Taken by the highest bidder Page 10

  Let him.

  In some ways it was a relief to discover she wasn't Johann's wife, but in other ways it was mortifying. Hurtful. Shameful.

  All these years she'd worked so hard. She'd scraped, scrimped, selling everything she owned to help support Johann in his decadent lifestyle. My God. He must have been laughing all the way to the bank.

  "That's why he could gamble me away," she choked. "I was nothing."

  "That's not true."

  "It is. At least to Johann." She shook her head, not wanting sympathy, never wanting sympathy, and yet she didn't know what to do with the wretched feelings inside. "You must think me silly, but all I can think about is how he took my wedding ring back—said we needed it to pay bills. And how he insisted I cut Gabriela's hair myself since we didn't have money. And yet, he was the baron van Bergen and everyone loved him. Everyone fawned all over him while Gabby and I struggled just to get by."

  "Gabby's lucky she had you, Samantha."

  Her lungs burned, her eyes stung but she didn't let the tears fall. She sat up taller, straightened. "How long have you known?"

  "A while."

  "And how long is that?"

  "Longer than you'd like."

  She nodded jerkily. "So Johann never married Mercedes."

  "They had an affair, and were still living together in Monte Carlo when Mercedes died. Johann kept Mercedes’ baby,"

  "But why? Why did Johann want to adopt Gabby?"

  "If I'm being generous ‘I’ll say sentimental reasons, but I'm not generous and I think his motives were purely financial. He was greedy. He thought if he adopted Gabby, he'd have access to her trust fund."

  "But he wouldn't?"

  "No. I'm not her guardian but I'm the trustee. Gabby doesn't even have access until she's twenty-five."

  "You were right," Sam said after a moment, teeth chattering from shock not cold. "Gabby's not even five yet and already men want her for her money. It's so wrong, too. Gabby's beautiful, and smart, and funny. But even better, she has a gorgeous heart. She should be loved, and loved for herself."

  "But isn't that what everyone wants?" Cristiano countered softly.

  He was right. It was what she wanted, it's what she'd always wanted. She blinked back tears butCristiano saw them. He swept the tip of his finger beneath each of her eyes to catch her tears, and she grabbed his hand, wrapped her fingers around his, and held on.

  He tugged her to her feet and brought her toward him. Sam stared up into his face wide-eyed. With one hand he tilted her face to his, and the other he slid down her back, his hand so hot against her skin, his hand settling low in her back, pressing against her, melting something inside her, heating a part of her that had never been warmed.

  She could feel his thighs nudge hers, feel his deep chest ex­pand as he took a breath and then his head dropped as he cupped her face in his hand and covered her mouth with his.

  As if he could feel her stiffen and resist, Cristiano gentled the kiss, stroked her cheek, her resistance melted.

  Slowly he deepened the kiss, opening her mouth persuasively beneath his and Sam sighed as Cristiano's tongue slid across her tingling lower lip.

  Her brain was telling her no but her body was melting into his.

  And then even her brain was melting as his tongue touched hers, and his hand briefly covered her breast, his palm firm against her nipple, and she trembled, and helplessly she moved closer, wanting more, wanting him.

  His kiss, and the caress, electrified her. She'd never felt any­thing like it. And when he eventually lifted his head, she couldn't move, couldn't think. All she could do was look at him with wide, bemused eyes.

  Seeing her confusion, he smiled grimly and dropped his head, pressed another kiss to her jawbone near her ear, and whispered, "I've no morals. Don't trust me. Don't think I'm a good guy. I'm not. I will never be."

  He walked out of the room, out the front door in nothing but shirt and slacks. And it wasn't him walking out that shook her, but her response to him, her response to the kiss.

  She'd never felt anything like that before and it dazzled her, made her realize he was even more dangerous than she'd thought.

  But it was only a kiss, she reminded herself. Cristiano had kissed many, many women in his life and Sam was sure they didn't all fall head over heels in love with him. And she wasn't head over heels in love, either.

  But he had rocked her.

  She'd liked the kiss, wouldn't have stopped the kiss, and wouldn’t have stopped him.

  Her skin still tingled and tightened across her cheekbone. Her mouth felt soft, her lower lip quivering. Even her body felt warm, pliant.

  She wanted him, more of him; more of whatever he could give her. Cristiano left the cottage, stepping out into the still white land­scape.

  The moon was high, the snow had briefly stopped and the light shone on a distant oak tree, turning the ancient gnarled limbs into a glittering ice sculpture.

  They needed to get back to Monte Carlo, he thought.

  He didn't want to be here anymore. He felt increasingly trapped here. It was time to get home, get back to work, get on with his life.

  Sam wasn't part of his life. He'd take care of her financially, especially since she had no money, no family, nowhere to go. He'd set her up in a little house, help her find work...

  Christ, who was he kidding?

  He didn't want to set her up in a little house somewhere and find her work.

  He wanted to drag her into his bed and take his sweet time making love to her.

  But if he took her, made love to her, kept her in his life it would ruin everything, at least complicate everything for Gabby. Because relationships ended. Love affairs didn't last forever and then how would he explain the fallout to Gabriela?

  He couldn't. She wouldn't understand. Gabby was just a child and she doted on Sam, depended on Sam, and Sam was just as devoted to Gabby.

  No. Desire—attraction—stopped here. Sam was right. Gabby had to be put first. Gabby couldn't be hurt, not by the adults she trusted, not by those who'd sworn to love her, protect her.

  And he did love Gabby. He loved her dearly. And he'd been fighting for her for years, since the night of the accident when the two formula one cars slammed together in balls of red fire-He could see it all again. It never left his mind, playing and replaying in exquisite slow motion.

  And slow, slow the car came up on his right to overtake him and there, ahead of him, was his teammate's car, and Cristiano did what any aggressive ruthless driver would do. He blocked for his teammate, for his teammate's win-But the driver on his right was even more aggressive and cut left, and then right and somehow lost control, careening out of control.

  And that was how it always began, the slow motion movie roll­ing in Cristiano's head, the car from the other team slamming into Cristiano's teammate and then sliding back toward Cristiano's car.

  When you race, you travel at speeds beyond belief- Speed that's like flying.

  There's no time to do anything- You can't prepare. Not even react

  It just happens before your eyes.

  Slow, slow, a movie one never forgets.

  Cristiano's teammate slams into the wall after being hit by the careening car and Cristiano, trapped by flying debris, can only go forward into his teammate's car. He'd been trying to protect, a car already in pieces.

  It was his teammate—his father—one and the same.

  And that's where it all ends and all begins.

  The fire everywhere. Cristiano couldn't see—guided only by the smell of burning petrol and exploding flames. The only rea­son he survived was because God or an angel somewhere, plucked him from the fiery inferno and willed him to live.

  The first thing Cristiano knew on awakening at the hospital forty-eight hours later was that his father was dead.

  The second was that his legs had been crushed and burned so badly he'd never walk again.

  The third was Mercedes at the hospital weeping and scream­ing,
how in God's name can I have this baby now?

  Cristiano learned to walk again because a baby waited, need­ing a father-He even learned to drive again because somewhere there was a baby Bartolo who'd need a strong man in his or her life, a man who wouldn't quit and wouldn't complain and would always be­lieve that good prevailed.

  Cristiano breathed deep, held the air in his chest and silently mocked himself. Don't cry, you bastard. You're a man, you can't cry.

  But God, the pain. The memories. The regrets.

  And to think that Gabby, who was the good, should suffer again was the worst injustice of it all. For God's sake, she'd al­ready lost her mother, had an ass of a stepfather. How could he not do everything in his power to make Gabriela happy?

  To make her life complete?

  Santo Cielo, he'd do anything, absolutely anything for her.

  The cottage door opened and Sam stepped out. She'd bundled up in one of the wool coats from the cottage closet. "Hey."

  He nodded, features hardening, hiding all that he felt. He was so good at disguising what he felt,

  "Do you mind company?" she asked, clapping her hands to­gether and blowing on her fingers.

  "You'll freeze."

  "You haven't." Her blue eyes flashed up at him. "And you're not even wearing a coat,"

  "I'm a man."

  She laughed, bless her, and he almost smiled. "That's funny?" he asked.

  "Just when you say it," She glanced up, looked at the icicles above their heads, and reached up to try to break one off but couldn't. "So when are you going to tell her?" Sam asked, and her wide blue eyes, cornflower-blue, stunning blue, pierced him. "About Johann and you and school..."

  Something in her gaze set fire to his heart. And he knew about fire. He knew what it was to be burned. "That's a lot to tell a little girl," he said.

  She nodded, no longer smiling, and her sober expression re­minded him of the night just days ago when she'd arrived at the casino to try to convince Johann to go home.

  A woman on a mission. A golden haired Joan of Arc,

  "Soon," he said, shifting his weight, easing the pressure off his left leg, which had been the more severely damaged of the two. The cold weather was making all the scar tissue tight and itchy and he couldn't seem to get comfortable. "As soon as the time seems right."

  "Tell me before you talk to her. Just let me know, okay?"

  But he didn't say yes and he didn't say no, he just looked at her. And as he stared into her blue eyes, his lashes drifted lower, and his gaze settled on her mouth, on the softness and fullness he'd finally kissed after waiting so long to touch, and taste. And the wait had been worth it. Her mouth was perfect. She tasted and felt divine.

  Reaching out, he pushed back one of her long blond curls. "You don't hate me as much as you used to."

  Even in the moonlight he could see her blush. "I never hated you," she answered, but her cheeks were crimson and she wouldn't look him in the eye.

  "You didn't like me."

  Fresh color swept her cheeks, and she laughed softly, and it was a surprisingly deep husky laugh for someone so slight. "I questioned your morals and values."

  "That's a nice way of putting it,"

  "You did encourage Johann to gamble."

  "Of course I did." He couldn't resist touching her flushed face, couldn't help touching what he'd craved for so long. "If it meant I could get what I wanted..."

  "That's what made me uncomfortable. You have to have eth­ics, Cristiano. You can't just do whatever you want because you want something."

  Now it was his turn to laugh. "Oh, yes, you can," he said, pushing the door open and steering her back in.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  After the kiss, Sam was sure that something would happen, hut after returning to the fire, Cristiano lost himself in some read­ing he'd brought with him and Sam sat in her chair, feeling ner­vous and excited, rather like a girl going to her first dance.

  But nothing else happened- It was as if the kiss had never occurred.

  Cristiano focused on his reading and Sam sat feeling like a wallflower-He must regret kissing me, she thought, chewing on her thumb. Or he kisses so many women it's really nothing-She had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter. Finally it was time for bed, and Cristiano slept in one of the bedrooms while Sam carried blankets to the couch in the sitting room-It took her forever to fall asleep and when she woke up stiff and cold in the morning, her mood was not much better.

  Her mood didn't improve later, either, when during breakfast she felt him watching her.

  Sam did her best to ignore him, just like she struggled to ig­nore the buzzy butterflies in her middle. He doesn't even remem­ber the kiss, she told herself sternly. You can't dwell on it, either. But it was hard to forget, especially after such a sleepless night where she lay awake for hours, thoughts tormented body hot. And empty, craving satisfaction.

  Breakfast over; Sam attacked the few dishes, scrubbing the plates that had nothing more than crumbs on them. Cristiano came up behind her to set his cup on the counter and she jumped as if somebody had touched her with a hot wire.

  Just the knowledge that he was near her, behind her, made her acutely sensitive. And when he leaned past her, to pick up a dish towel and dry the dishes she'd washed, she felt a coil in her mid­dle that actually hurt.

  If this was desire it was awful.

  It wasn't fun. It was fierce. Hot. Angry,

  She felt maddened by it, by want, by the unknown.

  She must have sighed or made some sound because Cristiano looked down at her, one black eyebrow lifting. "Something both­ering you today?"

  She tossed the scrub brush down, faced him, one hand grip­ping the sink. "Yes."

  His hazel gaze slowly traveled the length of her, resting pro­vocatively on her throat, her breasts, and her hips. "Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help."

  "You can't help. You're the problem "

  "I'm the problem"

  She shook her head in exasperation. Why did she say that? It was dumb to say that. No, he wasn't the problem. She was the problem. This—the attraction, the situation—it was her problem. She couldn't handle her feelings, or her response. He'd kissed her—big deal—but God help her, she wanted more.

  And the intensity of her feelings made her feel like an igno­rant schoolgirl. She'd loved the kiss. But she wasn't a school­girl. She was a spinster. A spinster leveled by a kiss.

  "You haven't told me why I'm the problem," he said.

  Sam glanced out the window toward the driveway as if Gabby would just magically appear and save her from this. "Ignore me. I'm being irrational."

  "You're the least irrational woman I've ever known. Tell me. Let me try to help."

  Then that would require kissing me again, she thought, looking up at him, into the hard angles of his face and eyes that held her, mesmerized her, "Please don't be charming," she whispered, only half-jesting. "I don't think I can handle it. Not from you, not today, not after last night."

  "What about last night?"

  So he didn't even remember. The kiss hadn't meant anything, or made an impression.

  Sam whimpered, she hadn't meant to, she couldn't keep the hurt in.

  But suddenly he was closer, or she was closer, and the heat between them was scorching. Sam felt hot, her clothes too tight and suddenly she couldn't breathe anymore.

  And then he was reaching for her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him creating a riot of sensation. Just that one touch of his body against hers and it was like New Year's and fireworks, sparks exploding everywhere. She felt him every­where, too—chest, ribs, hips, thighs. He was hard, strong, male, and it was the most delicious feeling in the world, her body alive, and her body aware of his, her body feeling warm and real and good.

  His hand was in the small of her back, urging her even closer and she felt the throb of him against her, his body's heat and how his body strained.

  She'd thought when it came to this, she'd be afraid
. She'd thought if a man ever held her so close, teased her with his body like this, made her aware of his desire; she'd thought she'd panic. Hate it. Run.

  Instead she wanted to slide her hands beneath his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, reach for his waist­band and let the clothes fall away.

  And then she did reach for his belt and waistband, fumbled with the clasp, gave up to touch his flat abdomen and the warm firm muscle banding his ribs.

  His hands were against her hips, shaping her, caressing her, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to have him touch her.

  I think I could love him, she thought, wrapping one arm around his neck, standing on tiptoe. I think I could love him. And maybe it was only lust, but it felt right and honest and for the first time in years she felt right, too.

  She'd finally given in to need, to want, to hunger She'd fi­nally admitted she craved touch, love, pleasure. And as Cristiano stroked down the outside of her thigh, and then up the inside, his fingers between her legs, touching her where she was most sensitive, she knew that in this respect at least, Cristiano had been made for her.