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

As he returned to the living room she studied his walk more closely, saw for the first time the slight hitch in his step, how he put a little more weight on one leg than the other.

Probably playing with Gabby in the snow hadn’t helped, she thought. He didn’t have boots and in his leather dress shoes he wouldn’t have had much traction.

He casually took a seat in one of the old leather chairs facing the fire. And he did just what she remembered: he leaned on the chair’s right arm, dropped his right hip onto the leather cushion and then the left. His thick hair, now nearly dry, looked glossy in the firelight and the dark beard shadowing his jaw emphasized his straight nose and his firm expressive mouth.

And Sam, who’d felt such conflicting, ambivalent things for Cristiano, felt something new. Tenderness. Admiration.

Despite everything, she liked him. But she had no desire to complicate an already complicated situation, so any attraction she felt would have to be suppressed. Gabriela came first. Gabriela’s stability was everything.

“I’m sorry I walked in on you,” Sam said, taking a seat on the couch. “I should have at least knocked.”

“It’s fine. I’m sure it’s not the first time you saw a naked man.”

She nodded, blushing a little, thinking there was no point in telling him that she actually hadn’t seen that many naked men. He probably wouldn’t believe that she was still a virgin at twenty-eight.

She waited a moment, hoping he’d say something about the burns she’d seen, but he didn’t, and it really wasn’t any of her business.

If change was required, it was on Sam’s part. Sam knew she was too sensitive, too shut-down, too controlling. She’d thought it was her nanny training, but it wasn’t the two years spent at nanny college that had made her so disciplined. It was fear.

Sam was afraid of life. Afraid of death. Afraid of everything in between.

“I don’t even know what you do,” she said breathlessly, trying to regain some sense of control. “Who are you?”

Grooves formed on either side of his mouth as he fought his smile. “Cristiano Bartolo—”

“Yes. I know your name. But who are you? Why do people know you? And people do know you—that night at dinner in Monte Carlo—people approached you. Gave you their blessings. Even Johann thought I should know you. What do you do?”

His head tipped, thick lashes dropping, before he looked up at her. “I’m a Formula 1 driver.”

He said it simply, no arrogance in his voice or answer. In fact, his voice was expressionless but he was watching her closely. “Do you know what that is?”

“You race cars.”

Sam suddenly wished she hadn’t asked the question. “Isn’t that terribly dangerous?”

She could have sworn he smiled but then the smile was gone and his features were so hard he looked like someone else altogether. “Can be,” he said coolly.

When he didn’t elaborate, Sam realized that was all he was going to say.

CHAPTER NINE

“I’M GOING to tell her.” Cristiano said the next morning while Sam boiled water for tea and Gabby sat on the floor near the fire making snowflakes from paper Cristiano had in his briefcase. “She should know the truth.”

Sam glanced uncertainly at him. “I agree…”

“But?”

So he’d heard the reservation in her voice. Sam rearranged the cups and saucers on the counter. “But she’s only just lost her father.”

“He wasn’t her father.”

“She thinks he is.”

“That’s why she should know the truth.”

“Don’t you think it’s just a lot for her to take in? Out with the old house, the old school and the old father and in with the new?”

He gave her a hard look. “I won’t tell her about school yet.”

“That’s good.”

He leaned close to Sam, so close that her middle filled with heat and her lower belly grew tight and even her breasts felt strange, the bra chafing her now very sensitive nipples. “Your sarcasm isn’t helping,” he said.

She swallowed hard. “I don’t want her upset.”

“It’s natural for her to be upset. What’s happened is upsetting. But the good news is that I’m not going away. I’ve found her, I have her, and she’ll always have me.”

Sam suddenly resented him for making so much sense. She’d been the one trained at Princess Christian College in Manchester. She’d been the one that wore the sturdy brown uniform for two years. She’d been the one who’d undergone rigorous training in how to cope with difficult situations and all kinds of children.

The kettle whistled and Sam grabbed a pot holder and moved it off the heat. “When will you tell her then?” she asked, just able to see far enough into the living room where she caught the motion of Gabby folding the paper again and then snipping, and then folding once more, and snipping.

“Now,” he answered.

And suddenly Gabby’s life looked as delicate as the paper snowflake she was making. Fragile. Ethereal. “Oh, Cristiano, can’t we wait a little longer—”

But he didn’t let her finish the thought. He walked out of the kitchen into the living room and crouched next to where she was still fashioning her snowflake. “Gabby, if the roads are clear enough later, we’re going back to Monaco today.”

Gabby set the paper and scissors down. “Do you think the roads will be cleared?”

“I’m hoping.”

She nodded. “Me, too. I miss the sun.”

Cristiano’s expression suddenly eased. “I feel the same way.” He crouched next to Gabby. “But when we go back, you’re not going home to your old house. You’ll be coming to live with me—”

“And Sam?” Gabby interrupted, looking at Sam where she stood in the doorway.

“I’m going, too,” Sam said, gently reassuring.

“Oh, good.”

“And are you going to get married?” Gabby asked.

Sam blanched, hastily shook her head. “No. No. Cristiano and I are just friends.”

“But you will get married, right?” Gabby persisted.

“No, Gabby.” Sam’s tone sharpened even as her body prickled with heat. This was getting really uncomfortable. “We’re going back to Monaco so you can return to school and we’re going to take care of some business. But there’s no wedding.”

Gabby frowned grumpily. “Why not? I like Cristiano better than Papa.”

“About that,” Sam said after a brief, and very awkward silence, “there’s something we need to tell you. Something about your father.”

“I know what it is,” Gabby answered.

“Um, no Gabriela, I don’t think you do.”

The girl sighed, leaned back in her chair, her small features set in lines of exasperation. “Papa’s not my real father.”

Sam nearly lost her balance. She put out a hand, braced herself on the door frame. “You know?”

Gabby smiled but the smile didn’t reach her eyes and for a moment she looked very small, and very young, every bit the vulnerable five-year-old. “I used to have a baby book. My mommy made it for me. But Papa Johann took it away.” Gabby hesitated and rare tears shone in her eyes. “The book said my real papa’s name is Enzo Bartolo. He’s a race car driver like Cristiano. But I never met him.”

If it were any other child, Sam would say this was a fit of imagination. Children as young as Gabriela couldn’t possibly keep facts straight, but Gabby had a mind and memory that was unlike any child’s she’d ever known.

But even suspending disbelief, Sam didn’t know what to say, or how to comfort Gabriela. The conversation had taken dramatic turns, sharp right, steep left, and now there was only silence and the sound of Gabriela breathing heavily.

Then Cristiano cleared his throat. “I met him, Gabby,” he said quietly. “I knew him.”

Gabby looked up at him, eyes bright with tears, touchingly hopeful. “You did?”

He nodded, picked up Gabby’s hand and kissed it. “I think you would have liked him a lot, Gabby. He was my father, too.”

The secrets, Sam thought later as they traveled to Manchester, the secrets and shadows each person kept buried inside…

It boggled her mind, the facts, the truth, the way things were.

Cristiano wasn’t Gabby’s father. He was her half-brother. Mercedes wasn’t Cristiano’s lover, but his father’s, Enzo’s, girlfriend. Enzo had never come forward to claim his daughter because he died, just months before Gabriela was born.

Sam closed her eyes, drew her arm even more closely around Gabriela who slept curled in her lap during the flight from Manchester back to Nice on Cristiano’s private jet.

Life was a series of events, cause and effect. One thing led to another, to another, and another. And as unbearable as it sounded, it also made sense.

Pregnant, alone and grieving, Mercedes ended up with Johann.

Did Enzo know he was going to be a father again before he died? Did Johann always know who Gabby’s real father was? Did Gabby remember her mother at all?

Sam opened her eyes at the sound of footsteps on the dense mushroom colored carpet. The jet had been furnished in shades of taupe and gray and Cristiano took a seat in one of the soft gray leather chairs opposite the leather sofa where Sam sat with Gabriela.

“We’re almost there,” he said, with a glance toward the window. “My driver’s waiting. We just need to decide where we want to go. My penthouse in Monte Carlo, or the villa in Cap Ferrat. It’s your decision.”

“I don’t know either.”

“One is a city apartment, and the other is my home on the peninsula.”

“Where do you think Gabby would like best?” Sam asked.

“The villa. It’s near the beach.”

They lapsed into silence as the flight attendant on board the jet approached to let them know that they’d soon begin their descent.

“Cristiano,” Sam said, as the flight attendant walked away. “What happened…and again yesterday…” She took a quick breath, needing to say what she needed to say before they landed and Gabriela woke. “That wasn’t anything, was it?”

“What?”

“The, um, kiss.”

Cristiano’s upper lip curled. His expression hardened, turned mocking. “You’re bothered by it?”

“I—” She took a quick breath. “I just wasn’t sure what you meant by it, or if you meant nothing. I’m sure you meant nothing. It was just a kiss.”

She’d been trying to reassure herself, trying to let him know it was okay but somehow she was saying the wrong words. She could tell from his expression that every word that came from her mouth just made him angrier, more irritated. She’d somehow struck a nerve, and hadn’t even meant to.

“What I meant was that I’m sorry I…” Her voice faded away and she bit her lip, tried again. “Sorry I…”

“Kissed me back?”

She blushed, miserable. “I know it shouldn’t have happened. I wasn’t thinking. I suppose I was scared, overwhelmed. Maybe I needed comfort.” She exhaled, wondered where she’d gone wrong, how a simple apology had gotten so convoluted. “So I’m sorry.”

“For what? Needing comfort? Or enjoying the kiss?”

My God this was hard, almost impossible. She was an adult, a woman, and she couldn’t even calmly discuss a kiss. “I don’t have your experience and I’m certain you kiss women all the time, and it’s nothing, I know kissing means nothing to you—”

“I only kiss women I like. Women I’m attracted to.” His lips curved, his expression sardonic. “Women I’d like to sleep with. So don’t apologize. I wanted you, wanted to bed you. It just wasn’t convenient.”

Then he stood, went to the table where he’d been working during most of the flight and sat down again to finish the paperwork he’d started earlier.

Stomach churning, Sam watched him resume reading even as the plane started its steep final descent. Ever since she met him, life hadn’t been the same.

On the ground in Nice, Cristiano’s chauffeur was waiting for them. The driver greeted them at the executive terminal, loaded their luggage into the car and then they were off, heading to Cristiano’s villa on the Cap Ferrat peninsula.

Of course Sam knew that the peninsula was considered a playground for the rich. You couldn’t drive along the coast without being confronted by the lavish villas, fabulous gardens and extravagant yachts moored in the St-Jean marina, but she’d never been included in the parties, or inside any of the villas. She might have married Baron van Bergen three and a half years earlier, and he might have attended events, but she’d never been on the guest list.

Sam felt a wiggle at her side and glancing down saw that Gabriela was trying to sit higher in her seat to get a better look out the window. “I can’t see the houses!” Gabby complained. “There are too many fences and bushes in the way.”

Gates and hedges, not fences and bushes, Sam silently corrected as she ruffled Gabby’s hair. “You’re so excited,” she teased. “You’d think you’d never been anywhere.”

“I haven’t been here.”

Here being Cristiano’s home, and they’d arrived, the car slowing, stopping as the gates slowly opened, revealing little by little an exquisite villa tucked discreetly behind the tall dark green hedges that Gabby deplored.

And yet once they’d passed through the ornate wrought-iron gates, they glimpsed the startling blue ocean and then the Belle Epoque villa that nestled jewel-like in mature gardens marked by fanciful topiaries, verdant lawns, and flowers spilling from vines, pots, and fragrant, vibrant beds.

The car had barely stopped before Gabby was scrambling out, delighted by the endless lawn and the breathtaking view of the St-Jean marina where great white yachts dotted the blue and turquoise water.

Cristiano followed Gabby as she ran toward the stone wall of the terraced garden. “The pool!” she cried, turning around and gesturing excitedly. “Sam, there’s a pool here, too.”

Sam followed more slowly, smelling orange blossoms and pine in the breeze that caught at her hair. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, Sam wrapped her thin lettuce-green cardigan closer to her body, hugging herself. She wasn’t cold, just overwhelmed.

In the car during the drive Cristiano had rattled off some of the names of his neighbors and she’d been amazed, but never in her wildest dreams had she imagined anything like this.

It wasn’t just that Cristiano’s villa looked like a delicious marzipan confection, or that the lush gardens rivaled anything she’d ever seen anywhere, it was the view. She’d lived for years in the Côte d’Azur, enjoyed the sunshine, admired the pretty beaches but the view took her breath away. As you drove along the coast, you could see beaches and marinas, villas cut into the terraced mountain, quaint red-tiled roofs in charming fishing villages, but here at Cristiano’s home on the Cap, you could see it all, together, in one picture postcard view.

The green land curved around the azure sea, creamy stone buildings clustered at the water’s edge, their beige and pink stone topped by red clay tiles while narrow stone piers and walls provided protected beaches and shelter for yachts and fishing boats.

Cristiano turned, smiled a welcome at Sam as she reached them.

“How could you live anywhere else?” she asked, arms still wrapped tightly around her middle. She felt like a little girl presented with the prettiest bride doll ever. She could only look. Couldn’t bear to touch. It couldn’t be real.

He shrugged. “Monte Carlo’s close, convenient. It’s where the corporate offices for The Bartolo Driving School are and that’s where I spend most of my time these days.”

“So that’s what you do now?”

“I’m proud of the company. We’re an international racing school now with campuses and tracks in the United States, Brazil, and Italy of course. But we don’t just train for road racing, we’ve really moved into executive protection and antikid-napping courses where we work with corporations, executives, their families and staff teaching them to detect and deter potential vehicular confrontations and assault.”

Sam looked at him, intrigued, thinking of the kidnapping attempt at Gabby years ago. “And these are classes?”

“Four and seven day courses, and they’re popular. Our schools have wait lists for them right now. Think about it, nearly everyone would benefit from specialized training in maximum car control. While most people won’t ever need to know counterterrorist tactics, it’d never hurt to have more confidence behind the wheel.”

Gabby suddenly turned around. “Can I try?” She asked, pushing long dark hair from her face since she’d lost her hairband somewhere since leaving the plane. “I’d like to drive fast.”

“You mean drive safe,” Sam corrected.

Gabby grinned so hard her nose wrinkled. “No, fast. I want to go fast. I want to drive race cars, too.”

Cristiano smiled but Sam wasn’t amused. She shot Cristiano a sharp look. “This is your doing,” she reproached.

“She’s a Bartolo,” he answered, scooping Gabby into his arms. “It’s in her blood.”

Gabby wrapped an arm around his neck and took a deep breath. “I like it here. I like it very much.” She looked out over the blue and green vista before glancing at Sam. “I think you and Cristiano should get married and then we can all live here and be happy forever.”

Sam heard the hint of wistfulness in Gabby’s voice and it tugged on Sam’s heart. Gabby had never had a real family, and more than anything, Sam wanted that normalcy for Gabby. But marrying Cristiano wouldn’t make them a normal family. Sam had learned the hard way that marriages of convenience were marriages of inconvenience. They didn’t work.

“Let’s see about lunch,” Cristiano said, shifting Gabby in his arms. “I know the cook was planning something special.”

Gabby leaned toward Cristiano, cupped her hand around her mouth and whispered in his ear.

Sam had no idea what Gabby said but Cristiano began to laugh, a deep belly laugh that rumbled out of him. As he laughed, Gabby giggled, too and turning toward Sam, Cristiano shot her an apologetic smile. “Gabby just hopes it’s not Mrs. Bishop’s famous shepherd’s pie.”

After lunch, one of the young women Cristiano employed took Gabby down to the heated outdoor pool for a swim. Sam expressed concern about letting Gabby go swimming with a virtual stranger and Cristiano explained that nineteen-year-old Marcelle worked at one of the local hotel pools as a lifeguard during the summer. “Marcelle teaches many of the local children to swim, and I’ve known her and her family for years. Gabby’s safe, I promise.”

It wasn’t until Gabby had gone skipping out of the villa in her suit and terry-cloth cover-up with swim goggles in hand that Sam acknowledged her true fear—being alone with Cristiano.

The kiss yesterday afternoon was never far from her mind.

If it had been a bad kiss, or a sweet kiss, something she could easily dismiss she’d feel different about being alone with Cristiano, but the kiss hadn’t been bad, and it was far from sweet.

Sam buttoned the bottom of her delicate green cardigan. “Is there something I can do to help Gabby settle in? Laundry? Prepare her room? Unpack?”

“I have people who do laundry and clean. That’s not your job anymore.”

“Then what is my job?” she answered, feeling completely at a loss. Growing up she’d thought the Rookery was the most beautiful place she’d ever seen. It had seemed like a castle with its thick paned windows, beamed ceilings, narrow stairwells and secret passageways. But Cristiano’s villa was a palace. Indeed, it’d been built in the late nineteenth century, not long after King Leopold II of Belgium’s Les Cedres, and Beatrice Ephrussi de Rothschild’s Villa Ile-de-France.

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