A Bride For The Taking

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.

CHAPTER TWO

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.

She glanced at him again. There was something in the way he held himself, too, head high and shoulders straight, with just the slightest touch of arrogant pride to the set of his mouth. It was there in the way he drove this expensive car—a Porsche Carrera, she was fairly certain—with a skill and assertiveness that almost bordered on aggression, as if the caution of the slower-moving drivers on the rain-slicked road was an insult to his masculinity.

Her gaze fell on his hands, lying lightly on the steering-wheel. They were tanned and well cared for, yet she was quite certain they would be strong and powerful, that they would not only be able to elicit the best from an automobile, but from anything else they touched. From a woman, she thought suddenly. A woman would respond to him as the car was—with eagerness and pleasure—and all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like on Martinique, wondering if flowers scented the air along the beach...

‘...where you’re going, if you want to make your plane on time.’

Dorian turned towards him, afraid to breathe, afraid she’d somehow spoken those last insane words aloud. But she hadn’t; he was watching the road, the car was moving more slowly, and she realised that they’d turned off the highway and on to the road that traversed the airport.

‘Excuse me? I—I didn’t hear what you said.’

‘I said, you’d better tell me where you want to be dropped off, if you want to make your flight.’

Her brows rose a little. She’d been wrong, then. He’d been gallant to the end; he’d given her a lift, flirted probably no more than his male ego demanded, and now he was all business. In fact, now that she looked at him, she could see that he’d undergone a subtle change in the last few minutes. That soft, sexy smile had been replaced by a certain grimness, and the hands that lay on the steering-wheel gripped it almost tightly.

But then, he had a plane to catch, too. Dorian felt a little twinge of something that surely couldn’t have been regret. She sat up straighter, took the coat from her lap, and tossed it into the back seat.

‘Of course. You can drop me off at—at...’

Where? Her breath caught. It was a damned good question, and she had no answer. She had no idea where to get the flight to Barovnia. Walt Hemple hadn’t told her.

‘Well?’ Her rescuer slowed to a crawl. ‘Look,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve a plane to catch myself and not a hell of a lot of time to do it in. Where shall I drop you?’

Her mind spun in frantic circles. What now? She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes? Ten minutes to make her flight. No, she thought grimly. Not her flight. Her career. If she missed that plane, she might as well never show her face at WorldWeek again.

‘Come on, lady,’ the stranger said. ‘Where do you want to go?’

‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.

His dark eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know? What in hell is that supposed to mean?’

‘It means—it means he didn’t tell me,’ she said a bit shakily.

His expression grew even more grim. ‘He didn’t tell you? You mean, you agreed to go away with some guy for the weekend without...?’

‘No!’ Dorian’s eyes flashed with green fire. ‘I certainly did not. And I resent the implication.’

His mouth seemed to soften a little. ‘It wouldn’t be so extraordinary, would it?’ He smiled. ‘A beautiful woman going away with her boyfriend for a couple of days, I mean.’

Some of the stiffness went out of her spine. ‘No. I just—you had no right to assume—’ She broke off. What in heaven’s name did it matter what he assumed? He was a stranger; she would never see him again after this. She sighed and looked at him. ‘I’m not going away for pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’m flying out on business.’

‘Ah.’ His smile tilted. ‘As am I.’

‘And it’s—well, it’s an important trip. But my boss forgot to tell me where my plane would be leaving from.’

His smile broadened. ‘The problem’s easily solved. Take a look at your ticket. The name of the airline will be on it.’

His suggestion gave her hope—until she remembered that all Walt had handed her was the library material and petty-cash voucher.

Dorian blew out her breath. ‘I don’t have a ticket.’

‘I see. You’re supposed to pick it up at the counter, hmm?’ He shrugged before she could say anything. ‘Well, call your boss and talk to him.’ He reached for the cellular phone.

‘No,’ she said quickly, stilling his hand. He looked at her, brows lifted, and she gave him a nervous smile. ‘You don’t know him. I—I don’t think he’d be very happy to find out that I’d screwed up.’

The stranger frowned. ‘But it’s his fault, surely.’

Dorian sighed. ‘You don’t know my boss. He might not see it that way.’ Her shoulders rose and fell in a little shrug. ‘This job I’ve been sent on is important, you see. It’s hard to explain, but—’

‘You don’t have to explain.’ He made a sound that was not quite a laugh. ‘I know all about important jobs, and how they have to be dealt with even when they seem damned near impossible.’

Dorian nodded. ‘Impossible,’ she repeated—and all at once, to her horror, her eyes filled with tears. She blinked them back quickly, but not before he’d seen their tell-tale glitter.

‘Hell!’ His brows knotted together as he undid his seatbelt and moved towards her. ‘No job is worth that.’

‘This one is.’ She swallowed hard. ‘You don’t under-stand—’

‘I told you.’ His voice was harsh. ‘I do understand, better than you could possibly imagine.’ His frown deepened, and then he began to smile. ‘What if you just forgot about it?’

Dorian stared at him. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Your job.’

‘Just—walk away from it?’ She shook her head. ‘I couldn’t.’

‘Why not? Where is it written that one must do whatever one is told?’

She gave a puzzled laugh. ‘But that’s what having a job is all about,’ she said, watching him closely. ‘You do what you have to do.’

He moved closer to her. ‘What I said about Martinique is true, you know.’ His eyes searched hers; he gave her a sudden, swift smile. ‘We could have a late supper at that little place on the beach, then go for a walk in the moonlight.’

Dorian shook her head. So, she hadn’t been wrong about his intentions after all. He’d been coming on to her all the time, just waiting for the right moment to make his move.

Still, she’d never had an invitation to any place as exotic as this. His line was different, she had to admit that—so different that it made her want to smile, something that had seemed impossible only seconds ago.

‘I don’t think so,’ she said lightly.

He clasped her shoulders. ‘Give me one good reason why.’

She smiled. ‘Well,’ she said, still in the same light tone of voice, ‘it’s pouring cats and dogs.’

He shook his head. ‘Not in Martinique.’ His hands moved slowly from her shoulders to her face. ‘Believe me, I wouldn’t dream of letting it rain in Martinique tonight.’

He looked deep into her eyes, and suddenly she wasn’t smiling any more. No, she thought crazily, no, he wouldn’t let it rain. He would make the moon come up, the stars fill the skies. He would—he would...

His gaze dropped to her mouth. ‘Let me take you to Martinique, kitten.’

Dorian swallowed drily. ‘Kitten?’

‘That’s what you looked like, standing there in the rain.’ His gaze met hers. ‘A little wet kitten, with its fur all matted down, needing somebody to dry it and cuddle it until it purred again.’

He cupped the back of her head; his hand gentled the silken strands of her hair that had dried in soft curls on the nape of her neck.

Dorian gave a little shudder. He was good at this, her brain said in a sharp whisper. He was very good. The way he was watching her, as if only she and he existed in the entire universe. The smile that promised pleasure. The soft, smoky voice that surely sounded as if he’d never said any of these things to another woman—it was all part of an act, one he’d probably used a dozen times before.

And yet—and yet...

‘Sweet little kitten.’ Her breath caught as he bent to her and pressed a light kiss to her damp hair. ‘Say you’ll come with me.’

Dorian shook her head. This was insane. It was—it was...

His mouth brushed her temple, then the curved arc of her cheek. ‘Don’t,’ she said. At least, that was what she thought she said. But all she heard was the whisper of her own sigh as she lifted her face for his kiss.

Her heart pounded wildly as his lips met hers. Her hands crept to his chest, the palms flattening against his jacket.

‘Say yes,’ he whispered against her mouth, and all at once she wanted—she wanted...

A jet roared overhead, the sound filling the small, enclosed space like a peal of thunder. Dorian’s eyes flew open. She stared at the stranger blankly, and then sanity returned. She pushed against him; he let go of her, and she scrambled back against the door.

‘So much for gallantry,’ she said. Her voice trembled.

For a long moment his face was expressionless. Then, finally, the corner of his mouth lifted in a cool smile.

‘And so much for playing the reluctant maiden.’ He turned away from her and shifted into gear. The car plunged off over the kerb and shot down the road. ‘Have you figured out where you want to go yet, or are you still suffering from amnesia?’

Dorian’s chin rose. ‘You can drop me off at the International Arrivals building,’ she said coldly. ‘I’m sure I can get the information I need there—not that it matters now.’

His smile was like ice. ‘Yes. You’ve probably missed your plane to Timbuktu or wherever it is you were going.’

‘Barovnia,’ she said, her tone curt. ‘That’s where I was going until you—’ She cried out as the car came to a sudden halt. ‘Are you crazy? I could have gone through the wind...’

‘Barovnia? Did you say you’re flying to Barovnia?’

‘I said, I was supposed to fly to Barovnia.’ She lifted her bag into her lap and folded her arms across it. ‘But I won’t be doing that now. WorldWeek will just have to get its news from pool reporters.’ She swung towards him as he began to laugh. ‘I suppose that seems very funny to you, that I’d be worried about missing a plane to a—a primitive little kingdom?’

His laughter stopped as abruptly as it had begun. ‘If you think it’s so primitive,’ he said softly, ‘why are you going there?’

Dorian stared straight ahead of her. ‘Don’t you mean, why was I going there?’

‘All right. Why were you?’

All her anger came swelling up inside her. ‘To report back to my editor on—on what it’s like to watch a nation of poor peasants turn a man who’s never done a useful day’s work in his life into a little tin god.’

‘Really.’

His voice was soft as the rain, as menacing as the night, but Dorian was too far gone to hear it.

‘Yes, really. I know you can’t understand why I’m upset. And I suppose, in a way, you’re right. After all, nobody’s really going to miss that report except me. I mean, what does the world give a damn about Barovnia? But I’m going to lose my...’ She gasped and clutched at the dashboard as the car leaped forward. ‘Dammit, must you drive like a lunatic?’

‘I’m only trying to be helpful, Miss... What did you say your name was?’

‘Oliver. Dorian Oliver. And it’s too late to be helpful. While you were—while you were mauling me, my plane took off.’

The stranger flashed her a quick, cold smile. ‘Relax, Miss Oliver. Your plane is still on the ground.’ The tyres squealed as the car skidded to a stop. She watched, bewildered, as he got out of the car, came around to her side, and flung her door open. ‘Do you have your Press pass, Miss Oliver?’

‘Yes. Of course. But—’ She caught her breath as he leaned into the car, caught hold of her arm, and tugged her unceremoniously out into the darkness. ‘Would you mind explaining exactly what you’re doing?’

He clasped her arm tightly as he marched her forward towards a building marked ‘North Passenger Terminal’.

‘I’m saving your job for you,’ he said grimly.

He pushed the door open and tugged her into the lighted interior, and then he paused. There was a cluster of men near by, large men, all of whom had, apparently, been watching the door—and waiting, Dorian saw with some surprise, for their entrance. The stranger turned to her. ‘Wait here,’ he said in that same commanding voice he’d used to her before.

Dorian wanted to tell him what he could do with the order, but there was no time. He stepped forward and said something to one of the men, and then he turned to her again.

‘This gentleman will escort you to the plane, Miss Oliver.’

‘The plane?’ Dorian stared at him. ‘What plane?’

The stranger’s lips drew back from his teeth. ‘The plane to that primitive little kingdom. There’s no other plane that could possibly interest you, is there?’

She knew what he was thinking, and she met his cold smile with a contemptuous stare. Had he really ever believed she’d given a moment’s thought to all that nonsense about Martinique?

‘None. But how did you...?’ Dorian put her hand to her mouth. Lord. Oh, lord. That air of authority. The wealth. The dark good looks. Was it possible? Had she spent the past half-hour with Jack Alexander—and had she, then, blown any slim chance she might have had of getting an interview with the man?

She ran her tongue over lips that had gone dry. ‘Are you,’ she whispered, ‘I mean, it occurs to me that you—could you possibly be...?’

He let her stammer and then, mercifully, he saved her from further embarrassment.

‘Let me help you, Miss Oliver.’ His voice was silken. He stepped closer to her, until he was only a whisper away. ‘Will I be the new abdhan? That’s what you want to know, isn’t it?’

Dorian swallowed hard and nodded. ‘Yes.’

He watched her for a long, long moment, his handsome face devoid of all expression, and then he gave her a smile that was colder than the rain.

‘How could I be? The king of a primitive little country would have to be a barbarian, would he not?’ He caught hold of her wrist; she felt the sudden, fierce pressure of his fingers on the fragile bones. ‘He’d have to be a complete savage. Isn’t that right, Miss Oliver?’

‘Please.’ Dorian grimaced. ‘You’re hurting me...’

He almost flung her from him. ‘Relax, Miss Oliver. I can assure you, I am not the abdhan.’

She watched as he turned and strode away from her. The cluster of men who’d waited politely throughout the interchange fell into step around him. Within seconds, they’d vanished into the depths of the terminal.

‘Miss?’ She turned, startled. The man who was to guide her to the plane had come up beside her. He was as soft-spoken as he was huge. ‘We must hurry.’

Dorian nodded. ‘All right. Just one thing. That man—who is he?’

Her escort took her bag from her as they began walking. ‘Didn’t he tell you?’

She shook her head. ‘Is he a friend of the new abdhan?’

The man frowned. ‘There is no new abdhan, miss. There is the anointed one, and there is the abdhazim—the Crown Prince, the next in line for the throne.’

‘Well, that’s what I meant. The abdhazim. Is he—was that man a friend of his? Is he part of the delegation?’

Her escort smiled for the first time. ‘Yes. You may say that. He is part of the delegation.’

She had expected the answer. Still, it made her feel sick to her stomach to have it confirmed.

Her rescuer was a friend of Jack Alexander’s, the man who never let reporters get near him. He was the abdhazim’s friend, and she had made an enemy of him.

Good work, she told herself with a sigh. Oh, yes, good work.

Dorian Oliver, girl reporter, was off to one hell of a great start!

CHAPTER THREE

STUPID, Dorian thought as her burly escort led her through the terminal, stupid, stupid, stupid! Her first shot at success, and what had she done? She’d damned near obliterated it—and that without having even left the United States! Given enough time, who knew what wonders she might manage?

‘This way, please, miss.’

Her escort’s hand pressed gently into the small of her back. He was hurrying her towards the boarding area.

Well, she thought grimly, at least he wasn’t marching her out to the car park. For one awful moment, that had seemed a real possibility. Still, she wasn’t on the plane yet. There was still plenty of time for things to change.