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CHAPTER TWO
AN ICY heat washed through Sam. Skin prickling, she turned on the sofa’s arm to face the door and was immediately struck by heat, a dark heat that seared and burned from all the way across the room. “How did you get in?” she demanded.
Cristiano held up a key ring. “My key.”
“Your key.”
His broad shoulders twisted and he smiled that same mocking smile he’d smiled last night. “My villa.”
It wasn’t much of a villa, not in its current state of shabby disrepair. When Sam first met Johann, he had a larger, finer villa on the Rock, close to the royal palace, tucked in an elegant old square, set off by equally elegant old fountains, but as his financial picture changed, so did their accommodations.
“You’re mad,” she said, digging her hands into the couch, looking at Johann, heart racing, adrenaline surging through her in sickening fashion. “You’re both mad. You don’t wager homes. Wives. Families.” But Johann’s eyes were closed, his empty glass cock-eyed in his lap and Sam’s glance swung wildly back to Bartolo. “You can’t take someone’s wife.”
“You can if she’s wagered.”
Sam swayed on the arm of the sofa, swayed and laughed. She had to laugh. She didn’t know what else to do. This was absurd. This was a farce. It had to be. Johann was trying to scare her, trying to make a point. Obviously he was in over his head. Obviously he’d lost a great deal of money last night. “Exactly how much do we owe you?”
The man stood several inches taller than Johann, but was twice as thick through his shoulders and chest. Broad shouldered and powerfully built, he wore his dark hair long so that it brushed the collar of his black leather coat. “Nothing now, Baroness van Bergen. Your husband has settled his debt.”
She ignored the dart of pain inside her chest. Johann had settled the debt by giving her away. She knew her husband didn’t love her, or like her, but still, to be traded, bartered, it was so brutal it wounded. “I’m obviously not for sale, Mr. Bartolo. It’s a mistake—”
“No mistake,” he interrupted almost gently. “We’ve met with lawyers, signed papers, sorted things legally. I’ve absolved him of his debt. Therefore, you leave with me.”
“Leave with you,” she repeated dumbly.
“Yes. You might be married to Johann, but you’re not his woman anymore. You’re mine.”
Anything she was about to say slipped from her lips. How to answer that bold, arrogant, appalling assertion?
Silent, she looked up at him, and what she saw filled her with fresh fear.
He was calm. Relaxed. Completely in control.
She struggled to match his calm. “Mr. Bartolo, if you’ll tell me what we owe you, we can get this sorted out.” She tried to look him square in the eye, wanting to demonstrate her strength, but it meant tilting her head back and now, with her neck exposed, she felt even more vulnerable than before.
“You think?”
Sam didn’t like looking up at him, didn’t like the expression on his face, in his eyes. He was like a wolf alone with a penned lamb.
But she wasn’t a lamb. And she wasn’t an ingenue, either. She’d lived for twenty-eight years, had been a nanny for nearly ten. She carried no false illusions about life. Or men. Perhaps there were a few good ones, but most were very selfish and none were saints. “What do we owe you?” she repeated crisply.
“This isn’t about money, Baroness.”
“It’s always about money, Mr. Bartolo.”
Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. His eyes, neither green nor gold, warmed. “You don’t think it could be about love?”
She tried to laugh but it came out broken, strangled. She’d been in love once, years ago, and it had ended so swiftly, so tragically she knew she’d never love again. “You don’t even know me, Mr. Bartolo.”
“I know what I see.”
“Hair? Eyes? Face?” She snorted contemptuously. “That’s not love. That’s…” And her voice faded as his gaze met hers and she saw in his eyes something so intense, so explosive…fear lapped at her, hot, dangerous, deadly.
His eyes never left hers. “What, Baroness?”
Her limbs went weak, so weak it was as if she were swimming in cold, dense, murky water. Her head spun. Her legs felt close to collapse. “Indecent,” she whispered, the only word coming to mind. And it was indecent. His thoughts. His actions. His words.
“And maybe it is.” Still smiling faintly, he glanced at his watch, then shook down his sleeve. “It’s nine now. I’ll send my car for you at four. That should give you enough time to pack, say your goodbyes and do whatever it is you need to do.”
She looked away, vision blurred, mind equally fogged. Sam had nothing to pack but it was the goodbyes that tore at her, the goodbyes she feared most. She loved Gabriela as if the child were her own. “You really intend to do this?”
“Baroness, your husband owes me over ten million pounds. What do you expect me to do?”
The faint, hysteria-tinged laughter was back. She felt her eyes burn, her throat seal closed. She turned to Johann who was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, jaw slack, oblivious to the world. “Forgive and forget?” she suggested huskily, hopefully.
Cristiano made a short sound, rough, impatient and yet his half smile hinted at amusement. “You don’t know who I am, do you?”
“Should I?” Even as she asked the question, she searched her memory, seeking some clue to his identity but his name still meant nothing to her.
Although she’d lived in Monaco for nearly four years, she’d paid scant attention to the principality’s golden crowd. Having nannied in the past ten years for some of the most wealthy and famous people in the world, she was neither impressed nor influenced by those with money and fame. In her experience, the rich were rude, and the famous forgettable.
“No. The only thing you need to know is that I’m not a good loser.” His hazel-green gaze fringed by jet-black lashes met hers and held. His gaze was steady, too steady. “I hate losing. So I don’t.”
He walked out then, heading straight for the front door, and for a moment Sam remained where she was, frozen on the arm of the sofa like one of La Palme d’Or’s ice sculptures.
Then the ice shattered as she thought of leaving Gabby, saying goodbye to Gabby, and grabbing her coat, Sam raced out of the house down to the front where Cristiano was climbing into a low red Italia Motors sports car.
She reached the side of his car, opened the passenger door and leaned in. “You can’t do this. I can’t do this. I’ve Gabby—”
“She’s not your daughter.”
Sam looked at him where he sat in the driver’s seat, dark hair rakish, deep hazel eyes intense and she shook her head, denying his words, denying what they represented, when she knew the truth. Gabby was her daughter, the daughter of her heart anyway. “I won’t leave her.”
“Baroness, I have places to be, a meeting at the Hotel de Paris in ten minutes—”
“Then give me those ten minutes.” Sam pulled on her coat. “Take me with you and talk to me while you drive.”
“I won’t have time to bring you back.”
“Fine.” She climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door. “I’ll walk back. I don’t mind walking. But we must talk about Gabriela. It’s important.”
Cristiano shot her a long, hard look before starting the car and pulling away from the curb. “Talk,” he said as he swiftly merged with traffic. “You’ve ten minutes.”
Sam bunched her hands in her lap, watching Monaco’s picturesque streets flash by. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking and she had to draw a deep breath to steady her nerves. Thank God Gabby was still in school for the rest of the morning. Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare could be fixed before Gabby returned at three.
But before she had a chance to talk about Gabby, Cristiano’s phone rang and after checking the number, he took the call. It was a relatively long call and he was still on the phone when he slowed in the driveway approaching the Hotel de Paris. Tourists filled the elegant square, spilling from tour buses and vans onto the different plazas, snapping photos, posing for pictures, clustering outside the historic Café Divan inspecting the menu.
Sam took in and dismissed the throngs. Monaco was always crowded. Daily tourists, from all over the world, overran the tiny principality eager to visit the fabled home of Prince Rainer and his late wife, the former American film star, Grace Kelly.
What she wanted, needed, was Cristiano’s attention. What she wanted, needed, wasn’t going to happen.
As valet attendants came forward to take the car, Sam fought tears. He hadn’t even given her the time of day.
Stepping from the car, Sam smoothed her coat over her dress and waited in front of the Hotel de Paris while Cristiano finished the call.
Anger burned in her, anger and indignation. What kind of man took a woman from her family? What kind of man would accept a wagered wife?
It disgusted her, horrified her, and her hands clenched helplessly inside her coat pockets, her gaze fixed on the hotel’s belle epoch architecture. Be calm, she told herself, be calm. Losing control won’t help anything.
She focused on the hotel’s architecture instead. The Hotel de Paris and Le Casino were both constructed in the middle of the nineteenth century on a square overlooking the sea. She’d read somewhere that the square had once been an untidy wasteland, overgrown with dense vegetation, hiding deep in the cliffs near seawater-filled caves.
Apparently the famous Monte Carlo Le Casino had been built first, and the hotel second, the hotel just steps from the casino. Once the hotel was finished, stables were added to house horses and carriages, then a fountain designed, and finally gardens landscaped with imported palm trees to create an exotic tableau to lure winter weary Parisians.
Sam was no Parisian, but she was weary. Very weary.
He had to let her explain about Gabby, had to listen to Gabriela’s situation. Gabby couldn’t be left with Johann. Johann might be her father but he wasn’t to be trusted, especially not with a vulnerable child.
Abruptly Cristiano finished his call and put away his phone. “I’m sorry—”
“No. No,” she said fiercely, hands bunching into fists inside her coat pockets. “I won’t go.”
“Baroness—”
“You don’t understand. This isn’t about me, it’s about Gabriela.”
His hard expression briefly eased. “I’m not sending you on your way, Baroness.”
“You’re not?”
“No. I was going to say, I’m sorry I had to take the call, but I’ve taken care of my meeting. There’s nowhere I have to be for the next hour. We’re free now to sit down and discuss Gabriela.”
Sam felt relief and embarrassment wash through her. “I’m sorry. I didn’t realize. I thought…assumed…you were giving me the brush-off.”
His eyes, hazel green and gold, warmed. “Give you the brush-off? Baroness, I’ve just spent ten million pounds to make you mine. The last thing I want to do is give you the brush-off.”
His. There was that possession again. His, to be his, to belong to someone. To belong to a man.
It was odd, she thought, nerves twitching, her body so tense she felt like the tightened strings on a violin, but she’d been married twice and had never belonged to a man. And now Cristiano Bartolo talked about possession and yet there’d be no marriage.
Life was strange. No, make that impossible.
“Shall we go in?” Cristiano said, gesturing to the hotel.
“Mr. Bartolo?”
“Yes, Baroness?”
Something in his voice made her blush, and she took a step back, her skin tingling, a fire burning from the inside out. He was hard, male, confident. Strong.
Very, very strong.
And that’s what unnerved her most. Sam wasn’t used to male strength, hadn’t experience with a man like Cristiano Bartolo. Yes, she’d been married twice, but neither husband had been strong, or male, like this. Neither husband commanded attention, seized control, shaped the world to suit them. “I haven’t agreed to anything,” she said breathlessly, “you do realize that, don’t you? I’m here to talk—that’s it.”
The corner of his mouth lifted in a faint, mocking smile. “You do know the moment a woman throws up walls and restrictions, a man’s determined to destroy them?”
The tops of her cheekbones burned. Even her ears felt hot. “I’m not trying to be provocative.”
“But that’s the charm, Baroness. You’re provocative just by being you.” And turning, he climbed the hotel’s marble steps giving Sam no choice but to follow.
Sam noticed how the doorman jumped to attention, and while he nodded politely at both, he murmured a warm welcome to Cristiano.
Sam glanced back at the doorman as they entered the hotel’s grand domed lobby. “He addressed you by name,” she said.
“I’m a fixture here.”
“You have quite a few meetings here, then?”
“If you want to call them meetings.”
A cryptic answer, but one she understood perfectly well. Maybe she hadn’t had sex, but she knew what it was. “So you meet women here?”
“I have a room here.”
“Always?”
“When I feel the need to entertain.”
When he wanted to sleep with a woman. She turned away, stared across the lobby feeling ridiculously old and prudish. She’d never thought she’d end up twenty-eight and celibate. When Charles proposed, she’d thought she’d have such a different life. She’d be a wife, lover and mother. Instead fate intervened and she’d become this. Tired. Worried. Worn.
“I can show you my suite, if you’d like,” he offered.
They were standing in the hotel’s grand lobby now, almost directly beneath the vast blue glass dome and Sam flashed him a look of disdain. “No, thank you.”
Cristiano laughed, softly, seductively. He liked that flash of fire in her. It was a relief to know she wasn’t always so grave and serious. And yet already the spark in her was gone, replaced by more quiet worry, the line of which was almost permanently etched between her fine brown eyebrows.
Last night she’d looked regal, a conquering warrior, and yet today in the morning light, dressed in her simple, sturdy tweed coat, her fair English complexion tinged pink and her blue eyes wide, round, he thought she looked very young, very English, and very scared.
Cristiano liked women, enjoyed women, but he didn’t enjoy them scared.
He wanted Samantha, wanted to own her, possess her, but not trembling like a frightened puppy in his bed. He wanted a woman, a strong woman, with spirit.
“Well, you will see it,” he said lazily, “the question is just—how soon?”
Sam was listening to him, she was, and yet his words didn’t penetrate her brain.
Instead she watched his mouth move, the lips parting, shaping, and she found herself fascinated by the shape of his mouth, the hard lines of his face. He had a strong jaw, strong straight nose, fiercely black eyebrows and then there was that cleft in his square chin and two deep grooves on either side of his firm mouth. His eyes, thickly lashed, were neither green nor gold, but hazel, what ought to be an ordinary hazel but there was so much heat in his eyes, so much spirit and intelligence his eyes fairly snapped with energy. With life.
Again it struck her that he was awake. Alert.
