Sandra Marton - A Bride For The Taking

‘He’d have to be dead not to notice you, babe,’ he said flatly.

Dorian flushed. She had no illusions about her looks. She was pretty, perhaps more than pretty, but it was nothing to do with her. She had inherited her beauty, she hadn’t worked at it as she had at honing her reporting skills, and if she’d wanted to use her looks she’d have done so long ago. More than one city-room editor had made it clear that she could get ahead by going to bed—his bed, more specifically. She could even more easily have carved a career in TV news, where a pretty face went a lot further than ability.

But she hadn’t done any of that. And she wasn’t about to start now.

‘Walt.’ She straightened in her chair. ‘I want this assignment very badly. But I’m not going to take it if you think—if you’re assuming I’ll trade on my—on my looks to get anything out of Alexander. I don’t work that way.’ Her head lifted until her eyes were boring into his. ‘And you’ve absolutely no right to ask me to do something like that, either.’

Hemple’s smile was bland. ‘I sent you out to interview that librarian who hit the jackpot a few months ago. Why did I choose you, do you think?’

‘That’s not the same thing.’

‘Because your résumé says you worked a year as a library assistant, babe. It was a good fit, the same as it made sense to send Joe Banks to interview that sky-diver once I knew Banks jumped out of airplanes, too.’

‘Walt, it’s different. You’re asking me to—’

‘I’m asking you to be what you are—a reporter and a looker, too.’ He gave her a quick, hard smile. ‘Unless you’d rather I handed this over to somebody else.’

Dorian had stared at her boss, hating him for putting her in this spot, hating herself for not being able to tell him what he could do with his assignment, almost hating herself for being a woman.

It had been as if Hemple had been able to read her mind. His smile had broadened until it threatened to dislodge the cigar, and that had been when he’d uttered the words that almost mirrored the ones the taxi driver had used.

‘Why fight reality, babe? After all, it’s not my fault you’re a good-looking broad, is it?’

Dorian sighed as she remembered the smirk on his face as he’d spoken. Hemple was a pig, she thought as the taxi exited the Queens Midtown Tunnel and started along the highway, but he was the man in charge.

She took the file folder from her bag and opened it. The bottom line was that he’d given her an assignment, and she would fulfil it to the best of her ability.

She would certainly not use sex to accomplish it; she’d made that clear enough to him before she’d left his office. Hemple had only smiled. Dorian had known what he was thinking: that if Alexander had a choice between talking to her and to a male reporter he’d talk to her.

She sighed again as she began leafing through the papers inside the folder. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be because she’d gone out of her way to set things up. Certainly, she’d done nothing to glamourise herself.

She’d taken money from Accounting and dashed to a little shop on the corner where she’d bought a large carrying bag and only the basics: comb, toothbrush, underwear, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in addition to the khaki trouser suit she was wearing. Nothing feminine, nothing—

There was a sudden bang and the taxi lurched sharply to the right. Dorian cried out as the papers in her lap went flying. The driver cursed, this time loudly and fluently in Anglo-Saxon English, and pulled the vehicle off the road and on to the grassy verge.

Dorian leaned forward and hammered on the partition. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Why are we stopping?’

The man turned and slid the glass aside. ‘We have flat tyre, miss. I must change.’

She stared at him. ‘How long will that take?’

He shrugged. ‘Ten minute. Maybe fifteen. It is raining. Not so easy to do.’

‘Well, then—can you call for another taxi to come and pick me up?’

He shrugged again. ‘Sure. Can do. But other car may not come any faster than I change tyre.’

Dorian glanced at her watch. ‘Do it anyway, please,’ she said. ‘I’m really desperate.’

He did as she’d asked, then set to work. It had gone from afternoon to night now, and the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Time passed, but no new taxi appeared.

Dorian flung open the door and stepped out into the darkness. Wind buffeted her; she felt the rain drive straight through her thin cotton jacket and trousers, felt it plaster her hair to her skull. Spray from a passing car slapped against her face.

‘Miss.’ She turned. The driver had risen to his feet and was standing beside her, looking at her as if she were crazy. ‘I cannot fix. The jack no work. Please, we sit in taxi and wait.’

Dorian shook her head. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘My plane will be leaving.’ She peered ahead into the night. ‘We’re almost at the airport, aren’t we?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That’s what I thought.’ She reached inside the taxi and grabbed her holdall. The contents of the file she’d yet to look at—clippings, photos—all of it lay scattered on the floor. But it was too late now. ‘I’ll start walking,’ Dorian said. ‘If another taxi shows up, send the driver looking for me, will you?’

‘Miss, please, you cannot.’

‘Here.’ She dug into her bag for some bills and tucked them into the bewildered driver’s hand. ‘Maybe I’ll be lucky and someone will stop and give me a lift.’

‘In New York?’ The driver’s voice carried after her as she began marching towards the distant airport. ‘It will not happen, miss, and even if it should you cannot trust. Not in this city. Please. You must wait.’

But she couldn’t, not if she was going to make that plane. Dorian’s footsteps quickened. The driver was right, of course. No car would stop for her. This was New York, where only the fittest survived. You could fall to the pavement in the middle of Fifth Avenue and no one would acknowledge it. And he was right about the rest, too. In this city, you couldn’t trust anyone, especially someone crazy enough to stop to pick up a stranger.

Not that that would stop her. You couldn’t be a good reporter if you were afraid of—

A horn blared shrilly, making her jump. Dorian’s head lifted sharply. Go on, she thought, have fun at my expense. A truck whizzed by, closer than it had a right to be to the verge; water splashed over her, cold as ice.

She shuddered and kept walking. How long would it take to walk a mile or two under these conditions? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Would she make it on time, or—?

A car swept past her, swung sharply to the right, and came to a stop on the verge of the road just ahead. It was a sports car, something long and lean with a throbbing engine. Dorian blinked her eyes against the rain. Could it be...? Yes. Yes! The passenger door was swinging open.

She began running, her pace awkward in the muddy grass. When she reached the car, she paused and leaned down towards it.

The interior was dimly lit and leather-scented. Warmth drifted towards her, along with the faint strains of Tchaikovsky. There was a man at the wheel, but she couldn’t see him very clearly. His face alternated between light and shadow from the headlights of oncoming cars. All she could tell was that he was tall and that his hands lay lightly—and powerfully—on the steering-wheel.

‘Thank you so much for stopping,’ she said, her voice a little breathless. ‘You just saved my life.’

He turned slowly towards her, and for some reason her heart seemed to tighten in her breast. His face still alternated between light and shadow, but she could see that he had dark hair and eyes, a straight, handsome nose above what seemed to be a full mouth, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.