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