Sandra Marton - A Bride For The Taking

‘I was born in that “primitive little country” you hold in so much contempt.’

Dorian paled. ‘Look, just because I said some things—’

‘Which makes me a barbarian. Wasn’t that what we agreed?’

‘No.’ She shook her head. ‘No, we didn’t. It was you who said that. I never—’

‘Reporters,’ he said, his mouth twisting as if the word were bitter on his tongue. ‘You’re all alike—you think you can stick your noses in where they don’t belong and never pay the consequences.’

Dorian drew in her breath. ‘Look,’ she began, ‘I’m only doing my job. Your people invited the Press to come along on this junket. If you wanted to keep things from us, you—’

‘And there’s another thing. I did not manhandle you.’

‘Mr Prince—’

‘Not that I didn’t come damned close.’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

He moved quickly, like the panther of which he’d reminded her. He was next to her before she could react, his hands on her shoulders as he drew her to him. ‘ This is what I did,’ he said, and his mouth dropped to hers in a quick, almost savage kiss. It lasted only an instant, and then he stepped back and gave her another of those cold, terrible smiles. ‘Now,’ he said softly, ‘do we understand each other?’

‘You’re despicable,’ she whispered. ‘You’re—you’re...’

He laughed when she sputtered to silence.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve run out of adjectives, kitten. Where’s the journalistic skill you’re so proud of?’

Her eyes flashed with indignation. ‘Don’t you dare call me that again, dammit!’

‘If you don’t want to rot in this God-forsaken place,’ he said briskly, as he turned away, ‘you’d better get a move on. I want to be airborne in five minutes.’

‘You’re the most—the most horrible...’ She caught her breath. You’d better get a move on . She touched the tip of her tongue to her lips. ‘You’ll—you’ll take me with you?’

He turned, his hands on his hips. ‘Tell me how to avoid it,’ he said unpleasantly, ‘and I’ll be happy to oblige.’

Dorian nodded, trying not to let herself look as surprised—and relieved—as she felt.

‘You’re quite right. Deserting me here would only be bad publicity for—’

She gasped as he caught hold of her wrist. ‘Just remember something. This is no cushy chartered flight.’

‘Let go of me, please.’

‘And I am not a steward, or one of your fellow reporters.’ His eyes swept across her face. ‘It would be a waste of time to try using that pretty face to get what you want, Miss Oliver. I’m not about to fall for the same nonsense you use on everybody else.’

‘I get the message,’ she said stiffly. ‘Now, if you’d let go—’

‘Just remember something. Once you set foot in that plane, you’re nothing but an unwelcome passenger.’

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