Jane Porter - Bought by the Rich Man

He dumped the logs by the hearth in the main room, and returned outside to get one last load so they’d have enough wood for the night.

But wading back through the snow, he grit his teeth at the shooting pain in his right leg. His legs had been aching all day. At first this morning he’d thought it was the lack of sleep, but now knew it was the change of weather. Whenever there was a pressure change, his legs became hypersensitive—both skin and muscle full of stabbing pain, but he never complained, never told anyone that he hurt. He knew the dangers of his profession when he started out. He could blame no one but himself.

He swore as he hit an unanticipated patch of black ice beneath the snow. His right leg caved, nearly giving out.

Cristiano stopped, took a breath, steadied himself blocking out the searing pain. He made sure he’d found his footing before continuing on again. His rehab had covered numerous situations but walking on slick surfaces hadn’t been one. But then, Monaco and the Côte d’Azur were famous for sun, not ice, so learning to cope with ice and snow had not been a priority.

Loaded down with more firewood, he turned, started back to the house and then was forced to slow, even rest, as he hit the same damn patch of ice. He had no traction in his shoes, and before his accident, ice wouldn’t have been a problem, but his legs weren’t the same. Nothing about his legs was the same.

The doctors had said he should always use a cane, that his weaker right leg needed the support but Cristiano was damned if he’d advertise his weakness to others. He’d never let another man know he wasn’t as strong. His business was so competitive, so cutthroat, that one had to be tough—always. Not just physically, but mentally. So instead of leaning on a cane to support his weight, Cristiano had learned to compensate by walking more slowly, more deliberately. And usually it worked.

Usually.

Cristiano glowered as his right foot slipped again. Damn.

But he wasn’t going to drop the wood. And he wasn’t going to quit. And he wasn’t going to focus on the hot sharp lancing pain that streaked through his legs now.

He’d just dumped the last load of wood by the hearth when his phone rang. Knocking bits of bark and moss off his hands, he took the call.

It was Mrs. Bishop. She’d called to say that they’d tried to drive Gabby back but the car had slid off the road, spinning out into the field. No one was hurt but there was no way to get Gabby back, at least not with their car. As Mrs. Bishop talked, Cristiano went to the front door to check his rented Mercedes. Snow was piled a good foot high on the hood. Looking past the Mercedes he saw the entire lane was covered, no sign of road or field, fence or wall. Everything was just white, powdered white.

“I can try to drive down there,” he said. “My rental car doesn’t have four-wheel drive, but it might be okay.”

“It might be okay,” Mrs. Bishop answered anxiously, “but it might not be. Gilbert, my son-in-law, is already shaken up. Maybe it’s best if Gabby just stayed here tonight, and then tomorrow we can see if one of the farmers will help us tow Gilbert’s car out of the field and maybe plow the road.”

Cristiano caught sight of Samantha from the corner of his eye. She must have heard the phone ring and she’d been following the conversation. “What’s wrong?” she whispered. “Is Gabby all right?”

He nodded before finishing the call. “Then keep her there tonight, Mrs. Bishop, no reason to take any more risks. Tell your son-in-law I’ll pay for his car to be towed, and do give us a call in the morning once everyone’s up.”

Hanging up, he turned to face Sam who hovered in the background. “The roads aren’t drivable. Mrs. Bishop’s son-in-law tried to bring Gabby home but lost control and ended up in a field or a ditch—I’m not sure which.”

“Is Gabby okay?”

“Yes, but she is going to stay at the Bishops’ tonight.”

Sam nodded and blushed all at the same time. She’d counted on Gabby returning. But Gabby wouldn’t be back tonight. Instead it would just be her and Cristiano.

Alone.

In a small cottage.

Far from neighbors.

With no electricity and no music, television or diversion.

What in God’s name were they going to do for the next twelve hours?

CHAPTER SEVEN

DINNER was a simple toasted cheese sandwich served with bowls of tinned tomato soup. Not a glamorous meal but it met the need for warm food and drink.

They ate in front of the fire in the sitting room because it was the warmest spot in the cottage. Once finished, Sam stood to carry their plates and bowls to the kitchen, but as she reached for Cristiano’s dishes, his eyes met hers, his gaze boring into her, the hazel-green depths warm and flecked with gold. “Leave the dishes,” he said. “I’ll do them later.”

“That’s okay. I don’t mind.”

“I do. Leave them.”

Nervously Sam stacked the dishes in the sink before running her hands down the front of her dark gray slacks, her palms damp.

The cottage was so small. There was nowhere to go. And the bedrooms, even if she wanted to hide in there, were too cold.

But the idea of returning to Cristiano, to sitting with him near the fire filled her with dread.

He made her so jumpy. Just being near him her heart raced, her pulse pounded. She felt hot and cold at the same time, jittery, scared, uneasy.

Why was she so afraid of him?

Why did everything in her scream for her to run? Was it survival instinct? Common sense?

Glancing out the window yet again, Sam felt discouraged by the snow still falling. “We’re stuck,” she said, returning to the sitting room.

Cristiano made a rough sound. “You’ll survive.”

Sam grimaced, sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire. “I know. Unfortunately so will you.”

Cristiano surprised her by laughing, a rough deep sound that was as masculine as it was seductive. “You’re really not comfortable with me, are you?”

“No!”

“Finally,” he mocked, leaning back in his chair. “We get a little honesty.”

“I haven’t been dishonest.”

He made a soft, rough sound in the back of his throat. “No. I understand. You’re English, and you’ve cultivated through years of practice and self-denial this wonderful British stiff upper lip to keep others from knowing what you want, or need.”

“That’s not true. The only thing I want or need is Gabby, and I’ve been quite open about my feelings with regards to her.”

He studied her in the red and gold firelight, his lashes lowered, his mouth firm. For a moment there was just the crackle and pop of the fire and the acrid smell of smoke. “Someday you’ll marry again,” he said surprisingly gentle. “You’ll have children, and a family, of your own.”

If he’d hoped to soothe her, his words had the opposite effect. Her throat, chest and stomach hurt as if she’d just chewed and swallowed glass. “I won’t,” she answered. “I’ll never marry again. And I don’t want children of my own.”

“But you’re good with children.”

“I’m a nanny. My job is to look after other peoples’ children. I hope I’m good with them.”

“But don’t you want more for yourself?”

“More, how?”

“A lover, a partner. Someone to share your life with.”

She felt herself blush and she shook her head, amazed at how quickly he could fluster her. “No. I’m content.” She ignored the twinge inside of her, the twinge of conscience that said she was not being entirely truthful. Truly there were times she needed more, times when she felt alone, but everyone felt lonely and alone at times. Everyone had needs. She wasn’t unique that way. “My life’s good.”