Jane Porter - Bought by the Rich Man

“Not even three million pounds?”

“Are you trying to be funny? Because I find that rather insensitive considering our situation.”

Cristiano’s hazel eyes narrowed, lashes dropping, concealing his expression but from the tilt of his lips she could see he was amused. “You know, Baroness, there are many funny people in England. The greatest comics are all British and I’ve watched every Monty Python movie that exists. But you, sadly, lack a sense of humor.”

“What about our situation do you find amusing?” She demanded tersely, refusing to acknowledge that he’d hit a sore spot. She’d never been able to laugh at herself. There hadn’t been a lot of fun in her life growing up, or many occasions to tease and play. Life for an orphan was serious. “Our lives are changed forever and you’re making jokes!”

“Not all change is bad, Baroness.”

“In this case it is.” Sam clasped her hands together in an effort to stay calm. “Please don’t move us from the villa. Please don’t take Gabby from the only home she knows.”

“It’s not much of a home.”

Sam’s cheeks burned, her temper spiking. “That’s not the point.”

Cristiano looked at her, long and level. “Then perhaps it should be.” Abruptly he signaled to the passing maître d’hôtel that he wanted the bill. “Let me see you to my suite and then I’ll work on locating Johann.”

Still feeling feverish, her gaze met his. “And just what do you intend to do with a woman and her little girl? Use us as a tax write-up? Fight some archaic inheritance law?”

“I think you’re actually trying to be funny.” He dropped cash on the table and stood. “Shall we go?”

“You didn’t answer my question.”

“I don’t think I have to.”

She wasn’t going to budge, wouldn’t leave until he gave her a straight answer. She was sick of being pushed and pulled and jerked around. “What are you going to do with us?” she repeated in a low, unrelenting voice.

He stood over her, gazed down at her. “I’m going to find Johann—”

“Why?”

“I want to make sure everything’s legitimate.”

“He gave me her papers, wrote a note—”

“And I can’t help wondering if it’s all legal? Can one just really give away a child like that?” Cristiano’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “First he tries to gamble Gabby, and then he abandons her. Seems highly suspect if you ask me.”

His answer stayed with Sam, haunted Sam as he led them to the elevator that whisked them to his hotel suite.

It didn’t matter what Cristiano found out. She wouldn’t give Gabby back to Johann. She wouldn’t give Gabby to anyone. Gabby was hers. She needed someone who loved her. Period.

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 airport. 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 driveway, 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’s 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.