Bought by the Rich Man

Mrs. Bishop clasped her hands on Sam’s shoulders. “I should ask you the same! You gave us all quite a scare. I’d heard there were lights here last night, and I insisted Gilbert, my son-in-law, drive me over.” She paused, tilted her head back, searched Sam’s face. “It’s been so long, my girl. Where have you been?”

“Away.” Sam tried to smile but couldn’t. Suddenly the past was rushing back, painful memories she didn’t want, couldn’t bear. Charles had died eight years ago and yet suddenly it seemed as if it were just yesterday. “How is everyone? And where is everyone? When did the Rookery close?”

“Not long after you left.”

“I see.” Sam bit her lip, and she did see, she knew exactly what had happened. Without Charles to run things there probably wasn’t funding, or the management, to keep the orphanage open. “Would you come in?”

Mrs. Bishop nodded, and followed Sam back into the cottage but her expression fell as she took in the cottage’s deplorable conditions. “You can’t possibly mean to stay here. The cottage is a wreck. There’s no water, heat, plumbing. What are you thinking?”

Sam smiled, but tears filled her eyes. “I don’t know.”

Mrs. Bishop saw the tears and shaking her head, clucked, “It’s not been easy, has it, my girl?”

Mrs. Bishop’s kindness would be Sam’s undoing and yet Sam knew she couldn’t break down here, not in front of Gabby, not with Cristiano standing just a stone’s throw away, listening to everything being said. Which reminded her, she ought to make introductions. She couldn’t very well pretend Gabby and Cristiano weren’t here.

But Mrs. Bishop had spotted Gabby already. She clapped her hands, bent low. “And is that your little girl?”

Gabby scampered to Sam’s side. “Um, yes.” Sam put an arm around Gabby’s shoulders. “I’m her…her…nanny.”

“And my mum. My stepmum,” the little girl corrected. “You see, she married my dad. Johann van Bergen. But he left us. There were problems with money.”

Mrs. Bishop’s head shot up and she stared aghast at Sam. “Is this true?”

Sam flushed. “More or less.”

“And is that why you’re here?” Mrs. Bishop continued worriedly. “You’ve nowhere else to go?”

Put like that it sounded absolutely appalling. A desperate Sam dragging a little girl across the continent to a derelict orphanage in Cheshire.

Her mouth opened, her throat worked, but there was no ready answer. Just the sting of tears she wouldn’t cry, and the bite of memory, the ache of heartbreak.

She’d grown up here, gone to school here, and would have lived here as Charles’s wife if he hadn’t died. No wonder she’d run here when she didn’t know where to go. Until she was eighteen, the Rookery was her entire world.

“We’re in transition,” she said, finally finding her voice. “But I thought until we were more settled, it’d be nice to visit.”

Mrs. Bishop’s light blue gaze, though watery, missed little. “Are you in trouble, my girl?”

Sam’s cheeks burned and she shook her head swiftly and before she could stumble her way through another feeble protest, Cristiano moved forward.

“Samantha wanted us to see her home,” he said, sliding an arm around Sam, his hand resting lightly, and yet provocatively, on her hip. “She thought it was important we knew where she came from.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Bishop was nodding and clucking again. “You’ve heard then all about her life. So much tragedy for one so young.” She regarded Sam with a look of tenderness. “I was the head housekeeper when she came to stay with us at the Rookery. It was a very difficult time but we loved her and she adjusted, although there were many nights we heard her crying.”

“Mrs. Bishop,” Sam remonstrated, going hot and cold. Mrs. Bishop’s shared memories were nearly as painful as Cristiano’s arm against her lower back, his hand warm on her hip, her body exquisitely sensitive.

“I know it’s hard, Samantha,” Mrs. Bishop said, reaching out to touch Sam’s cheek. “But if he loves you half as much as we do, he’ll want to know everything.”

Sam shuddered. “He knows enough.”

“So you’ve told him all about Charles, then?” Mrs. Bishop’s expression gentled even more. “Ah, that was a tragedy no one’s forgotten—”

“Mrs. Bishop.” Sam’s voice came out strangled.

But Mrs. Bishop so engrossed in her memories and stories seemed oblivious to Sam’s agony. “It was horrific. No one could believe it, no one knew what to do. Our beautiful Sam, a bride and a widow all in the same night.”

CHAPTER FIVE

THE silence that followed didn’t last long, no more than any other silence following a difficult remark, but for Sam, it felt endless.

She’d never told anyone about Charles, had never spoken about her brief marriage that ended less than eight hours after the ceremony.

Sam stepped away from Cristiano. “With the Rookery closed, where do you live now, Mrs. Bishop?” Her voice was crisp, and she did her best to look firmly in control. Best thing to do now was quickly move forward. Act as if nothing had been said. “I know you had family in the area.”

Sam succeeded in distracting the elderly woman and Mrs. Bishop nodded. “That’s right. I broke my hip a number of years ago and it’s slowed me so I live with my daughter, and her family now.” Mrs. Bishop glanced down at Gabriela. “In fact, I have several granddaughters very close to your age. They’re twins.”

Gabby beamed. “I’m almost five. I’ll be five February 16th.”

“Well today is Saturday, the perfect day for a tea party.”

Sam smiled, smoothed Gabriela’s dark hair back from her brow. “That sounds like fun. Maybe later Gabby can meet the girls.”

“Why doesn’t she come home with me now?” Mrs. Bishop said stoutly.

“We haven’t even had breakfast.” Sam felt the panic return, the sensation like little needles in her stomach and brain. She couldn’t be alone with Cristiano, couldn’t be here with Cristiano, didn’t want Gabby gone and Cristiano looking at her, talking to her, having anything to do with her.

Mrs. Bishop waved away the protest. “She can have breakfast with the girls, and we’re just down the lane, not even a mile away. If she wants to come home, we’ll call you and zip her right back.”

“Can I go?” Gabby tugged on Sam’s hand. “Can I? I bet they have dolls and lots of toys.”

And gazing down into Gabriela’s eager little face, Sam realized all over again how much Gabriela had been deprived of these past four and a half years. Not just toys and pretty dresses, but parties and playdates. Friends. Johann wouldn’t let anyone ever come to the house, and overtures made by parents at Gabriela’s school had been immediately rebuffed by Johann. “You’re not afraid to go?” Sam asked softly.

“No! I’m not afraid of anything.”

It was true. Just last summer Gabby had leaped off the high dive at a local swimming pool—a diving board so high that most nine-and ten-year-old girls avoided it—but Gabby had loved it. Gabby said when she grew up she wanted to be an astronaut, or a fireman, as long as she could go fast and jump out of tall buildings.

Sam had never understood where Gabby got her thrill-seeking personality from, but now it was beginning to make sense.

Sam looked at Cristiano, hesitated. “You don’t mind if she goes, do you?”

“Not if you’re comfortable,” he answered evenly. “And I can give Mrs. Bishop my mobile number. That way she can call the moment Gabriela gets tired or the girls stop having fun.”

Sam nodded gratefully. “Good idea. Then we can just run down and pick her up.”

“Or I can bring her back.”

While Mrs. Bishop and Cristiano exchanged phone numbers, Sam went to locate Gabby’s coat, and then using her fingers, did her best to comb Gabby’s hair smooth before pulling it into a long ponytail. “Be good,” Sam whispered into the little girl’s ear, walking her from the primitive bathroom back to the cottage door. “Don’t cause any trouble.”

Gabby flashed an impish smile. “I never do!”

And it crossed Sam’s mind, as Mrs. Bishop trundled a beaming Gabriela toward the car, that nothing must dim Gabriela’s quick smile and bright eyes. Gabriela mustn’t ever grow up quickly. She should remain a child as long as she was a child. Sam was only six when her own parents died and life had never been the same. Everyone at the Rookery had tried to step in, patch things together, but mothers and fathers were never replaced. And Sam’s parents, although working class, had been solid and loving. Dependable.

And that’s what Sam tried to be for Gabby. Solid, loving. Dependable.

As Mrs. Bishop shut her own door, she rolled down the window and leaned out. “Sam I nearly forgot. I have the key to the Rookery. Why don’t you stay there? It has a generator in back, and a proper kitchen with working appliances.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Sam said, glancing at the cottage behind her. It was small, and rustic, but it was also quaint and cozy in a way the old rambling Rookery would never be.

“Take the key anyway.” Mrs. Bishop extended her hand, held a key ring out to her. “Just return it to me when you leave.”

Sam was conscious of Cristiano standing behind her as she stood in the driveway watching Mrs. Bishop slowly make her way down the lane, her small blue car bouncing in the potholes just like the taxi did last night. The lane was a mess, the sides of the road a jungle of weeds and blackberry thorns, so different from how Sam remembered it as a child.

“You don’t let her out of your sight very much, do you?” Cristiano said, his voice a deep rumble.

Sam shivered at the bite of cold air. It was chillier this morning than it had been last night when they arrived. “No.” Reluctantly she turned to face him, her hands burrowing in her coat pockets, fingers stiff. “I worry about her when she’s gone.”

“Why?”

“Things have happened in the past,” she said evasively, unwilling to go into detail about the kidnapping attempt several years ago that had put Sam in the hospital and given Gabby nightmares for months. It had been three years since the kidnapping attempt—someone had obviously thought Baron van Bergen had more money than he did—but the terror was still very real to Sam.

She still didn’t know who had targeted Gabriela, and the Monaco police had never come to any conclusions. In the end they concluded it was a random attack. They’d told Johann how lucky it was that Sam was there, and that she fought as hard as she did to defend Gabriela, otherwise the perpetrator would have succeeded.

But Sam didn’t feel lucky. The police’s conclusions did little to comfort Sam, and until the case was solved, Sam believed that Gabby remained a target.

“What things?” Cristiano asked.

Sam shrugged uncomfortably. She didn’t like talking about bad things, didn’t want to dwell on that which was frightening or out of her control. Funny, she thought, how much she didn’t let herself think about, or feel. “Something happened years ago that’s made me extra protective toward Gabby. Nothing’s happened since, but I still worry.”

Cristiano’s brow furrowed and he looked down the lane where the blue car had gone and then back to Sam. “But you trust Mrs. Bishop?”

“Oh, yes.” Sam mustered a smile, knowing she was being silly and yet old habits were so hard to break. “Mrs. Bishop was like a surrogate mother to me when I lived here—she’d do anything for me, and I know she’ll take good care of Gabby. She’s a very kind woman.”

“So why are you so uneasy?”

Because I’m stuck with you, that’s why.

He made her uneasy. There was no other way to put it. And she didn’t want him here in the small cottage. She didn’t want to be alone with him. He was too big, too intense, too different.

Her eyes met his, and as if he could read her mind, his lips curved in a faint sardonic smile. Heat exploded in Sam’s middle, her face flaming, her limbs going weak.

She didn’t like him. Didn’t want to like him. Didn’t want him anywhere near her, but somehow she knew he wasn’t going away, and he wasn’t going to be leaving her—or Gabby—alone.

“It’s hard being back here,” she said, as much as she could, or would say. If there’s anything she’d learned it was the value of silence, of avoiding conflict and controversy. As a child she’d waited years to be adopted, hoping against hope that she’d someday be placed with a real family, praying she’d eventually be wanted somewhere. It never happened. But the years of trying so hard to please, the years of waiting to be accepted, wanted, adopted, had left a lasting impression. Don’t make waves. Avoid conflict. Try to keep peace. Make others happy.

No wonder she became a professional nanny. The only thing she was good at was making others happy.

Sam squeezed her hand inside her pocket, the Rookery’s key ring now warm in her palm. Again she wondered why she thought this was the right place to go. Again she regretted her decision to return.

“I would have thought you’d be anxious to leave this morning,” she added, aware of Cristiano’s scrutiny, knowing he was watching her, measuring, evaluating.

“I am. But there are things we should discuss, things Gabriela shouldn’t hear. Now would be a good time for us to talk.”

Sam nodded, doing her best to ignore the sense of trepidation weighting her limbs. Immediately she flashed to Johann and Mercedes, or was it Cristiano and Mercedes? Is that what Cristiano wanted to tell her? That he and Mercedes had been lovers? And if Gabby was his child, then what would happen next?

What would happen to her? Why had he bought her?

Cristiano suggested they drive into Chester, have breakfast and buy some groceries in case they stayed one more night.

“If we’re to stay another night, shouldn’t we stay in a hotel here in town?” Sam asked as they settled into a booth at a Chester restaurant, the ceiling low in the historic half-timbered building, the interior dark, the booths hard and high, uncomfortably like church pews.

Cristiano barely glanced at the menu before setting it aside. “And give you another chance to run away? I don’t think so.”

“You couldn’t have been comfortable last night.”

“That’s kind of you to worry about me,” he drawled, leaning back in the booth. “But it’s not necessary. I may look delicate, but I’m surprisingly tough. And no, it wasn’t the best night’s sleep, but at least I knew where you were.”

Sam felt heat creep up her neck, into her cheeks. “What if I promised you I wouldn’t go anywhere—”

“Wouldn’t believe you.” He smiled at her but the smile was hard, fixed. “I don’t trust you.”

Her hands twisted beneath the table. “Anything I’ve done—”

“Yes, I know, you’ve done for Gabriela. But I don’t buy that, Samantha. This is about you. You don’t want to lose Gabriela. You don’t want to be without her.”

“And why should I be? I’ve spent years with her, years loving her.”

“But you’re not her mother, or her father. You’re not her family—”

“Neither are you!”

His dark gaze held hers in a long, timeless moment. “Are you sure?”

Sam’s stomach churned. It had come to this. No more running away from the inevitable.

“She’s a Bartolo,” he said, slowly, deliberately. “I’ve been trying to get her back for years.”

“But the gambling…Johann…”

“Why would I buy her? She’s mine, belongs with me. I knew if I took you Gabby would follow. I could have only taken Gabby if I destroyed Johann first.”

“I don’t believe it.”

“Come on, Sam. Don’t play ostrich now.”

She sat still, one hand kneading the other, seeing but not seeing, thinking but not thinking. If what he said was true…if Gabriela were indeed his child…Sam had no place in Gabriela’s life anymore. It was Gabby he’d wanted all along, not her. Johann’s letter giving Gabby to her meant nothing. It was just another sick joke on his part. One last stab at her.

She felt close to throwing up.

Sam pressed a hand to her middle. “You’ve had a DNA test?”

“Yes.”

Her mouth was so dry it hurt to swallow. “And the evidence?”

“Conclusive.”

Dazed, she shook her head, unable to think clearly. Her thoughts were too wild, her fear and confusion too great. “But then, why isn’t she with you? Why didn’t the court appoint you her legal guardian?”

“The courts eventually will, but I don’t want to wait any longer. My patience had run out. I’ve missed out on the first four and a half years of Gabby’s life as it is. I won’t miss any more.”

A new thought came to her, a new, more frightening thought. She sat taller, stomach in knots. It took all of her courage to get the question out. “Were you behind the kidnapping attempt three years ago?”

“No.”

But he knew about the attempt, she thought, heart racing. He wasn’t surprised by her question. He was familiar with the incident. “What do you know?”

“I know you were hurt.”

Sam looked at him quickly, and then away. “It wasn’t that bad.”

“You were in the hospital for a week.”

She smiled grimly, remembering how Johann proposed while she was still in the hospital. Johann had said he needed her, and Gabby needed her and that by marrying him, Sam would make him a better man.

It didn’t work out that way, of course. After the wedding, and as soon as Sam had fully recovered from the beating, she assumed even more household responsibilities than before. She wasn’t just the nanny now, but the cook, the housekeeper, the bookkeeper, the gardener, the seamstress, the laundress because, Johann, citing financial difficulties, had let all hired help go.

“How did you find out?” she asked, knowing that even though the workload was exhausting, by that point she was so attached to Gabby that she couldn’t imagine leaving.

“I’ve been keeping my eye on van Bergen.”

She felt a shiver of apprehension. “You’ve been spying on us?”

Again he fell silent, and his silence was somehow more effective than other peoples’ words. His silence conveyed tremendous strength and power, as well as calm. The word, unflappable, crossed her mind.

She looked at him where he sat across from her in the oak booth, his long legs out and braced before him, his hands resting lightly just below his hipbones. Something in his stillness, something in his pose—his hands resting just so—reminded her of a gunslinger from one of the old cowboy movies she used to watch with her father late at night when there was nothing else on the telly.

“I’d prefer to call it investigating,” he said, speaking slowly, carefully. “I was intent on gathering facts. Evidence. Making sure Gabriela was safe until I could get her in my care.”

“So you’ve tried going to court?”

“We’ve been in court for years—but it takes so long. I expect a legal decree soon—”

She felt dangerously close to hysteria. “So why the poker games?”

“Revenge.” Cristiano’s upper lip curled. “I wanted to make him suffer. He made me suffer. It seemed only fair.”

“Suffering is never fair.”

“You’re such a good girl, Samantha.”

She wouldn’t be baited, not this time. “So I wasn’t important. You never wanted me—”

“Not true.” He cut her off. “I wanted you from the beginning. I gambled on the fact that once I had you, Gabriela would follow.”

“That’s illogical.”

“Sam, you married Johann for Gabriela. If you came to me, you’d bring Gabriela. And I was right.” He smiled at her but his smile was predatory. “You’ve protected her from the beginning. I don’t hold that against you. In fact, I appreciate the fact that you love her for her—not for her bank account.”

“She has a bank account?”

“A huge trust fund. She’s a Bartolo.”

“I don’t know what that means.”

Cristiano’s lashes lowered and he studied her as though she were a curiosity, something he’d uncovered in a dusty secondhand shop. “It means she’s rich. It means she will always wonder when she grows up if men love her for her, or if they love her money.”

“That’s horrible.”

“That’s reality.”

She pursed her lips, trying to digest this and everything else she’d learned. “And that’s what you want for her? Some harsh reality where her life is ruled by money, not love?”

“Sam, life is what it is. I’m not going to sugarcoat it for Gabriela, you, or anyone. But I’ve been observing Gabriela. She’s a bright girl. She’s confident and assertive. There’s no reason she can’t be rich, and be loved.”

Somehow Sam felt the inequities very much. She—who’d tried so hard for so many years—had neither love nor money. “Do you have both? Are you rich?”

“Yes.”

“Loved?”

He laughed, cool and mocking. “No. But that’s my choice.”

Sam had never met anyone like Cristiano Bartolo, didn’t understand anyone like him, either. “Why wouldn’t you want love?”

“Love’s complicated. It involves layers of emotion including guilt and fear. I’m happier without it.”

“Without love.”

“As I said, I’m happy as I am.”

She shook her head, perplexed. “So why do you want Gabby?”

He hesitated for the briefest second. “Because she’s a Bartolo. She should be raised by a Bartolo.”

He was making her sick. She couldn’t stand his way of thinking. It was harsh, horrible, selfish. “This isn’t why you take a child—”

“It is for me,” he cut in sharply before lifting the menu. “Do you know what you’re going to eat?”

Sam couldn’t imagine eating a bite after that but when the waitress appeared at their table, she ordered toast and tea, thinking she had to put something in her stomach if she was going to survive the day.

They sat in virtual silence while they waited for their breakfast to arrive until Sam couldn’t stand the miserable tension a moment longer. “So what are you going to do? How exactly does this work?”

“In the morning we’ll fly back to Monte Carlo. On Monday Gabby will begin at her new school.”

“A new school?”

“Yes.”

Sam stared at him aghast. So upset she ignored the waitress when she brought Sam her pot of tea. “You’re out of your mind.” And he was. He had to be to think he could just rip Gabriela from everything she’d known and loved. “Maybe adults understand moves and shifts, maybe adults can be relocated overnight, but not children—”

“I’m not asking you, Samantha. I’m telling you this. The decision is made. It’s no longer your concern.”

She shuddered, knowing he was wrong, knowing Gabriela would always be her concern. She might not be her nanny anymore, might not even be her stepmother, but Gabby was part of her heart, her life. “What is the rush?”

“I’ve lost enough time trying to get her home. I refuse to lose anymore.”

The hopelessness of the situation wrapped hard fingers around Sam’s throat. “And what about Gabby? What about all she loses?”

Cristiano’s eyes narrowed. “She’ll thank me one day.”

“Maybe. And maybe not.”

He shrugged. “I guess we’ll find out.”

Sam felt as if he were splitting her heart and head wide-open. How could he do this? How could he even talk this way? How was it possible to be so callous…much less about your own child? “Why can’t you give her time,” Sam pleaded. “At least let her finish the school year where she is. Don’t change everything on her overnight. She’s so young. She’s been through so much. Give her time to understand what’s happening…time to adjust.”

He leaned back as their breakfast plates were carried to the table. “She’ll have time,” he said. “She’ll have the next fifteen years to adjust.”

She swayed on her seat. “What kind of man are you?”

His steady gaze held hers, and the way he studied her made her skin prickle, her body tingling with alarm. “The kind who gets what he wants.”

“And what about what other people want?”

“Not my concern.”

Sam’s stomach rose, nearly upending. “God, that’s cold.”

“Yes, but damn practical.”

Conversation finished, Cristiano concentrated on eating his bacon and egg breakfast while Sam tore apart her toast, heartsick.