by Sarah Morgan
He did, then silently handed it back.
“She’s mine.” Sam said quietly, fiercely, heart so full of emotion she wasn’t even thinking. Just feeling. Gabby, gorgeous little Gabby was finally safe, finally hers, finally out of harm’s way.
All these years…
All the worrying, the struggling, the praying. She’d prayed for a miracle and she’d finally got one.
Gabby was hers. Johann had left and left Gabriela Grace to Sam.
“So what happens now, Mr. Bartolo?” she asked, knowing this had to change things, knowing he couldn’t possibly take both of them. It made no sense. He wouldn’t want them both. Obviously other plans had to be made.
He shrugged. “We have tea.”
“Now?”
“Then we’ll get you settled at the Hotel de Paris until we make more permanent arrangements.”
“So Gabby goes with me?”
His eyes narrowed fractionally. “For now.”
Sam shot Gabby a protective glance but the little girl had left the room, wandering down to her own bedroom. “She’s mine.” Sam’s voice dropped, her inflection hard, flinty. “We stay together. Like it or not.”
They had tea at the Hotel de Paris restaurant, Cote Jardin, a virtual indoor garden and terrace with a spectacular view of the harbor.
The service wasn’t slow, but for Sam every moment felt endless. It didn’t help, either, that their meal was interrupted repeatedly by strangers who stopped at their table to wish Cristiano well.
Although polite, Cristiano didn’t encourage conversation and when the strangers moved on, didn’t explain what he’d done to earn such enthusiastic well wishes. But after the last couple moved on, Sam wanted to know more.
“So you live here in Monaco?” she asked, stirring milk into her tea.
“I have a penthouse here, yes.”
“But this isn’t your primary home?”
The corner of his mouth curled. “I split my time evenly among my different residences.”
She glanced at Gabby who was glued to the window watching the boats enter and leave the harbor. “How many residences?”
His smile deepened. “Enough that I never get bored.”
Sam set her spoon in the saucer with an irritated clink. “Do you enjoy being enigmatic?”
“Not at all. I don’t know what you want to know.”
“I want to know everything.”
“Everything?”
He was smiling again and she didn’t understand it. Everything she said seemed to make him smile. How could she possibly be so amusing? “Yes, everything. I want to know where you live. I want to know what you do. I want to know who you are, how you spend your free time, the kind of friends you have.”
“A character assessment.”
“Yes.”
He shrugged, leaned back in his chair, the sunlight playing across his features, intensifying the green in his hazel eyes. “I can’t do that for you. You’ll have to use your own judgment regarding my character, but I can tell you basic things. I live here and on the Côte d’Azur. I have a home in Brazil on the coast but I don’t go there often anymore. I have my own company. I’m successful and financially solvent. Is that what you want to know?”
No. That wasn’t what she wanted to know. She didn’t care about his things, she wasn’t the least bit materialistic, and it annoyed her how easily people were impressed by money.
Money was useful, bought things, made certain decisions easier—even more convenient—but money as an end to a means? No. Never. Money ruined people. Changed everything. Sam didn’t know if it was greed or a weakness in human nature, but too many people respected—admired—the wealthy simply because they were wealthy and had fatter bank accounts. But fat bank accounts don’t make a person interesting and fat bank accounts don’t make a person kind, considerate—valuable.
Sam glanced at Gabriela who was now talking to the waitress and pointing out something she’d seen in the harbor. “It’s not your bank account that interests me, Mr. Bartolo, it’s your heart. And that’s what worries me. I don’t know if you have one.”
“I don’t know, either,” he agreed mockingly. “But hearts are overrated. Far better to be coldly pragmatic, to do what needs to be done, rather than what one feels like doing.”
Sam’s head shot up. “And what does that mean?”
“You feel attached to Gabby, so you’ve laid claim to her, but think about it: you’ve no legal claim to her, no biological tie—”
“Johann wants me to raise her.”
“Does that make it right?”
“Yes.”
“What about her mother’s family? Wouldn’t a blood relative be better than a stepmother?”
“Love isn’t about biological ties.”
“No?”
“No.” Sam stared at him, hating him. He had a beautiful face, a face of a fallen angel, and yet his heart was so black and selfish. “I love Gabriela and she loves me. Love is a gift. You can’t buy it, win it, or barter it. I wouldn’t trade her love for anything in the world.”
“Not even three million pounds?”
“Are you trying to be funny? Because I find that rather insensitive considering our situation.”
Cristiano’s hazel eyes narrowed, lashes dropping, concealing his expression but from the tilt of his lips she could see he was amused. “You know, Baroness, there are many funny people in England. The greatest comics are all British and I’ve watched every Monty Python movie that exists. But you, sadly, lack a sense of humor.”
“What about our situation do you find amusing?” She demanded tersely, refusing to acknowledge that he’d hit a sore spot. She’d never been able to laugh at herself. There hadn’t been a lot of fun in her life growing up, or many occasions to tease and play. Life for an orphan was serious. “Our lives are changed forever and you’re making jokes!”
“Not all change is bad, Baroness.”
“In this case it is.” Sam clasped her hands together in an effort to stay calm. “Please don’t move us from the villa. Please don’t take Gabby from the only home she knows.”
“It’s not much of a home.”
Sam’s cheeks burned, her temper spiking. “That’s not the point.”
Cristiano looked at her, long and level. “Then perhaps it should be.” Abruptly he signaled to the passing maître d’hôtel that he wanted the bill. “Let me see you to my suite and then I’ll work on locating Johann.”
Still feeling feverish, her gaze met his. “And just what do you intend to do with a woman and her little girl? Use us as a tax write-up? Fight some archaic inheritance law?”
“I think you’re actually trying to be funny.” He dropped cash on the table and stood. “Shall we go?”
“You didn’t answer my question.”
“I don’t think I have to.”
She wasn’t going to budge, wouldn’t leave until he gave her a straight answer. She was sick of being pushed and pulled and jerked around. “What are you going to do with us?” she repeated in a low, unrelenting voice.
He stood over her, gazed down at her. “I’m going to find Johann—”
“Why?”
“I want to make sure everything’s legitimate.”
“He gave me her papers, wrote a note—”
“And I can’t help wondering if it’s all legal? Can one just really give away a child like that?” Cristiano’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “First he tries to gamble Gabby, and then he abandons her. Seems highly suspect if you ask me.”
His answer stayed with Sam, haunted Sam as he led them to the elevator that whisked them to his hotel suite.
It didn’t matter what Cristiano found out. She wouldn’t give Gabby back to Johann. She wouldn’t give Gabby to anyone. Gabby was hers. She needed someone who loved her. Period.
Cristiano gave them a brief tour of the suite, pointing out the two bedrooms with ensuite baths, the sitting room connecting the two bedrooms, the small bar and refrigerato
r in the sitting room where they’d find cold drinks and other refreshments. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, with a glance at his watch. “Watch movies, television, whatever you like while I return a few phone calls. Once I’m off the phone we’ll proceed from there.”
Sam watched as he shut his bedroom door and then without even hesitating, she went to the second bedroom where their suitcases had been delivered and then with suitcases in hand, hustled Gabby to the elevator.
Taxis were already lined up in front of the hotel and it took just minutes to be seated and off. And yet despite their quick departure, Sam still held her breath much of the trip to the Nice airport. It was essential they catch the next British Airways flight to London-Heathrow, and from there they’d connect to Manchester.
In the back of the taxi, Sam wrapped her arm more snugly around Gabby.
Hard to believe they were running away like this.
Even harder to believe she was really going back.
It had been eight years since she’d left Cheshire, eight years since she’d fled the Rookery determined to never return.
But what was the old expression? Desperate times called for desperate measures? Well, Sam was nothing if not desperate now.
They didn’t reach Chester until very late that night. The taxi driver had tried to discourage them from traveling so late from Manchester to Chester, but Sam insisted. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi ride and hotel. They had to go to Chester. They had nowhere to sleep.
“Your address,” the taxi driver said as they approached Chester’s city limits. “It’s not in town, is it?”
“No. It’s actually closer to the village of Upton. It’s called the Rookery.”
Sam saw the driver look into the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Isn’t that the orphanage?”
“Yes.”
“Right,” the driver said more kindly. “I know the place.”
Fifteen minutes later, the driver took a left at a lane cut between two dark overgrown hedges. It was a long private driveway and everything gave an impression of neglect with tall, dead straggly weeds lining the dirt road while the road itself was muddy and full of potholes.
The whole area looked terribly forlorn and unkempt, but as the car headlights shone on the Rookery at the end of the driveway, the neglect was even more apparent.
The Rookery’s main hall dated back to the late seventeenth century, but through time and need, rooms and wings had been added to the original stone keep. Tonight the Rookery was dark, and the bright car beams bounced off the leaded windows on the second and third floors, while the first floor windows were all boarded over.
The taxi driver parked, but left the engine running. “It’s vacant,” he said.
Indeed, it was. No cars, no lights, no people, no sign of life anywhere.
“Were you expected?” he persisted.
Sam slowly shook her head, unable to find her voice. She’d counted on the Rookery, counted on Mrs. Bishop, the head housekeeper, and Mr. Carlton, the groundskeeper. She was certain they’d still be here. They’d been here forever. The Rookery was their home.
“Did you use to live here?” the driver asked, squinting up through his windshield to get a look at the rampart high above. It was the only feature of the old keep that remained. The rest had been softened and changed in renovations.
“Yes.”
It was all Sam could say. It was impossible to say more. If Charles had lived, things would have been different, of course, but Charles hadn’t lived and now the Rookery was closed, and she and Gabby had no money and nowhere to go.
Which meant they’d stay here. She’d find a way in, or better yet, try to break into the gamekeeper’s cottage to the far left of the old hall.
“So where can I take you?” The driver asked. “Into Chester? There’s some decent hotels and inns in town.”
Sam shook her head, opened the car door. “No, thank you. We’ll be staying here.”
The driver shook his head, obviously not pleased with her decision, but unwilling to intervene. He accepted his payment and drove away and as the taxi disappeared down the driveway, and Gabby shivered next to her, Sam realized just how late, and cold, and dark it was.
She’d made a mistake coming here. She should have gone with the taxi while they could.
But it was too late for regrets or remorse. They needed to get inside the gamekeeper’s cottage and once inside, Sam would build a fire and they’d be warm.
The old stone cottage was tucked to the left of the Rookery, and although small, contained two bedrooms, a simple kitchen and a great room with a large stone hearth. Sam knew it would be chilly inside the cottage—dark, too, because obviously there wasn’t even electricity anymore—but surely there’d be candles or lanterns, something to provide light.
Standing on tiptoe, Sam reached above the door, felt for a key not expecting to find one, and yet to her surprise, her fingers brushed cold metal. Thank God. The cottage key’s hiding place had at least remained the same. Sliding the key off the door frame, Sam tried the dead bolt and it turned.
“We’re in,” Sam said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Let’s see if I can’t make us a proper fire now.”
Nearly two hours later Sam was still trying to make a fire—she couldn’t find matches in the dark, couldn’t find anything to give her light—but thankfully Gabriela had fallen asleep on the old feather-stuffed couch, wrapped in thick blankets. At least Gabby was warm, Sam thought with a sigh as she sat back on her heels.
She was still contemplating the cold black hearth when she heard the purr of a motor outside, and then saw the wide arc of headlights flash through the dark cottage’s unshuttered windows.
Someone was here.
But Sam felt anything other than relief as she heard the car come to a stop, the headlights shining directly on the small neglected cottage. This wasn’t the taxi driver returning to check on them. And no one knew they were coming here.
Nervous, Sam went to the window overlooking the driveway. The car out front was a large sedan, a dark colored Mercedes. None of the locals who’d worked at the orphanage would drive a Mercedes, and to reach the Rookery, one had to drive a good quarter of a mile off the main road. Besides, it was late now, close to midnight.
Sam’s fingers curled into her palms. This was no accidental call. Heart in her mouth she watched the door on the driver’s side swing open. Cristiano Bartolo stepped out.
Sam stared at his tall shadowy figure in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Despite the distance, the flights, the taxis and the borders, he’d found them already. It’d taken him just hours.
CHAPTER FOUR
LOCKED inside the cottage, Sam listened as he knocked once on the cottage door, then twice.
Three times.
And each time he knocked, it was harder, louder.
She glanced back to the living room where Gabriela still slept, but if Cristiano continued pounding on the door, he’d wake her soon.
“Open the door, Baroness.” Cristiano’s deep voice, although muffled by the dense wood door, still reached her.
He sounded angry. Angrier than she’d ever heard him. In Monte Carlo he’d been cynical, mocking, terse—but never angry.
He must have leaned closer to the door because when he spoke next, his voice was perfectly clear. “I’ll give you to the count of three before I break the door down.”
She said nothing. He had to be bluffing. The door was thick, old, it would be impossible to break down.
“Baroness, I don’t make promises I don’t keep. Keep that in mind as I start counting.”
A shiver raced down her spine as she stood in the dark icy cottage. She craved light, and heat, craved safety but there was no safety for them now, not with Cristiano Bartolo on the other side of the door.
“One.”
Sam held her breath, nerves stretched to a breaking point.
“Two.”
“Wait!�
�� Sam pressed her face to the door. “You can’t break the door. It’s hundreds of years old. It’s been here longer than any of us has been alive—”
“Then open it now, before I say three.”
Hell. Sam’s hands trembled as she struggled to unbolt the lock, but it wasn’t just her hands that shook as she swung the door open. The cold air rushed at her, surprised her. She hadn’t realized the temperature had dropped so low.
“What are you doing here?” Sam faced Cristiano on the step outside. Moonlight outlined his profile, lit his dark hair, and yet it was his features that captured her attention. His jaw jutted, his full mouth pressed thin, and his dark eyes blazed. He was very unhappy with her at the moment.
Cristiano gave her a long hard look. “That’s a silly question.”
“You better go before I call the police.”
“You don’t have a phone, Baroness. And apparently, you haven’t any gas or electricity.”
He’d already figured that out, had he?
Sam shivered, hugged her arms closer to her chest. “You have a phone, and I’ll call the police.”
“Good. And then we can have a nice little chat with your Cheshire police about child smuggling.”
“Child smuggling! I have her passport, her birth certificate—”
“That doesn’t give you permission to take her out of the country. You’re not her legal guardian yet. You haven’t gone through the proper channels at all. The fact is, you broke so many international laws, Baroness, you’ll be spending years behind bars. Now, move.”
He was tall, so tall, that she had to tip her head back to see his face. “No.”
He didn’t even hesitate. “Then I’ll let myself in.”
Cristiano stretched an arm over her head, pushed the door open and lifting her in one arm, carried her into the cottage where he kicked the door shut and dropped her none too gently onto her feet. “Where is she?”
“Who?”
In the dim light she could see his expression and it wasn’t pleasant. “For an intelligent woman, you’re shockingly naïve.”
He gave her yet another shadowy, contemptuous look. “I’m here, Baroness, in your Cheshire cottage. I’ve traveled the same route you did, having spoken with numerous people at airport ticket counters. So where is she?”