BOUGHT BY THE RICH MAN Taken by the Highest Bidder by Jane Porter Bought by Her Latin Lover by Julia James Bought by the Billionaire by Myrna Mackenzie

AT HER LATIN LOVER’S COMMAND

The Italian Count’s Command by Sara Wood The French Count’s Mistress by Susan Stephens At the Spanish Duke’s Command by Fiona Hood-Stewart

Jane Porter grew up on a diet of Mills & Boon® romances, reading late at night under the covers so her mother wouldn’t see! She wrote her first book at age eight, and spent many of her school and college years living abroad, immersing herself in other cultures and continuing to read voraciously. Now Jane has settled down in rugged Seattle, Washington, with her gorgeous husband and two sons. Jane loves to hear from her readers. You can write to her at PO Box 524, Bellevue, WA 98009, USA. Or visit her website at www.janeporter.com

Bought by the Rich Man

TAKEN BY THE HIGHEST BIDDER

Jane Porter

BOUGHT BY HER LATIN LOVER

Julia James

BOUGHT BY THE BILLIONAIRE

Myrna Mackenzie

www.millsandboon.co.uk

TAKEN BY THE HIGHEST BIDDER

Jane Porter

CHAPTER ONE

SAMANTHA VAN BERGEN’S husband was missing in action. Again. And unfortunately, Sam knew where he was.

She knew where to find him when he didn’t return home for days at a time, and she knew what to expect.

Disaster.

This was a battle, she thought, drawing her gray velvet cloak closer to her evening gown as she swiftly climbed the stairs to Monte Carlo’s grand Le Casino, a battle she was losing.

Johann had always been a compulsive gambler but he used to win more. He used to walk away from the table when it turned ugly. But he didn’t do that anymore. He just sat there, losing. Losing. Losing.

They’d already lost so much. Their savings. The chic penthouse. The Ferrari—not that Sam had ever driven it.

What was left? She wondered, climbing the casino’s marble steps.

In Le Casino’s VIP card room, Cristiano Bartolo lounged at his favorite table when the door to their private room opened. Annoyed by the interruption, he glanced up, but his irritation eased as he recognized beautiful, blond Samantha van Bergen, or more commonly known as the baroness van Bergen.

It was, he thought, mouth curving faintly, such a huge, stately title for such a young blushing English bride.

He played his card, then looked up to watch her unfasten the top hook on her velvet cloak, letting the dove-gray velvet fabric fall back over one shoulder revealing her white evening gown beneath.

She fascinated him. He didn’t know why. He’d only seen her once before, but she’d made such an impression that night six months ago he knew he’d never forget her.

The first time he’d seen her had been here, at Le Casino, as well. Then, as now, he’d been sitting at the exclusive high roller tables, and then, as now, every head at the table had turned. Cristiano turned, too, to see what had caught every man’s attention.

No wonder every man stared.

The baroness was small, slim, beautiful. She had a delicate oval face framed by blond ringlets, long loose curls that gave her a decidedly angelic appearance, although her eyes, slightly tilted at the corners, were not completely innocent.

Beautiful girls were a dime a dozen, but she touched him; with her serious expression, her dark brown brows pulled, the deep furrow between arched brows.

Cristiano watched now as the young baroness stood just inside the door, not nervous or uncertain, just focused. She wore a look of utter concentration, an expression of grave concern, and Cristiano was certain this is what Joan of Arc must have looked like before battle as she moved to Johann van Bergen’s side.

Cristiano had never liked Johann, would never like Johann, and had deliberately sat at this table so he could play the baron. Cristiano had discovered months ago that Johann van Bergen didn’t know how to play cards, couldn’t gamble and hadn’t a clue how to walk away from a game even when he was being bled. And he was most definitely bleeding tonight.

Bleeding out.

Bleeding dry.

Cristiano scooped up a handful of chips, moved them forward, upping the ante by two hundred and fifty thousand pounds. It wasn’t a small bet, but neither was it huge. Over five million pounds had already been wagered tonight. Johann’s loss to Cristiano’s gain.

Eyes narrowing, Cristiano watched as Samantha approached the table, watched one long loose blond tendril slide forward on her shoulder, dangle across her breast. He envied the curl. Longed to take it, twine it around his fingers and then dip it between her full breasts.

Cristiano reached for his whiskey, sipped it, let the heat and fire warm him, wanting Samantha. She made him feel—curious, carnal, intent on possession.

She crouched now at Johann’s side, her velvet cloak pushed back on her shoulders, her slim bare arms extended, her hands on Johann’s thigh.

Her hands didn’t belong on Johann’s thigh.

Her hands belonged on his.

Cristiano’s gaze moved from her bare arms to her shoulders to her deep cleavage revealed by the plunging neckline of her white evening gown. Leisurely he let his gaze travel up, along the smooth column of her throat to her firm rounded chin and jaw, the curve of cheekbone and the worry in her blue eyes. The worry was also there in the faint line between her perfect arched brows, as well as in the press of her lipsticked mouth, her beauty delicate and yet painfully pinched.

Angels shouldn’t be so tormented, he thought, finding his chair suddenly uncomfortable, just as his body felt too hard and tight.

He imagined kissing her full mouth until it softened beneath his, saw her lying naked in his bed, her slender limbs stretched out beneath him, her delicate gold necklace the only thing she wore.

But his blond Joan of Arc was on a mission, and she was oblivious to all but Johann as she spoke to him, her voice but a murmur of soft sound. Cristiano couldn’t hear what she said to Johann van Bergen, but the baron made no effort to lower his voice. “Go,” Johann told her, tone cold, blunt. “Go back home where you’re supposed to be.”

But she didn’t go. She continued to crouch at Johann’s side, whispering urgent words only the baron could hear, words that only angered him further. “I don’t need a mother,” he said, slapping his cards down. “I already had one. And I don’t need you. You’ve done nothing for me.”

Two dark pink blotches stained her cheeks. Silently she regarded him, face flushed, chin lifted, painful dignity. Then without another word, she slipped off her cloak, handed it to the gentleman at the door and took a chair, sitting behind Johann.

During the next hour and a half Cristiano watched her. He liked watching her. She’d been beautiful six months ago but she was even more stunning tonight. He’d have her. Soon. Very soon. Even if she was another man’s wife.

Cristiano folded his cards, tossed them onto the table and leaned back, content to use the time to watch his woman. Because she was his. She was everything he wanted—young, sleek, sexy and unavailable. The unavailable aspect he found especially seductive.

It was good to feel tempted. Seduced. It felt good to want something, someone. It made him feel, period, and God knows, he didn’t feel much of anything anymore.

Lashes lowered, he watched Baroness van Bergen now as again she whispered more urgent words to her husband. But her husband was ignoring her.

Foolish man, Cristiano thought derisively. Foolish man to marry such a woman and then ignore her. Because there was beauty, and then there was beauty, and Johann’s young blond wife wasn’t your run-of-the-mill beauty, but something finer. Rarer.

Cristiano called Johann’s bluff, forcing the baron to show his cards. Nothing.

It was all Cristiano could do to hide his contempt. Johann was gambling his life away. What a fool. A gambling man understood risks, and took them. A gambling man understood wins and losses. But Johann wasn’t a true gambler, he didn’t understand risk, and he didn’t understand loss.

But Cristiano did. He knew what it was to win, and he knew what it was to lose and he didn’t like losing. So he didn’t. Not anymore. Hadn’t lost in so long that he’d almost, almost, forgotten the bitter taste.

Almost.

But not quite.

And that faint but bitter taste of loss still burned his tongue as it burned his heart and made him take. Risk. And win.

It was conquering. It was plundering. It was—he reached for the cards just dealt him—revenge.

Sam sat behind Johann, her gaze fixed on his new hand of cards, seeing what he was seeing, wondering if he was as nervous as she. He had terrible cards. Absolutely nothing in his hand and yet he was sitting there playing as if he held only aces in his hand.

God, Johann, what are you doing?

What are you thinking? Playing?

Stomach in knots, hands folded on her knee, Sam drew a deep breath, her white jersey dress with the gold spaghetti straps pulling tightly across her shoulders.

The villa was gone.

The bank account emptied.

There was nothing left to wager.

With a cry of disgust, Johann tossed his cards onto the table, showing what he had. Nothing. Three sevens.

Sam bit the inside of her cheek to hide her shame. Three sevens. He’d bet and lost their home with his three sevens. God forgive him. Where was his common sense? His survival instinct? What kind of fool was he?

“I’m out,” he said, sitting back, running his hand across his darkly tanned face. Johann, an Austrian baron, playboy and fixture on the Monte Carlo scene, diligently maintained his deep tan by sunbathing daily on the pool terrace, usually with a stiff cocktail at his side. “I’ve nothing else, Bartolo.”

Thank God, Sam thought, eyes burning, body alternately hot and cold. He was done. It was over. Let them go home now and figure out what they were going to do. “Johann—”

“Be quiet,” he snapped.

She flushed, bit her tongue, knowing the man called Bartolo watched and listened to everything. She knew Bartolo had watched her tonight, too, had felt his gaze rest on her repeatedly, and each of his inspections grew longer, heavier, more personal until she thought she’d scream for relief. He made her feel strange.

He made her feel alone. And hopelessly vulnerable.

It wasn’t a way she wanted to feel. Not now, not ever.

But now Bartolo smiled lazily as he lay down his own cards. “You were on a winning streak for a while.”

“I nearly had you,” Johann agreed, signaling for another round of drinks.

Sam’s hands tightened on her knee, convulsively squeezing her kneecap. No more liquor, she prayed, no more liquor tonight. Let’s just go, Johann. Let’s leave here…

“So close,” Bartolo said.

Sam hated Bartolo then, realizing for the first time that he had been expertly baiting Johann tonight, egging him on. But for what purpose? He’d already stripped Johann of everything—house, wealth, respect. What else was there to take?

Johann nodded. “So close.” He paused, studied the other man. “One more hand?” he proposed, taking the bait.

The air bottled inside Sam’s chest and her nails dug into her hands. Damn Bartolo, and damn Johann. Johann couldn’t be serious. He couldn’t possibly think he’d win, not playing Bartolo, and certainly not after drinking. “Johann.”

“Shut up,” Johann said without looking at her.

She flushed with fresh shame but she wasn’t going to shut up, wasn’t going to let this slaughter continue. Bartolo was amoral. But she knew what was right, and this wasn’t right. “Come home with me now, Johann. Please.”

“I told you to shut up,” Johann snapped.

The heat scorched her face. It was humiliating being here, humiliating running after a man, begging a man to stop, think, pay attention. But she’d do what she had to do. She’d do anything for little Gabriela.

“Johann,” she pleaded softly.

Johann ignored her. But Bartolo looked at her, a long measured look that went straight through her. A look that said he was merciless and proud, hard and unforgiving. Ruthless. Savage.

Bloodthirsty.

She leaned forward, touched Johann’s shoulder. “Johann, I beg you—”

Johann reached up, shoved her hand off. “Go home before I ask that hotel security walk you out.”

“You can’t continue,” she whispered, face, body, skin aflame. She was mortified, and terrified. The future had never seemed as dark as it did that moment.

Johann looked up, nodded at the plain suited security guard standing just inside the VIP room’s door. “Could you please see the baroness out?” he asked, even as he took the fresh cocktail from the waitress. “She is ready to go home.”

All eyes but Johann’s were on her but she didn’t move, didn’t even flinch despite the plainclothes security guard at her elbow. “This isn’t right,” she said out loud.

But no one answered her and she felt Bartolo’s eyes. His gaze burned, seared. Punished.

The guard bent his head, murmured, “Madame, please.”

Madame, please leave without making a scene. Madame, go home while your husband loses everything and everyone…

Furiously, reluctantly, Sam stood, her gown’s white jersey fabric falling in long elegant folds. “If you can’t think of me, Johann, can you please think of Gabby?”

He didn’t answer her. He didn’t look as if he’d heard her. Instead he was drinking hard, throwing back his cocktail even as the dealer was dealing a new hand.

Escorted by hotel security, Sam walked silently through the casino overwhelmed by the clink and bells and whistles of the one-arm bandits edging the casino floor. She hated casinos, hated the noise, the garish colors and lights, the artificial glamour that seduced so many.

Fortunately the security didn’t touch her, push her or rush her. There was no hurry. She, like the hotel staff, knew what happened now was beyond her control. No one would stop a gambler, not even a compulsive gambler. Monte Carlo had been built on the backs of those with deep pockets and a dearth of self-restraint.

Back at the small town villa in the historic district, Sam collected a sleeping Gabby from the neighbor’s house, carried her home, put her in her bed and after a lingering glance into the little girl’s simple bedroom, shut the door.

Sam curled in a chair downstairs in the living room, a blanket pulled over her shoulders. The house was chilly but Sam couldn’t turn up the heat. There wasn’t money to pay for such extravagances. There wasn’t money for anything.

Tears started to her eyes but she pressed a hand to her face, held the tears back. Don’t cry. You can’t cry. Tears are for children.

But some tears fell anyway, escaping from behind her hand, from beneath the tightly closed eyelids.

It was all too bitter, too brutal, too lonely. She’d tried so hard to give Gabriela a better life. That’s why she’d married Johann, that’s why she put up with his abuse. Sam had done everything in her power to help things here, improve things for the child. But none of it mattered. Johann was determined to gamble and drink, no matter the cost.

Much later she finally fell asleep, still huddled in the armchair and didn’t wake until she heard Gabriela bounding down the stairs.

“Where’s Papa?” Gabby asked, nearly five years old and endlessly enthusiastic.

Gabby had already dressed in her school uniform and even in her dark gray uniform with the white piping, Gabby was beautiful. A day rarely passed without someone stopping Sam to comment on Gabriela’s stunning looks, and Gabby was stunning.

Gabby’s mother had been a model from Madrid. She’d done some small films in Spain and hoped to go to Hollywood to try her luck there, but died tragically a year after Gabby was born. The details about Gabby’s mother’s death were all a bit sketchy, but Gabby had inherited her mother’s Spanish beauty with her classic features, her dark hair, and those green-gold eyes bordered by shamefully long, jet-black lashes.

“Good girl, you’re all ready,” Sam said standing and folding the blanket. “And your papa’s out but he’ll be back later,” she added, trying to look unconcerned, trying to look as if she hadn’t spent the night crying in a threadbare overstuffed armchair worried sick about a future that looked increasingly bleak and chaotic.

“He hasn’t been home in days,” Gabby complained. “And you’re still wearing your fancy dress.”

It was Sam’s one and only fancy dress. Sam checked her smile, knowing it was brittle, and false. “I fell asleep reading,” Sam fibbed, refusing to worry Gabby. “But let’s have breakfast now and then we’ll do your hair for school.”

Sam kept Gabriela chattering until she’d walked her to school a quarter mile away, but once Gabby ran into the building, leaving Sam on the pavement, Sam felt her defenses crack and fall.

What were they going to do? How were they going to manage? No home, no money, no food, no tuition for Gabby’s school…

Sam had nothing of her own, not even a bank account. When Johann married her, he stopped paying her a salary and what little Sam had saved over her years as a nanny had been spent on Gabriela. Johann had never understood that little girls quickly outgrew their clothes and even much beloved dolls eventually wore out.

As she walked the eight large city blocks back to their villa town house, Sam struggled with the reality of their lives. In the four years she’d been with the van Bergens, things had gone from bad to worse, and worse to nightmarish. If she had family, she’d take Gabby and go there now. But Sam had no family, had spent most of her childhood and teenage years in the orphanage in Chester.

She’d left school at seventeen, and with the help of a parish scholarship, attended Princess Christian College in Manchester, but even with the scholarship she’d had to work several jobs to pay her bills.

Money had always been very tight. Sam had never been spoiled. And yet even living frugally, and even knowing how to scrimp and save, Sam knew her situation now was far more dire than it had ever been. Sam knew she could fend for herself. But what about Gabby? How would Sam take care of Gabby if they had no home, no income, no place to go?

Climbing the four steps of the town villa, Sam entered through the front door and was just about to unbutton her coat when she heard Johann call to her.

“If you could spare a moment, Baroness. I’d like to speak to you.”

If she could spare a moment? Oh, that was rich, Sam thought, following the sound of Johann’s voice to the living room.

Late-morning light flooded the windows, patterning the wood parquet floor in great sheets of light, the usual blare of horns and noise from Monte Carlo’s busy streets failed to penetrate the walls and windows of the old villa. The room, she thought numbly, was quiet. Too quiet.

She faced him, hands bunched inside her coat pockets. “Yes?”

“Do take off your coat,” he said irritably. “You make me nervous standing there all bundled up like that.”

Silently she unbuttoned the tweed coat, tugging it off her shoulders before laying it across the couch. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

Johann clasped a drink in his hands, the glass resting on his chest. “I’ve settled my debt to Bartolo.”

The dark gloom hanging over her head immediately lifted. Sam felt almost dizzy with relief. She couldn’t hide her smile of delight. “You did? Excellent! I’m so glad—”

“He’ll be here in an hour to collect you.”

It was too rapid a mood swing, too harshly said. Sam exhaled hard, then breathed in again. “What?”

But Johann didn’t speak. Instead a deathly quiet shrouded the living room. Sam held her breath, not thinking, not understanding, certain Johann would clear the misunderstanding.

Yet he said nothing.

She heard nothing.

Only the clink of ice shifting and melting in his glass.

“Say something,” she choked, feeling as if she were suffocating in the heavy stillness.

“I did. You just didn’t like what I said.”

Little spots danced before her eyes. This couldn’t be happening. She’d heard wrong. Had to have heard wrong. “Then say it again.”

Baron van Bergen’s lashes dropped. “You heard me the first time.”

Sam couldn’t believe it had come to this. He’d been an addict ever since she’d met him but this…this…

This was unthinkable.

Impossible.

The end of reason itself.

Sam took a frightened step toward him before freezing, unable to take another. “You didn’t give me away.”

Johann’s eyes opened briefly, and he shot her a dirty look before slinking lower in his chair and keeping his cocktail tumbler pressed to his forehead, expression increasingly pained.

“I didn’t give you,” he contradicted sourly, eyes closed. “I lost you.”

“Lost me.” Her voice nearly broke, her English accent sharper, more pronounced. Sam balled her hand in a fist behind her back, nails biting into her palm. “How could you lose me?”

“Things happen.”

He was wrong about that, Sam thought, hands tingling, body cold and icy as if her blood had frozen in her veins. Things only happened to Johann van Bergen. “To you,” she said bitterly.

He opened one eye, looked at her, deep wrinkles fanning from his eyes. “Since you’re not doing anything, liebchen, could you get me another drink?”

Liebchen. Liebling. Nothing like good old German endearments he didn’t mean, had never meant. Seething, Sam dug her nails harder into her skin. “No.”

Grunting, Johann rolled the cold tumbler across his forehead. He was obviously hungover. He’d been out all night, had only recently stumbled in. “Explain this to me.”

His lashes lifted, his pale blue gaze slid over her, inspecting her. “Is that a new dress?”

Sam glanced down at her cream brocade dress with rich lavender and purple threads, the hem of the dress edged with silky purple ribbon. The dress had been part of her trousseau two years ago, part of the elegant designer wardrobe Johann had bought for her before she’d discovered he was deep in debt and couldn’t afford groceries much less fine clothes. “No. We can’t afford new clothes, remember?”

He grunted again, rolled the glass in the opposite direction over his brow. “Mein Gott, you remind me of my mother. She was a nag, too.”

Sam didn’t flinch, stooping instead to numbly pick up a gold tasseled pillow that had fallen from the threadbare sofa onto the hardwood floor and tossed it back onto the couch.

Johann could mock her all he wanted. Theirs had been a marriage of convenience. Nothing more, nothing less. She didn’t care now what he thought of her, hadn’t cared for his opinion when she’d married him. The only reason she’d agreed to the marriage in the first place was to protect his child. A child he seemed determined to neglect and reject.

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