Sandra Marton - A Bride For The Taking

‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His voice was deep and soft, almost smoky. Dorian had the sudden crazy feeling that he never had to raise that voice at all, that people would do whatever they had to do to hear his words.

‘You cannot trust,’ the taxi driver had said. ‘You cannot trust...’

Dorian touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. ‘To—to the airport,’ she said. ‘But if you’d just be kind enough to take me as close to it as you can—’

‘I’m going there myself. Toss your things in the back and get in.’

Dorian’s heart did a funny turn again, as if someone had reached into her chest and given it a poke. It was silly, but the open door, the drift of leather-scented warmth emanating into the chill night from the car’s interior, the smoky voice—all at once it seemed dangerous.

‘Well?’ The voice was amused now, even a little contemptuous. ‘Are you going to stand out there and drown, or am I going to drive you to the airport?’

Dorian drew in her breath. What was there to fear? Men who drove expensive cars weren’t likely to be serial killers, for heaven’s sake. What she had to do was get to the airport and write the story of the year about a man named Jack Alexander, a man who might in hours become the absolute ruler of a country lost in the past.

‘You’re going to drive me to the airport,’ she said briskly, and she tossed her bag into the rear of the car, climbed into the seat, and slammed the door after her.

DORIAN sighed thankfully as she sank into the leather bucket seat.

‘It’s a hell of a night for a stroll.’

She looked at the man who’d rescued her. He was smiling as he looked into his mirror and manoeuvred the car back into traffic.

She laughed pleasantly. ‘Isn’t it ever? I can’t believe how hard the rain’s coming down.’ Her hair was dripping into her eyes; she put her hands to her face and shoved back the soaked strands. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to make a mess of your car.’

The man beside her shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His foot settled more firmly on the accelerator. The engine growled as the car leaped ahead, the wiper clearing the windscreen in rhythmic strokes. ‘What time does your flight leave?’

‘What?’

‘Your plane. I assume it must be taking off fairly soon or you wouldn’t have risked life and limb on the road.’

‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘You sound like my taxi driver. He thought I was crazy to leave the cab.’

‘That dead yellow beast on the verge was yours, then?’ He nodded. ‘I thought it must be.’

‘Mmm. We had a flat—it was the final touch. Traffic was impossible all the way from Manhattan.’ Dorian made an apologetic face as she looked down at herself. ‘I really am making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how soaked I was.’

Her rescuer glanced at her. ‘You must be freezing,’ he said.

She started to protest politely, but the sudden chatter of her teeth stopped her in mid-sentence.

‘I suppose I am,’ she said with a rueful little laugh. ‘Who’d ever dream it would get chilly so late in May?’

‘Well, we can warm things up a little.’ He leaned forward and pushed a button on the dashboard. Warm air hissed from the heating vents and Dorian sighed with pleasure. ‘Better?’

‘Yes, thanks. Much.’

‘There’s a coat on the seat behind you. If you drape it over yourself, you’ll be more comfortable.’

Dorian shook her head. ‘No, thank you, that’s all right. We’ll be at the airport soon, and—’

‘And by then you’ll probably have pneumonia. Go on, get the coat.’

‘Really, it isn’t necessary. I’m feeling much warmer already. The heat’s coming up, and—’

‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t argue. Put the coat on.’

She stared at him. His voice had not risen; instead, it had taken on a note of command and she thought suddenly that he was a man accustomed not only to giving orders, but to having them obeyed instantly.

But not by her. It was one thing to accept a lift from a stranger and quite another to—

‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said. She looked up. He was watching her, a little frown on his face. His gaze slipped over her, moving from her dripping hair to her damp face, then dropping to her wet khaki jacket. When his eyes met hers again, his face was expressionless. ‘And you’re cold, too.’

‘I’m not. Really.’

A faint smile curved across his mouth. ‘But you are,’ he said softly, and suddenly she was painfully aware that her clothing must be clinging to her skin, outlining her breasts with intimate clarity.

Dorian felt her cheeks blaze. Be careful, she told herself. She’d been warned against crazies, hadn’t she?

Her mouth tightened as she reached for the coat to hide herself from the man’s coolly appraising gaze. He’d outmanoeuvred himself, though. Once she had the coat on, he wouldn’t have much of a view to enjoy. She smiled as she snatched it up and draped it over herself from chin to toe.

‘There.’ His tone was light and pleasant. ‘Isn’t that better?’

‘Perfect,’ she said sweetly.

And it was. She was discreetly covered by the coat—his, she was certain, based on its size and its faintly masculine scent—and she was warm, as well...

And she’d done his bidding . He’d manipulated her into doing what he’d first commanded.

She blinked. Why on earth had she thought that? Besides, what counted was that she was warm again. The little tremors that had raced through her body had stopped. And it would have been stupid to have risked a chill at the start of her first big story...

‘So.’ He stretched lithely, shifting his weight in the bucket seat. ‘You still haven’t told me what’s so urgent that you were willing to risk a night-time walk along the highway.’

‘I did tell you.’ Dorian’s tone was politely neutral. ‘I’ve a plane to catch.’

‘Let me guess.’ Her rescuer gave her a quick smile. ‘You’re off for a long weekend on the beach at Cancun.’

She laughed. Was that where people went for a weekend in his world? ‘No,’ she said, ‘not hardly.’

‘Martinique, then.’

‘Not Martinique, either.’

He sighed. ‘Ah, that’s too bad. I was going to recommend a little place I know on the north side of the island—they serve the best rum punch this side of paradise.’

And he’d just love to take her there. Was that what came next? Dorian sighed inwardly. She knew all the moves by now, after five years of living in New York. You’d meet a man, there’d be a little chit-chat about dinner, or the newest nightspot, and then—as if the idea had just sprung into his head—he’d invite you to visit it with him. She’d passed up invitations to the Hamptons, to Miami, once even to Lake Tahoe for fun and games.

But Martinique? That was new to her list. Apparently the stakes were higher in this man’s league. Still, why wouldn’t they be? Everything about him spelled M-O-N-E-Y. Dorian stole a glance at him, her eyes taking in longish but expensively cut dark hair, the well-tailored suit, the Rolex Oyster glinting on his wrist. Yes, she thought a little disdainfully, he would know the best place on Martinique—and in half a dozen other pricey spots in the Caribbean.

She looked at the dashboard clock. Her mouth twisted. In a little while she’d meet Jack Alexander, and she had no doubt but that he would be much like the man seated beside her: wealthy, very sure of himself, good-looking—and never hesitant about turning on the charm for an attractive woman.

And yet—she stirred uneasily. And yet there was something else about the man driving this car, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It had to do with the way he’d spoken to her, with the way he seemed to have forced her into a corner moments ago. It was as if a core of steel lay hidden just beneath the silken exterior.