Taken by the highest bidder

by Jane Porter

  But it hurt like hell until you got to the other side.

  She felt Cristiano's gaze rest on her, "How long has it been closed up?" he asked.

  "Years," she answered softly, the white porcelain sink smooth beneath her fingers. "At least eight."

  He wasn't even pretending to look outside anymore. He was looking at her. Only at her and the weight of his inspection made her shiver. "How long have you been widowed?"

  Sam sucked in air, flinching at the pain. Talking about the Rookery was hard. Talking about Charles—impossible. Her fin­gers flexed convulsively against the sink's edge. "Eight," she said, looking anywhere but at him. Eight long endless years.

  To cover her anguish, Sam turned toward the cupboard, reached for a cup and saucer. Her hand shook as she set them on the counter.

  She could still feel the weight of his gaze, knew he was watch­ing her. sensed he was remembering what Mrs. Bishop had said this morning about Sam being married and widowed in the same day, and she turned suddenly, faced him defiantly, daring him to speak about something so personal and private it still devastated her eight years later.

  Her gaze clashed with his but there was no pity in his eyes, nothing in his eyes, just intense focus.

  He continued to look at her with that same long, hard inspec­tion and air bottled in her lungs. Holding her breath, she looked back at him and had never felt so vulnerable, as though she were full of holes and hurts-Holes and hurts and broken hearts.

  If only she could cry, she thought- If only she could let some of this pain out. But it was impossible. The pain was buried too deep, the loss too significant.

  Inexplicably emotion flickered in Cristiano's hazel eyes. His hard jaw gentled a fraction. "You have lost a great deal in your life, haven't you?"

  His sudden tenderness was too much. Sam felt a wall of ice inside her crack and fall, and behind that wall Sam glimpsed a child crying-She didn't think she'd made a sound but Cristiano cupped her cheek, then gently sliding his hand down, over her jaw, toward her chin and across the front of her throat- "Hush," he said. "Things always work out"

  Tears flooded Sam's eyes and reaching up, she caught his hand in her own and held it tightly. "You're not helping," she choked, even as her fingers curled into his. She didn't understand it. She hated his power, feared his strength, and yet somehow she craved that power and strength, too.

  His head dropped and she felt his breath against her face. For a split second she thought he was going to kiss her and then the kettle whistled and he abruptly pulled back.

  Sam felt his hand fall away. She took a step in the opposite direction even as she felt a shiver race through her, awareness, tension, desire.

  "Your water's boiling," he said.

  She turned, searched for a towel or hot pad, something to grab the kettle's handle with and when she turned around again, Cristiano was gone.

  Outside Cristiano returned to chopping wood. He'd been pouring his anger and aggression into splitting logs before he en­tered the cottage- He should have never stopped splitting logs. Shouldn't have carried an armful into the kitchen, not when Sam was there, not when she looked so completely and utterly alone.

  He wished he hadn't seen that, that he could go back and erase her expression from his memory, the one he saw as she stood at the sink staring out the window. She'd looked so lost.

  Goddamn it. She reminded him of Gabriela,

  He lifted the ax, swung it high overhead and let it slam down. The impact of metal against wood shuddered through him, rip­pling from his arms to his shoulders and through his torso.

  She wasn't alone, he told himself, yanking the blade out and turning the log, repositioning it for another swing. She was young. She was an adult. She had friends. She didn't need Gabriela, Gabriela was her job, not her life.

  But, maledizione! The look in her eyes. The grief.

  He swung the ax over his head again, a huge powerful arc be­fore he brought it down, crashing into the wood. He felt a jolt through his shoulders even as the wood split and cracked. She wasn't his responsibility, he told himself, tossing the split pieces into a pile at his feet as he grabbed another large log and placed it on the chopping block. She's not my problem.

  But later, as Cristiano waded through the dense snowdrifts back to the cottage, arms loaded high with freshly cut firewood, he knew she was his problem.

  He'd destroyed her world, taken what little security she had away from her. At first she'd simply been a tool to get what he really wanted. But he couldn't very well leave her alone in the world—no money, no protection, no stability. If he was going to provide for Gabriela, the least he could do was provide for the one person who'd given Gabby love and affection.

  Whether he liked it or not, Samantha was his responsibility, too.

  He dumped the logs by the hearth in the main room, and re­turned outside to get one last load so they'd have enough wood for the night.

  But wading back through the snow, he gritted his teeth at the shooting pain in his right leg. His legs had been aching all day. At first this morning he'd thought it was the lack of sleep, but now knew it was the change of weather. Whenever there was a pressure change, his legs became hypersensitive—both skin and muscle full of stabbing pain, but he never complained, never told anyone that he hurt. He knew the dangers of his profession when he started out. He could blame no one but himself.

  He swore as he hit an unanticipated patch of black ice beneath the snow. His right leg caved, nearly giving out.

  Cristiano stopped, took a breath, steadied himself blocking out the searing pain. He made sure he'd found his footing be­fore continuing on again. His rehab had covered numerous sit­uations but walking on slick surfaces hadn't been one. But then, Monaco and the Cote d'Azur were famous for sun, not ice, so learning to cope with ice and snow had not been a priority.

  Loaded down with more firewood, he turned, started back to the house and then was forced to slow, even rest, as he hit the same damn patch of ice. He had no traction in his shoes, and be­fore his accident, ice wouldn't have been a problem, but his legs weren't the same. Nothing about his legs was the same.

  The doctors had said he should always use a cane, that his weaker right leg needed the support but Cristiano was damned if he'd advertise his weakness to others. He'd never let another man know he wasn't as strong. His business was so competi­tive, so cutthroat, that one had to be tough—always.

  Not just physically, but mentally. So instead of leaning on a cane to support his weight, Cristiano had learned to compensate by walking more slowly, more deliberately. And usually it worked.

  Usually.

  Cristiano glowered as his right foot slipped again. Damn.

  But he wasn't going to drop the wood. And he wasn't going to quit. And he wasn't going to focus on the hot sharp lancing pain that streaked through his legs now.

  He'd just dumped the last load of wood by the hearth when his phone rang. Knocking bits of bark and moss off his hands, he took the call-It was Mrs. Bishop- She'd called to say that they'd tried to drive Gabby back but the car had slid off the road, spinning out into the field. No one was hurt but there was no way to get Gabby back, at least not with their car. As Mrs. Bishop talked, Cristiano went to the front door to check his rented Mercedes. Snow was piled a good foot high on the hood. Looking past the Mercedes he saw the entire lane was covered, no sign of road or field, fence or wall. Everything was just white, powdered white.

  "I can try to drive down there," he said. "My rental car doesn't have four-wheel drive, but it might be okay."

  "It might be okay," Mrs. Bishop answered anxiously, "but it might not be. Gilbert, my son-in-law, is already shaken up. Maybe it's best if Gabby just stayed here tonight, and then to­morrow we can see if one of the farmers will help us tow Gilbert's car out of the field and maybe plow the road."

  Cristiano caught sight of Samantha from the comer of his eye. She must have heard the phone ring and she'd been following the conversation. "What's wrong
?" she whispered. "Is Gabby all right?"

  He nodded before finishing the call. "Then keep her there to­night, Mrs. Bishop, no reason to take any more risks. Tell your son-in-law I'll pay for his car to be towed, and do give us a call in the morning once everyone's up."

  Hanging up, he turned to face Sam who hovered in the back­ground. "The roads aren't drivable. Mrs. Bishop's son-in-law tried to bring Gabby home but lost control and ended up in a field or a ditch—I'm not sure which."

  "Is Gabby okay?"

  "Yes, but she is going to stay at the Bishops' tonight."

  Sam nodded and blushed all at the same time. She'd counted on Gabby returning. But Gabby wouldn't be back tonight. Instead it would just be her and Cristiano.

  Alone.

  In a small cottage.

  Far from neighbors.

  With no electricity and no music, television or diversion. What in God's name were they trying to do for the next twelve hours?

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Dinner was a simple toasted cheese sandwich served with bowls of tinned tomato soup. Not a glamorous meal but it met the need for warm food and drink.

  They ate in front of the fire in the sitting room because it was the warmest spot in the cottage. Once finished, Sam stood to carry their plates and bowls to the kitchen, but as she reached for Cristiano's dishes, his eyes met hers, his gaze boring into her, the hazel-green depths warm and flecked with gold. "Leave the dishes," he said. "I'll do them later,"

  'That's okay, I don't mind:'

  "I do. Leave them."

  Nervously Sam stacked the dishes in the sink before running her hands down the front of her dark gray slacks, her palms damp.

  The cottage was so small. There was nowhere to go. And the bedrooms, even if she wanted to hide in there, were too cold.

  But the idea of returning to Cristiano, to sitting with him near the fire filled her with dread.

  He made her so jumpy. Just being near him her heart raced, her pulse pounded. She felt hot and cold at the same time, jit­tery, scared, uneasy.

  Why was she so afraid of him?

  Why did everything in her scream for her to run? Was it sur­vival instinct? Common sense?

  Glancing out the window yet again, Sam felt discouraged by the snow still falling, "We're stuck," she said, returning to the sitting room,

  Cristiano made a rough sound. "You'll survive."

  Sam grimaced, sat down in one of the armchairs near the fire. "I know. Unfortunately so will you."

  Cristiano surprised her by laughing, a rough deep sound that was as masculine as it was seductive. "You're really not com­fortable with me, are you?"

  "No!"

  "Finally," he mocked, leaning back in his chair, "We get a lit­tle honesty."

  "I haven't been dishonest."

  He made a soft, rough sound in the back of his throat. "No. I understand. You're English, and you've cultivated through years of practice and self-denial this wonderful British stiff upper lip to keep others from knowing what you want, or need."

  "That's not true. The only thing I want or need is Gabby, and I've been quite open about my feelings with regards to her."

  He studied her in the red and gold firelight, his lashes low­ered, and his mouth firm. For a moment there was just the crackle and pop of the fire and the acrid smell of smoke. "Someday you'll marry again,"

  He said surprisingly gentle, "You'll have children, and a family, of your own."

  If he'd hoped to soothe her, his words had the opposite ef­fect. Her throat, chest and stomach hurt as if she'd just chewed and swallowed glass. "I won't," she answered. "I'll never marry again. And I don't want children of my own."

  "But you're good with children."

  "I'm a nanny. My job is to look after other peoples' children. I hope I'm good with them."

  "But don't you want more for yourself?"

  "More, how?"

  "A lover, a partner. Someone to share your life with."

  She felt herself blush and she shook her head, amazed at how quickly he could fluster her. "No. I'm content." She ignored the twinge inside of her, the twinge of conscience that said she was not being entirely truthful. Truly there were times she needed more, times when she felt alone, but everyone felt lonely and alone at times. Everyone had needs. She wasn't unique that way. "My life's good."

  "You've been married. How can you not miss the physical comforts? Sex? Intimacy?"

  He didn't realize she didn't know anything about sex, or in­timacy, and maybe that's what kept her from ever becoming more intimate with anyone. People didn't know that while on one hand she had this colorful, crazy life, on the other she was still hopelessly sheltered. Her emotions had been through hell while her body remained untouched.

  Sam found it deeply embarrassing that at her age, approach­ing thirty, she knew as little about men and sex as she did at eigh­teen. Somehow a decade had come and gone and left her like one of those Dresden shepherdesses on a shelf. But she was all shat­tered inside.

  Her mouth was so dry, her lips felt as if they were cracking. "I'm content," she repeated huskily.

  "You say that, but you're not. I see it in your eyes, Samantha. I see it in the way you talk and smile. Forgive me, but you are a martyr looking for a cause."

  Sam didn't realize she'd been holding her breath until her head started spinning. She forced herself to exhale and then in­hale, trying to clear her head. "I'm no martyr. Some people have more heartache in their lives, some people have less."

  He rose from his chair and went to the fire where he took a poker and pushed the fire around a bit before adding more fuel. "There are things I need to tell you. And I'm not sure how to tell you."

  "It's bad?"

  He made a rough sound. "It's not good."

  Sam stiffened, not wanting more bad news. Bad news in her life had been very bad. There was no in-between news, no dis­appointing news, just bad as in tragic, bad as in shattering, bad as in nothing will ever be the same.

  But Cristiano remained standing in front of the fire and Sam felt his gaze travel slowly over her face, his thick black lashes lowered, and yet even without seeing his expression, she felt his inspection in every muscle and every bone, "What do you have to tell me?" she begged, terrified with suspense, just wanting whatever he had to say, said, so this could be over.

  "It's about Johann. I've learned things that will hurt, maybe even embarrass you. But you have to know the truth."

  "Embarrass me, more than he already has?" Sam laughed mockingly. "How could he possibly embarrass me more?" She laughed again, slightly breathlessly, thinking she'd made a silly joke, and anticipating his laugh.

  But Cristiano didn't smile and she suddenly felt out of breath.

  "He has another wife."

  Sam just stared at him. She didn't know what to do, how to react. "He has another wife?"

  "Yes." There was no hesitation. "He still lives with her, part-time in Vienna. They were married ten years ago. He's never di­vorced her."

  "That means..."

  "Your marriage isn't valid. You're not legally van Bergen's wife."

  Sam shook her head slowly. "I've never been his wife?"

  "No."

  "I'm not Baroness van Bergen. The wife in Vienna is,"

  "Yes."

  She felt as though he'd taken a sledgehammer to her head and she looked up at him where he stood silhouetted by the fire, dazed. "So what am I?"

  Cristiano didn't answer. He didn't have to.

  Sam was nothing. Just the nanny, always just the nanny. Forever the hired help.

  Sam lifted a hand, touched her forehead. "Does he have chil­dren with her?"

  "No."

  Thank God. "But he still sees her?"

  "Yes."

  "Does she know about me?"

  Cristiano shook his head slightly. "I don't think so. She doesn't leave Vienna, She doesn't go out much with him,"

  "Neither did I." Sam laughed unsteadily. "I guess we made it convenient for
him. It must be easy having two wives if you don't take out either."

  "I know it's a shock, Samantha. But you're better off with­out him—"

  "Of course I am!" She interrupted fiercely, surprised by the depth of her rage. "I didn't love him. How could I love him? He was petty and selfish, vain and self-absorbed. He was horrible to Gabriela, horrible to me, but—" And then her voice broke, and the past four years hit her and she felt devastated, betrayed. "He didn't even pay me!"

  She looked up at Cristiano, alternately icy and feverish. "For three years I cooked and cleaned and sewed and gardened and received nothing. No allowance, no salary, no money, no in­come. Not even kindness."

  She wasn't going to cry, she wouldn't cry, it was so silly. So she laughed instead and turned away, looking toward the window, hiding the fact that her eyes were burning and her heart ached. Johann had treated her abominably. And she'd let him.