A Bride For The Taking. Sandra Marton
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‘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?’