Jane Porter - Bought by the Rich Man - Taken by the Highest Bidder / Bought by Her Latin Lover / Bought by the Billionaire

Sam closed her eyes, drew her arm even more closely around Gabriela who slept curled in her lap during the flight from Manchester back to Nice on Cristiano’s private jet.

Life was a series of events, cause and effect. One thing led to another, to another, and another. And as unbearable as it sounded, it also made sense.

Pregnant, alone and grieving, Mercedes ended up with Johann.

Did Enzo know he was going to be a father again before he died? Did Johann always know who Gabby’s real father was? Did Gabby remember her mother at all?

Sam opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps on the dense mushroom colored carpet. The jet had been furnished in shades of taupe and gray and Cristiano took a seat in one of the soft gray leather chairs opposite the leather sofa where Sam sat with Gabriela.

“We’re almost there,” he said, with a glance toward the window. “My driver’s waiting. We just need to decide where we want to go. My penthouse in Monte Carlo, or the villa in Cap Ferrat. It’s your decision.”

“I don’t know either.”

“One is a city apartment, and the other is my home on the peninsula.”

“Where do you think Gabby would like best?” Sam asked.

“The villa. It’s near the beach.”

They lapsed into silence as the flight attendant on board the jet approached to let them know that they’d soon begin their descent.

“Cristiano,” Sam said, as the flight attendant walked away. “What happened…and again yesterday…” She took a quick breath, needing to say what she needed to say before they landed and Gabriela woke. “That wasn’t anything, was it?”

“What?”

“The, um, kiss.”

Cristiano’s upper lip curled. His expression hardened, turned mocking. “You’re bothered by it?”

“I—” She took a quick breath. “I just wasn’t sure what you meant by it, or if you meant nothing. I’m sure you meant nothing. It was just a kiss.”

She’d been trying to reassure herself, trying to let him know it was okay but somehow she was saying the wrong words. She could tell from his expression that every word that came from her mouth just made him angrier, more irritated. She’d somehow struck a nerve, and hadn’t even meant to.

“What I meant was that I’m sorry I…” Her voice faded away and she bit her lip, tried again. “Sorry I…”

“Kissed me back?”

She blushed, miserable. “I know it shouldn’t have happened. I wasn’t thinking. I suppose I was scared, overwhelmed. Maybe I needed comfort.” She exhaled, wondered where she’d gone wrong, how a simple apology had gotten so convoluted. “So I’m sorry.”

“For what? Needing comfort? Or enjoying the kiss?”

My God this was hard, almost impossible. She was an adult, a woman, and she couldn’t even calmly discuss a kiss. “I don’t have your experience and I’m certain you kiss women all the time, and it’s nothing, I know kissing means nothing to you—”

“I only kiss women I like. Women I’m attracted to.” His lips curved, his expression sardonic. “Women I’d like to sleep with. So don’t apologize. I wanted you, wanted to bed you. It just wasn’t convenient.”

Then he stood, went to the table where he’d been working during most of the flight and sat down again to finish the paperwork he’d started earlier.

Stomach churning, Sam watched him resume reading even as the plane started its steep final descent. Ever since she met him, life hadn’t been the same.

On the ground in Nice, Cristiano’s chauffeur was waiting for them. The driver greeted them at the executive terminal, loaded their luggage into the car and then they were off, heading to Cristiano’s villa on the Cap Ferrat peninsula.

Of course Sam knew that the peninsula was considered a playground for the rich. You couldn’t drive along the coast without being confronted by the lavish villas, fabulous gardens and extravagant yachts moored in the St-Jean marina, but she’d never been included in the parties, or inside any of the villas. She might have married Baron van Bergen three and a half years earlier, and he might have attended events, but she’d never been on the guest list.

Sam felt a wiggle at her side and glancing down saw that Gabriela was trying to sit higher in her seat to get a better look out the window. “I can’t see the houses!” Gabby complained. “There are too many fences and bushes in the way.”

Gates and hedges, not fences and bushes, Sam silently corrected as she ruffled Gabby’s hair. “You’re so excited,” she teased. “You’d think you’d never been anywhere.”

“I haven’t been here .”

Here being Cristiano’s home, and they’d arrived, the car slowing, stopping as the gates slowly opened, revealing little by little an exquisite villa tucked discreetly behind the tall dark green hedges that Gabby deplored.

And yet once they’d passed through the ornate wrought-iron gates, they glimpsed the startling blue ocean and then the Belle Epoque villa that nestled jewel-like in mature gardens marked by fanciful topiaries, verdant lawns, and flowers spilling from vines, pots, and fragrant, vibrant beds.

The car had barely stopped before Gabby was scrambling out, delighted by the endless lawn and the breathtaking view of the St-Jean marina where great white yachts dotted the blue and turquoise water.

Cristiano followed Gabby as she ran toward the stone wall of the terraced garden. “The pool!” she cried, turning around and gesturing excitedly. “Sam, there’s a pool here, too.”

Sam followed more slowly, smelling orange blossoms and pine in the breeze that caught at her hair. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Sam wrapped her thin lettuce-green cardigan closer to her body, hugging herself. She wasn’t cold, just overwhelmed.

In the car during the drive Cristiano had rattled off some of the names of his neighbors and she’d been amazed, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything like this.

It wasn’t just that Cristiano’s villa looked like a delicious marzipan confection, or that the lush gardens rivaled anything she’d ever seen anywhere, it was the view. She’d lived for years in the Côte d’Azur, enjoyed the sunshine, admired the pretty beaches but the view took her breath away. As you drove along the coast, you could see beaches and marinas, villas cut into the terraced mountain, quaint red-tiled roofs in charming fishing villages, but here at Cristiano’s home on the Cap, you could see it all, together, in one picture postcard view.

The green land curved around the azure sea, creamy stone buildings clustered at the water’s edge, their beige and pink stone topped by red clay tiles while narrow stone piers and walls provided protected beaches and shelter for yachts and fishing boats.

Cristiano turned, smiled a welcome at Sam as she reached them.

“How could you live anywhere else?” she asked, arms still wrapped tightly around her middle. She felt like a little girl presented with the prettiest bride doll ever. She could only look. Couldn’t bear to touch. It couldn’t be real.

He shrugged. “Monte Carlo’s close, convenient. It’s where the corporate offices for The Bartolo Driving School are and that’s where I spend most of my time these days.”

“So that’s what you do now?”

“I’m proud of the company. We’re an international racing school now with campuses and tracks in the United States, Brazil, and Italy of course. But we don’t just train for road racing, we’ve really moved into executive protection and antikid-napping courses where we work with corporations, executives, their families and staff teaching them to detect and deter potential vehicular confrontations and assault.”

Sam looked at him, intrigued, thinking of the kidnapping attempt at Gabby years ago. “And these are classes?”