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  Cristiano gave them a brief tour of the suite, pointing out the two bedrooms with ensuite baths, the sitting room connecting the two bedrooms, the small bar and refrigerator in the sitting room where they'd find cold drinks and other refreshments. "You'll be comfortable here," he said, with a glance at his watch. "Watch movies, television, whatever you like while I return a few phone calls. Once I'm off the phone we'll proceed from there,"

  Sam watched as he shut his bedroom door and then without even hesitating, she went to the second bedroom where their suit­cases had been delivered and then with suitcases in hand, hus­tled Gabby to the elevator.

  Taxis were already lined up in front of the hotel and it took just minutes to be seated and off. And yet despite their quick de­parture, Sam still held her breath much of the trip to the Nice airpoit. It was essential they catch the next British Airways flight to London-Heathrow, and from there they'd connect to Manchester.

  In the back of the taxi, Sam wrapped her arm more snugly around Gabby-Hard to believe they were running away like this.

  Even harder to believe she was really going back.

  It had been eight years since she'd left Cheshire, eight years since she'd fled the Rookery determined to never return.

  But what was the old expression? Desperate times called for desperate measures? Well. Sam was nothing if not desperate now.

  They didn't reach Chester until very late that night. The taxi driver had tried to discourage them from traveling so late from Manchester to Chester, but Sam insisted. She didn't have enough money for a taxi ride and hotel. They had to go to Chester. They had nowhere to sleep.

  "Your address," the taxi driver said as they approached Chester's city limits. "It's not in town, is it?"

  "No. It's actually closer to the village of Upton. It's called the Rookery."

  Sam saw the driver look into the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly meeting hers. "Isn't that the orphanage?"

  "Yes."

  "Right." the driver said more kindly. "I know the place."

  Fifteen minutes later, the driver took a left at a lane cut be­tween two dark overgrown hedges. It was a long private drive­way and everything gave an impression of neglect with tall, dead straggly weeds lining the dirt road while the road itself was muddy and full of potholes.

  The whole area looked terribly forlorn and unkempt, but as the car headlights shone on the Rookery at the end of the drive-way, the neglect was even more apparent.

  The Rookery's main hall dated back to the late seventeenth century, but through time and need, rooms and wings had been added to the original stone keep. Tonight the Rookery was dark, and the bright car beams bounced off the leaded windows on the second and third floors, while the first floor windows were all boarded over.

  The taxi driver parked, but left the engine running, "It's va­cant," he said.

  Indeed, it was. No cars, no lights, no people, no sign of life anywhere.

  "Were you expected?" he persisted.

  Sam slowly shook her head, unable to find her voice. She'd counted on the Rookery, counted on Mrs. Bishop, the head housekeeper, and Mr. Carlton, the groundskeeper. She was cer­tain they'd still be here. They'd been here forever. The Rookery was their home.

  "Did you use to live here?" the driver asked, squinting up through his windshield to get a look at the rampart high above. It was the only feature of the old keep that remained. The rest had been softened and changed in renovations.

  "Yes."

  It was all Sam could say. It was impossible to say more. If Charles had lived, things would have been different, of course, but Charles hadn't lived and now the Rookery was closed, and she and Gabby had no money and nowhere to go.

  Which meant they'd stay here. She'd find a way in, or better yet, try to break into the gamekeeper's cottage to the far left of the old hall.

  "So where can I take you?" The driver asked. "Into Chester? There are some decent hotels and inns in town."

  Sam shook her head, opened the car door. "No, thank you. We'll be staying here."

  The driver shook his head, obviously not pleased with her de­cision, but unwilling to intervene. He accepted his payment and drove away and as the taxi disappeared down the driveway, and Gabby shivered next to her, Sam realized just how late, and cold, and dark it was.

  She'd made a mistake coming here. She should have gone with the taxi while they could.

  But it was too late for regrets or remorse. They needed to get inside the gamekeeper's cottage and once inside, Sam would build a fire and they'd be warm.

  The old stone cottage was tucked to the left of the Rookery, and although small, contained two bedrooms, a simple kitchen and a great room with a large stone hearth- Sam knew it would be chilly inside the cottage—dark, too, because obviously there wasn't even electricity anymore—but surely there'd be candles or lanterns, something to provide light-Standing on tiptoe, Sam reached above the door, felt for a key not expecting to find one, and yet to her surprise, her fingers brushed cold metal. Thank God. The cottage key's hiding place had at least remained the same. Sliding the key off the door frame, Sam tried the dead bolt and it turned.

  "We're in," Sam said, forcing cheer into her voice. "Let's see if I can't make us a proper fire now."

  Nearly two hours later Sam was still trying to make a fire— she couldn't find matches in the dark, couldn't find anything to give her light—but thankfully Gabriela had fallen asleep on the old feather-stuffed couch, wrapped in thick blankets. At least Gabby was warm, Sam thought with a sigh as she sat back on her heels.

  She was still contemplating the cold black hearth when she heard the purr of a motor outside, and then saw the wide arc of headlights flash through the dark cottage's unshuttered windows.

  Someone was here.

  But Sam felt anything other than relief as she heard the car come to a stop, the headlights shining directly on the small ne­glected cottage. This wasn't the taxi driver returning to check on them. And no one knew they were coming here.

  Nervous, Sam went to the window overlooking the driveway. The car out front was a large sedan, a dark colored Mercedes. None of the locals who'd worked at the orphanage would drive a Mercedes, and to reach the Rookery, one had to drive a good quarter of a mile off the main road. Besides, it was late now, close to midnight.

  Sam's fingers curled into her palms. This was no accidental call. Heart in her mouth she watched the door on the driver's side swing open. Cristiano Baitolo stepped out.

  Sam stared at his tall shadowy figure in disbelief. It wasn't possible. It couldn't be possible. Despite the distance, the flights, the taxis and the borders, he'd found them already. If d taken him just hours.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Locked inside the cottage, Sam listened as he knocked once on the cottage door, then twice.

  Three times.

  And each time he knocked, it was harder, louder-She glanced back to the living room where Gabriela still slept, but if Cristiano continued pounding on the door, he'd wake her soon,

  "Open the door. Baroness." Cristiano's deep voice, although muffled by the dense wood door, still reached her.

  He sounded angry. Angrier than she'd ever heard him. In Monte Carlo he'd been cynical, mocking, terse—but never angry.

  He must have leaned closer to the door because when he spoke next, his voice was perfectly clear. "I'll give you to the count of three before I break the door down."

  She said nothing. He had to be bluffing. The door was thick, old, it would be impossible to break down.

  "Baroness, I don't make promises I don't keep. Keep that in mind as I start counting,"

  A shiver raced down her spine as she stood in the dark icy cottage. She craved light, and heat, craved safety but there was no safety for them now, not with Cristiano Bartolo on the other side of the door.

  "Open”

  Sam held her breath, nerves stretched to a breaking point.

  "Wait!" Sam pressed her face to the door. "You can't break the door. It's h
undreds of years old. It's been here longer than any of us has been alive—"

  "Then open it now, before I say three."

  Hell. Sam's hands trembled as she struggled to unbolt the lock, but it wasn't just her hands that shook as she swung the door open. The cold air rushed at her, surprised her. She hadn't realized the temperature had dropped so low.

  "What are you doing here?" Sam faced Cristiano on the step outside. Moonlight outlined his profile, lit his dark hair, and yet it was his features that captured her attention. His jaw jutted, his full mouth pressed thin, and his dark eyes blazed. He was very unhappy with her at the moment.

  Cristiano gave her a long hard look. "That's a silly question."

  "You better go before I call the police."

  "You don't have a phone, Baroness. And apparently, you haven't any gas or electricity."

  He'd already figured that out, had he?

  Sam shivered, hugged her arms closer to her chest. "You have a phone, and I'll call the police."

  "Good. And then we can have a nice little chat with your Cheshire police about child smuggling."

  "Child smuggling! I have her passport, her birth certificate—"

  "That doesn't give you permission to take her out of the coun­try. You're not her legal guardian yet.

  You haven't gone through the proper channels at all. The fact is, you broke so many inter­national laws, Baroness, you'll be spending years behind bars. Now, move."

  He was tall, so tall, that she had to tip her head back to see his face. "No."

  He didn't even hesitate. "Then I'll let myself in."

  Cristiano stretched an arm over her head, pushed the door open and lifting her in one arm, carried her into the cottage where he kicked the door shut and dropped her none too gently onto her feet. "Where is she?"

  "Who?"

  In the dim light she could see his expression and it wasn't pleasant- "For an intelligent woman, you're shockingly naive."

  He gave her yet another shadowy, contemptuous look. "I'm here, Baroness, in your Cheshire cottage. I've traveled the same route you did, having spoken with numerous people at airport ticket counters. So where is she?"

  Sam swallowed, nodded with her head. "On the couch in there. She fell asleep while I tried to get the fire going."

  "Which you couldn't do."

  "I couldn't find matches in the dark."

  "So what was your plan? To stay out here and freeze?"

  Sam looked away, rightly chastened. It had been foolish com­ing here. Foolish and dangerous. "I'd hoped in the morning to find the matches,"

  "And what were you going to eat? I'm certain you haven't gone to a store for groceries."

  "No."

  He shook his head, looked as if he'd say more but changed topics. "Have you a fire laid then?" he asked, peeling off his coat.

  "Yes. Logs and kindling."

  Aided by moonlight, he walked into the main room with its great stone hearth. The cottage was several hundred years old, with a low, beamed ceiling that once warm, kept it snug. Crouching next to the hearth, he shifted some of the split logs around, piled the dry kindling higher at the base of the logs then used a lighter from his pocket to spark the kindling.

  It took a few minutes before the kindling really caught, but soon the fire was blazing. Sam gratefully held her hands to the fire's heat. "It was cold," she confessed. "And I was worried. Thank you."

  "You can ask for help," he said.

  Her head lifted and she shot him a dubious look. "From you?" She rubbed her hands together before extending them again over the flickering gold flames. "The one that intended to return Gabby to Johann?"

  "I didn't say I'd return her. I said I'd do what's right."

  "You must see that having Johann look after Gabby isn't right. You must see that for yourself, you must see what he is—"

  "I do,"

  Her gut burned- "Then spare her heartbreak- You don't have to care about me, or my feelings, but care about Gabriela's feel­ings. Please don't hurt her."

  "I won't."

  "You don't think taking a child from her home isn't trau­matic?"

  "But haven't you just done the same? Haven't you taken her from Monaco, the only home she's ever known, dragged her across the English Channel, plopped her in a car, driven her for miles to where? Chester? Upton? Wherever we are?" He shook his head, expression grim. "From her perspective, this frozen gray place must seem like Timbuktu,"

  "It's England, not Timbuktu."

  "For an Italian child it's the same thing."

  Sam stood, straightened. "Her mother was Spanish, not Italian."

  "Catalonian, actually." Cristiano's lashes dropped, conceal­ing his dark eyes. "And I knew her mother quite well, so let's avoid a who-knows-more competition."

  They were both sitting close to the fire, speaking in hushed voice but this last pulled Sam up short, and she stared at Cristiano, mouth open. "You knew her mother?"

  "Yes."

  Sam sucked in air, a great gulp but it didn't fill her lungs, didn't help, did nothing to dull the throbbing in the back of her head. "Before Johann?"

  "Yes,"

  Sam couldn't look away from Cristiano's taut features. "What happened?"

  "Life happened." His expression was utterly blank, no emotion in his face or tone. "Gabriela's mother moved on. But that's not the issue now. The issue is you, running away with Gabriela—"

  "I took her on a trip. I can do that. I'm her stepmother."

  "That's right. Baroness van Bergen." And he smiled, his teeth flashing white, but it was such a hard, unforgiving smile that Sam shivered inwardly.

  Cold or fear, she wondered? Or maybe it was more dread, be­cause that's what filled her stomach in hard heavy bricks. "I wish you wouldn't call me Baroness anymore,"

  "What then?"

  "Samantha will do."

  Cristiano's head tipped and in the yellow-gold light of the fire he studied her through narrowed eyes. "You're such a contradic­tion, Samantha. On one hand, you're so very prim and proper, and then on the other you've this fierce spirit—"

  "Can you tell me more about Gabriela's mother? Gabby used to ask about her. I never knew what to tell her."

  "She was a film actress "

  "Not that. More like, her personality. What was she like?"

  "Mercedes?" He paused, reflected. "Beautiful, Lively. She was a great deal of fun,"

  "Is Gabby very like her?"

  "I think Gabby's a mix of her mother and father."

  Sam turned, looked at Gabby where she slept on the couch cocooned in blankets. "I've wished for years that Gabriela had a different life. I've wished it were more stable, more predicta­ble. I tried to give her everything. It's one thing for an adult to struggle, but it's another for a child."

  "Has Gabriela suffered?"

  "I'm sure she has. We both have to a greater or lesser ex­tent. There's never enough money. Johann's rarely home. He may be Gabby's father, but he's shown her little love and even less attention."

  "Was he so different before you married him?"

  "No."

  Cristiano watched her. "But you thought you'd marry him anyway, marry into a life of privilege?"

  "It's never been a very privileged life. 1 worked hard."

  "And I bet you just hated being a baroness."

  "Yes, I did. lt was false,"

  "False?"

  "Johann didn't love me and I didn't love him. It was a mar­riage of convenience, that and nothing more."

  "Nothing more?"

  Her own lips curved, in an equally hard cynical smile. She'd changed so much since Charles died, he wouldn't even recog­nize her if he was alive now. "Nothing more." Shivering, she held her hands up to the flames to try to warm herself, "I was conve­nient to marry,"

  She leaned closer, stared into the flickering fire with its red and gold flames feeling the weight of years of secrets and silence on her. "You see, Mr. Bartolo, before I was the baroness, I was the van Bergens' nanny."
<
br />   "The nanny?" He sounded shocked.

  Sam looked at him, lips twisting wryly. "I've never told any­one before. Johann forbid me from telling people. He didn't want anyone to know I'd been the hired help, but in private he never let me forget. It was one of the ways he ridiculed me—I was just a working girl, not an aristocrat like him."

  "You should have left him," Cristiano said flatly.

  "And what? Leave Gabby?" Sam drew a breath, her chest ten­der and glanced down at her hands bare of any rings. Johann had bought her a ring but he'd asked for it back when money got tight. "I couldn't do that. Not then, not now, not ever"

  "Why are you so devoted?"

  "I don't know. I suppose Gabby needed someone to love her, and I—" She broke off, aware of how close she came to saying the words, and I needed someone to love. She finished the thought differently. "I like to be useful,"

  "Johann found you useful?"

  "I did what he needed me to do."

  "Including keeping Mercedes's family away."

  Sam winced. "A mistake. I thought I was keeping a family together. I thought I'd be a good wife." A good mother.