost of marine insurance. He was paying no attention whatsoever to the subject under discussion.