Bought by the Rich Man: Taken by the Highest Bidder / Bought by Her Latin Lover / Bought by the Billionaire

“Just when you say it.” She glanced up, looked at the icicles above their heads, and reached up to try to break one off but couldn’t. “So when are you going to tell her?” Sam asked, and her wide blue eyes, cornflower-blue, stunning blue, pierced him. “About Johann, and you and school…”

Something in her gaze set fire to his heart. And he knew about fire. He knew what it was to be burned. “That’s a lot to tell a little girl,” he said.

She nodded, no longer smiling, and her sober expression reminded him of the night just days ago when she’d arrived at the casino to try to convince Johann to go home.

A woman on a mission. A golden haired Joan of Arc.

“Soon,” he said, shifting his weight, easing the pressure off his left leg, which had been the more severely damaged of the two. The cold weather was making all the scar tissue tight and itchy and he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. “As soon as the time seems right.”

“Tell me before you talk to her. Just let me know, okay?”

But he didn’t say yes, and he didn’t say no, he just looked at her. And as he stared into her blue eyes, his lashes drifted lower, and his gaze settled on her mouth, on the softness and fullness he’d finally kissed after waiting so long to touch, and taste. And the wait had been worth it. Her mouth was perfect. She tasted and felt divine.

Reaching out, he pushed back one of her long blond curls. “You don’t hate me as much as you used to.”

Even in the moonlight he could see her blush. “I never hated you,” she answered, but her cheeks were crimson and she wouldn’t look him in the eye.

“You didn’t like me.”

Fresh color swept her cheeks, and she laughed softly, and it was a surprisingly deep husky laugh for someone so slight. “I questioned your morals and values.”

“That’s a nice way of putting it.”

“You did encourage Johann to gamble.”

“Of course I did.” He couldn’t resist touching her flushed face, couldn’t help touching what he’d craved for so long. “If it meant I could get what I wanted…”

“That’s what made me uncomfortable. You have to have ethics, Cristiano. You can’t just do whatever you want because you want something.”

Now it was his turn to laugh. “Oh, yes, you can,” he said, pushing the door open and steering her back in.

CHAPTER EIGHT

AFTER the kiss, Sam was sure that something would happen, but after returning to the fire, Cristiano lost himself in some reading he’d brought with him and Sam sat in her chair, feeling nervous and excited, rather like a girl going to her first dance.

But nothing else happened. It was as if the kiss had never occurred.

Cristiano focused on his reading and Sam sat feeling like a wallflower.

He must regret kissing me, she thought, chewing on her thumb. Or he kisses so many women it’s really nothing.

She had a sneaking suspicion it was the latter.

Finally it was time for bed, and Cristiano slept in one of the bedrooms while Sam carried blankets to the couch in the sitting room.

It took her forever to fall asleep and when she woke up stiff and cold in the morning, her mood was not much better.

Her mood didn’t improve later, either, when during breakfast she felt him watching her.

Sam did her best to ignore him, just like she struggled to ignore the buzzy butterflies in her middle. He doesn’t even remember the kiss, she told herself sternly. You can’t dwell on it, either.

But it was hard to forget, especially after such a sleepless night where she lay awake for hours, thoughts tormented, body hot, and empty, craving satisfaction.

Breakfast over, Sam attacked the few dishes, scrubbing the plates that had nothing more than crumbs on them. Cristiano came up behind her to set his cup on the counter and she jumped as if somebody had touched her with a hot wire.

Just the knowledge that he was near her, behind her, made her acutely sensitive. And when he leaned past her, to pick up a dish towel and dry the dishes she’d washed, she felt a coil in her middle that actually hurt.

If this was desire it was awful.

It wasn’t fun. It was fierce. Hot. Angry.

She felt maddened by it, by want, by the unknown.

She must have sighed or made some sound because Cristiano looked down at her, one black eyebrow lifting. “Something bothering you today?”

She tossed the scrub brush down, faced him, one hand gripping the sink. “Yes.”

His hazel gaze slowly traveled the length of her, resting provocatively on her throat, her breasts, her hips. “Tell me what it is. Maybe I can help.”

“You can’t help. You’re the problem.”

“I’m the problem?”

She shook her head in exasperation. Why did she say that? It was dumb to say that. No, he wasn’t the problem. She was the problem. This—the attraction, the situation—it was her problem. She couldn’t handle her feelings, or her response. He’d kissed her—big deal—but God help her, she wanted more.

And the intensity of her feelings made her feel like an ignorant schoolgirl. She’d loved the kiss. But she wasn’t a schoolgirl. She was a spinster. A spinster leveled by a kiss.

“You haven’t told me why I’m the problem,” he said.

Sam glanced out the window toward the driveway as if Gabby would just magically appear and save her from this. “Ignore me. I’m being irrational.”

“You’re the least irrational woman I’ve ever known. Tell me. Let me try to help.”

Then that would require kissing me again, she thought, looking up at him, into the hard angles of his face and eyes that held her, mesmerized her. “Please don’t be charming,” she whispered, only half-jesting. “I don’t think I can handle it. Not from you, not today, not after last night.”

“What about last night?”

So he didn’t even remember. The kiss hadn’t meant anything, or made an impression.

Sam whimpered, she hadn’t meant to, she couldn’t keep the hurt in.

But suddenly he was closer, or she was closer, and the heat between them was scorching. Sam felt hot, her clothes too tight and suddenly she couldn’t breathe anymore.

And then he was reaching for her, his arms wrapping around her, pulling her against him creating a riot of sensation. Just that one touch of his body against hers and it was like New Year’s and fireworks, sparks exploding everywhere. She felt him everywhere, too—chest, ribs, hips, thighs. He was hard, strong, male, and it was the most delicious feeling in the world, her body alive, her body aware of his, her body feeling warm and real and good.

His hand was in the small of her back, urging her even closer and she felt the throb of him against her, his body’s heat and how his body strained.

She’d thought when it came to this, she’d be afraid. She’d thought if a man ever held her so close, teased her with his body like this, made her aware of his desire, she’d thought she’d panic. Hate it. Run.

Instead she wanted to slide her hands beneath his shirt, feel the warmth of his skin beneath her palms, reach for his waistband and let the clothes fall away.

And then she did reach for his belt and waistband, fumbled with the clasp, gave up to touch his flat abdomen and the warm firm muscle banding his ribs.

His hands were against her hips, shaping her, caressing her, and it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to have him touch her.

I think I could love him, she thought, wrapping one arm around his neck, standing on tiptoe. I think I could love him. And maybe it was only lust, but it felt right and honest and for the first time in years she felt right, too.

She’d finally given in to need, to want, to hunger. She’d finally admitted she craved touch, love, pleasure. And as Cristiano stroked down the outside of her thigh, and then up the inside, his fingers between her legs, touching her where she was most sensitive, she knew that in this respect at least, Cristiano had been made for her.

He was the right man to take her virginity.

He was the right man to teach her about making love.

A loud horn sounded outside, not a normal car horn but a beeping blaring sound that jolted Sam and Cristiano apart. They jumped and looking up they saw the yellow tractor and Gabriela bundled in borrowed winter clothes, jumping down.

Gabby was back and for the first time ever, Sam wished the little girl could have stayed away another hour.

Gabby came bursting into the house, laughing and breathless while the white-haired farmer climbed off his tractor to follow Gabriela.

Sam and Cristiano met the farmer on the doorstep. “We got you your girl back,” the farmer said, cheeks ruddy with cold. “Later today we’ll try to get your driveway plowed.”

“When you’ve time,” Cristiano said, thanking the farmer and sliding a folded bill into his hand.

The farmer nodded, pocketed the twenty-pound note and turned away before turning back. “She told me you’re Cristiano Bartolo,” the farmer said, indicating Gabby. “And I wondered if maybe you’re not Bartolo’s boy. You sure look like him. Italian, and all.”

Cristiano smiled. “I am.”

“Well, I’ll be.” The farmer clapped Cristiano on the shoulder once. “You’re a good man. I like you.” He nodded at Sam, chucked Gabriela under the chin and headed back to his tractor.

But before Sam could organize her thoughts, before she could ask Cristiano what the farmer had meant, Gabriela was dancing around them. “It’s like a fairyland outside,” she cried, jumping from one foot to the other. “Come see, Sam. It’s like The Nutcracker ballet. It’s magic!”

It was indeed magic, Sam had to agree, standing with Gabby at the open cottage door.

The great oak trees were covered in white. Icicles glistened from the edge of the cottage roof. Bright powdery snow glittered beneath bright blue skies and sunlight that had never been clearer or more golden.

“Let’s go for a walk,” Gabby cried, still bundled in her borrowed winter clothes.

Actually a walk sounded exactly like what Sam needed and she went to get her coat while Gabby waited out front.

Gabby looked like a puffy blue marshmallow as she smiled up at Cristiano. “Are you coming with us?”

“For a walk?” he asked.

“Yes.”

He shook his head. “No. I’ll skip the exercise.”

“Exercise is good for you,” Sam said, sliding her arms into her coat. She didn’t have the warm clothes Gabby did but a brisk walk should help warm her up.

“So is a toasty fire,” he answered dryly.

Sam made a face at him then extended a hand to Gabriela. “Suit yourself. We’ll be back in a little bit.”

Outside, the air was biting cold and the snow deep and powdery. They set off for the Rookery, but walked around the back of the old building to what had once been the kitchen garden.

Almost immediately they sank knee deep into a chilly white mound. Gabby gasped even as Samantha did.

“It’s freezing,” Gabriela said breathlessly.

“Look,” Sam said, pointing to the edge of the roof where melting snow had frozen into long spinning strands of ice. “Isn’t that the most gorgeous icicle? Looks like a waterfall.”

“Like in Switzerland,” Gabby agreed, as they tramped further on, slow quiet steps that required lots of concentration on Gabby’s part.

Sam glanced down at the top of Gabby’s head. “You remember that trip?”

Gabby’s fingers tightened. “We went for a ride in a carriage and had bread in melted cheese for supper.”

Gabby wasn’t even three yet then. “That was two years ago.”

Gabby’s hazel eyes narrowed. “It was fun.”

Sam’s chest squeezed with emotion. “It was fun,” she agreed softly. The visit to Bern had been the first—and last—trip Sam had taken with Gabby and Johann. Johann had said he had business in the city and while he attended meetings, Sam and Gabby played tourist, taking a horse-drawn carriage through the city and then stopping later on the way back at a chalet-style restaurant where they sat outside beneath a heat lamp and dunked chunks of crusty bread in a golden cheese fondue.

They were huffing a little as they reached the back garden where dormant rosebushes looked like snow-flecked sculptures.

Sam brushed snow off one of the benches and she and Gabby sat. Almost immediately Sam could feel the chill from the bench seep through her pants.

“Has he come to take me back with him?” Gabby asked, touching Sam’s sleeve.

Sam covered Gabby’s mitten with her gloved hand. For a moment she couldn’t bring herself to speak, not trusting her voice.

“I heard him,” Gabby added. “That first night he was here when you thought I was sleeping.”

Sam tried to sound severe. “You shouldn’t eavesdrop. Because the problem with eavesdropping,” she added more gently, “is that you don’t always hear the whole conversation and you miss the meaning of what is being said.”

“So he’s not going to take me home?”

Sam lifted Gabby’s mitten hand, pressed a kiss to her fuzzy palm. “Not without me, he isn’t.”

Cristiano stood at the kitchen window watching Samantha and Gabriela make their way back to the cottage. They made a picture, he thought, teeth scraping as he bit back the hot emotion rushing through him.

Fair, pink-cheeked Samantha, her long loose spiral curls dusted with snow, bent down to hear whatever it was Gabriela was saying, and Sam looked exactly the way he imagined a snow angel would look. And Gabriela, with her long dark hair escaping her cap in wisps, black tendrils clinging to her cheeks that were rosy from the cold, looked so vibrantly alive that it made Cristiano’s heart hurt.

Gabby should always look so healthy and happy.

He’d do everything in his power to ensure her health and happiness.

As he watched, Sam impulsively wrapped her arm around Gabby’s shoulders, giving her an affectionate squeeze and he smiled reluctantly. Sam and Gabby looked nothing alike and yet they suited each other perfectly. And Sam, even though she’d been employed as Gabby’s nanny, was more mother than any mother he’d ever seen.

He left the doorway, went to the fireplace in the living room, held his hands over the heat.

It was difficult being here with them when they were together. They had such a long history together and even though he was Gabby’s family, he felt like the outsider.

He was the outsider. And that hurt.

The front door opened and voices and light filled the cottage. Cristiano blinked at the brightness of the light and yet welcomed the warmth they brought to the cottage. Sam and Gabriela literally lit up a room.

“Cristiano,” Gabby called from the doorway, still wheezing from laughing and running in the snow. “Come play with us.”

Play in the snow? Cristiano grimaced. Maybe as a child he’d loved to ski, but since his accident, he avoided snow and ice. “How about a card game instead?” he suggested.

Gabby appeared in the living room, cheeks red, light hazel eyes fringed by long black lashes. She clapped her gloved hands sending little snow flurries across the room. “But it’s beautiful outside!”

“And cold.”

“Pssh,” she said dismissively, waving one gloved hand in his direction. “You’re not that old. Come out and play. It’ll be fun. It’s snow.”

He wasn’t that old.

Bene, grazie, he thought. Great, thanks. And yet he was amused. Women chased him. He was never short of female company, most adored his wealth, his looks, his celebrity status, and yet here he was, sequestered with two who seemed impervious to his charms.

And then as Cristiano looked down into Gabby’s little face, her dark eyes so much like his, his heart ached. “I don’t play in snow very well,” he said gruffly.

“That’s okay. All you have to do is try your best.”

What a minx. She was certainly her father’s daughter. “Is that all?” he drawled, mocking her.

“Yes.” She reached for his hand, tugged on it, leading him toward the door. “Do you need your coat? It’s chilly out.”

It was as if she’d taken his heart in her small fingers, instead of his big calloused hand. He bit down on the inside of his cheek to hide the intense emotions filling him. He’d spent his life wanting family, craving a traditional family, but it had never been his to have. His father wasn’t the sort to settle down. His father wasn’t the sort to want anything but speed. Risk. Danger. Cristiano had it in his blood, too, but not to the extent his father did.

And Gabriela…

Cristiano shook his head, amazed by her bright eyes, quick mind, unflinching nature. He knew he’d never actually send her to boarding school, especially not after the miserable experiences he’d had. But Samantha didn’t have to know that. Let Sam think he was a brute. Let her think the worst. He didn’t need her approval, and he didn’t need her to like him. He just needed Gabriela to come home.

Sam blew on her fingers as Gabby led Cristiano out of the house by the hand. He, like Sam, didn’t have warm winter clothes, and she supposed she could have dug through the closets and bureau drawers at the Rookery to find heavier coats and caps and gloves, but it seemed wrong. The Rookery had been shut up so long, closed after Charles died, it felt more like a shrine to Charles than a place orphan children had once lived.

But Cristiano, even gloveless, tackled the snowman with Gabby, helping pack big snowballs and then stack the balls to form the snowman’s body. Together they hunted up sticks for arms and ransacked the kitchen for a carrot for the nose, but sadly all the carrots were used in the shepherd’s pie, but they finished with stones for the eyes and mouth and then Gabby’s cap and scarf.

Sam was just about to warm milk for hot cocoa when Cristiano and Gabby returned. They were laughing, shivering and discussing the merits of their snowman they’d named most originally, Mr. White.

“Let’s get out of your wet clothes,” Sam said, taking Gabby’s cold, damp hand in hers. “I think you’ll need a warm bath, too. You’re frozen through.”

“But it was fun!” Gabby cried, turning to look at Cristiano for affirmation. “Wasn’t it?”

He nodded, and his thick dark hair, worn long, formed inky ringlets on his brow. The curls hadn’t been so prominent earlier and Samantha suspected that tramping about in the snow had brought the curls to life.

And Gabby smiled broader, dimpling with pleasure. She couldn’t look away from Cristiano, her gaze riveted to his face.

He was very handsome, Sam admitted silently, reluctantly. With the chiseled features, the very strong nose, and dark lashed eyes, Cristiano was good-looking in that hunky Italian film star way, but Sam knew that’s not why Gabriela adored him.

Gabriela adored him because he talked to her, listened to her, made her feel important. And with a pang Sam realized Gabby had never had this before, not from a man anyhow.

Johann had spent very little time with Gabby, and the time they did spend together inevitably revolved around Johann’s mood, Johann’s temper, Johann’s problems. Tragically Gabby had been lost in the shuffle and it was only now that Sam began to understand how much the little girl had craved attention, and needed love, from a father. Gabby might have called Johann Papa, but Johann had never been her father. Not in name, not in word, not in deed.

“You’re not leaving now, are you?” Gabby asked him, as Sam tugged on her hand, trying to steer her toward the small bathroom.

For a moment Cristiano said nothing and then he shook his head slowly. “No.” His voice was sober. “I’m not going anywhere without you.”

Gabby’s smile returned, and it was bright, all light and happiness. “Good. And we’ll take Sam with us when we go.”

We’ll take Sam with us when we go.

Gabby’s innocent words echoed in Sam’s head while Sam prepared the makeshift bath. Sam had essentially said the same thing to Gabby on their walk earlier in the afternoon, but it was different coming from Gabby.

Once Gabby was out of the bath and dry, Sam dressed her and towel-dried her hair, and let her sit close to the fire while Sam combed her wet hair. “I’ll bring your cocoa in here,” she said to Gabby. “Don’t sit too close to the fire, though. I’ll be right back.”

And even though Sam wasn’t gone more than a couple minutes, by the time she’d returned with the cup of hot chocolate, Gabriela was out, sound asleep in front of the fire, a fistful of old tin soldiers in her hand.

Sam covered Gabby with a blanket and went to hang up the towels and wet winter clothes to dry. Cristiano was still in the bathroom so Sam headed into his room first but on opening the door she discovered she’d been mistaken.

Cristiano wasn’t in the bathroom anymore. He’d already finished his bath and she’d caught him with his back turned toward her just starting to dress. Sam stopped short at the sight of a naked Cristiano. His back was broad and tan, his hips narrow, his buttocks muscular, hard, but paler than his back and legs. But it was his thighs that caught her attention. His thighs, though thickly muscled, were heavily scarred.

Burns, she thought. Burns and more. A long incision indicating he’d been cut. Surgery, yes. But whether for setting broken bones or a skin graft, she didn’t know.

Cristiano had heard the door open and he turned suddenly, covering his lower belly with his towel. “Thank God you’re not Gabby.”

She made a soft incoherent sound. His chest was as tan and muscular as his back, his biceps knotted with muscle but the front of his thighs were like the back—scarred, disfigured with scars that ran down his hard, carved quadriceps toward his knees.

He saw she was staring and she flushed, looked away and then up into his face. His gaze met hers, and he gave her a long level look but said nothing.

“I was going to dry Gabby’s wet things in here,” she said awkwardly. “They’re still so wet.”

“Leave them on the bed. I’ll do it.”

She nodded, a hasty embarrassed nod, before dropping the clothes and leaving.

But back in the living room Sam couldn’t forget what she’d seen. Cristiano’s skin, so tan and gorgeous above his hips, looked nothing short of tortured below. He’d obviously been badly hurt, burned in a fire. But how and when?

Cristiano reappeared moments later, dressed, his black hair combed, the curls tamed, the sage linen shirt open at the throat, the tails out over his sturdy khaki pants. He was so tall, so male that Sam found herself wanting to move toward him, to touch him and see if he was as warm and hard as he looked.

It was a crazy thought. It made no sense because she didn’t trust him, didn’t want to like him, and yet she was also so drawn to him, like a fly to sticky paper.

Her attraction, as well as her ambivalence, scared her. She hadn’t been attracted to a man in years and years…since Charles, actually, and yet as much as she cared about Charles, she’d never felt this kind of curiosity or interest. She’d never really thought of Charles as a man. In her mind, Charles was always just a good person—kind, compassionate, saintly—but not physical, and certainly not sexual.

“When did she fall asleep?” Cristiano asked, gesturing to Gabriela who was curled up on the floor.

“Right after her bath. I went to get her hot cocoa, and when I came back she was out.”

“I worry about her sleeping so close to the fire. I’ll carry her to bed.” Cristiano crouched down and scooped Gabriela into his arms as though she weighed nothing, and yet as he stood, she saw his jaw tighten, an almost imperceptible tensing of the muscles in his jaw.

He still hurt, she thought.

Funny, if she hadn’t seen the actual burns on his thighs, she wouldn’t have known he’d been injured. He compensated well, but now she could see things she hadn’t seen before, the adaptations he’d made to compensate for loss of agility, probably even muscle weakness. Like his slower walk. She’d thought it was arrogance, confidence. Instead it was practicality. And when he sat, he nearly always chose a chair with arms, sitting down by leaning on the chair’s right arm, and then dropping into the seat.