Jane Porter - Bought by the Rich Man

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 Bartolo 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. It’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.

“ One .”

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

“ Two .”

“Wait!” Sam pressed her face to the door. “You can’t break the door. It’s hundreds 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 naïve.”

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.”