Bought by the Rich Man. Jane Porter
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She’d liked the kiss, wouldn’t have stopped the kiss, wouldn’t have stopped him.
Her skin still tingled and tightened across her cheekbone. Her mouth felt soft, her lower lip quivering. Even her body felt warm, pliant.
She wanted him, more of him, more of whatever he could give her.
Cristiano left the cottage, stepping out into the still white landscape.
The moon was high, the snow had briefly stopped and the light shone on a distant oak tree, turning the ancient gnarled limbs into a glittering ice sculpture.
They needed to get back to Monte Carlo, he thought.
He didn’t want to be here anymore. He felt increasingly trapped here. It was time to get home, get back to work, get on with his life.
Sam wasn’t part of his life. He’d take care of her financially, especially since she had no money, no family, nowhere to go. He’d set her up in a little house, help her find work…
Christ, who was he kidding?
He didn’t want to set her up in a little house somewhere and find her work.
He wanted to drag her into his bed and take his sweet time making love to her.
But if he took her, made love to her, kept her in his life it would ruin everything, at least complicate everything for Gabby. Because relationships ended. Love affairs didn’t last forever. And then how would he explain the fallout to Gabriela?
He couldn’t. She wouldn’t understand. Gabby was just a child and she doted on Sam, depended on Sam, and Sam was just as devoted to Gabby.
No. Desire—attraction—stopped here. Sam was right. Gabby had to be put first. Gabby couldn’t be hurt, not by the adults she trusted, not by those who’d sworn to love her, protect her.
And he did love Gabby. He loved her dearly. And he’d been fighting for her for years, since the night of the accident when the two formula one cars slammed together in balls of red fire.
He could see it all again. It never left his mind, playing and replaying in exquisite slow motion.
And slow, slow the car came up on his right to overtake him and there, ahead of him, was his teammate’s car, and Cristiano did what any aggressive ruthless driver would do. He blocked for his teammate, for his teammate’s win.
But the driver on his right was even more aggressive and cut left, and then right, and somehow lost control, careening out of control.
And that was how it always began, the slow motion movie rolling in Cristiano’s head, the car from the other team slamming into Cristiano’s teammate and then sliding back toward Cristiano’s car.
When you race, you travel at speeds beyond belief. Speed that’s like flying.
There’s no time to do anything. You can’t prepare. Not even react.
It just happens before your eyes.
Slow, slow, a movie one never forgets.
Cristiano’s teammate slams into the wall after being hit by the careening car and Cristiano, trapped by flying debris, can only go forward into his teammate’s car. Into the car he’d been trying to protect, a car already in pieces.
It was his teammate—his father—one and the same.
And that’s where it all ends and all begins.
The fire everywhere. Cristiano couldn’t see—guided only by the smell of burning petrol and exploding flames. The only reason he survived was because God, or an angel somewhere, plucked him from the fiery inferno and willed him to live.
The first thing Cristiano knew on awakening at the hospital forty-eight hours later was that his father was dead.
The second was that his legs had been crushed and burned so badly he’d never walk again.
The third was Mercedes at the hospital weeping and screaming, How in God’s name can I have this baby now?
Cristiano learned to walk again because a baby waited, needing a father.
He even learned to drive again because somewhere there was a baby Bartolo who’d need a strong man in his or her life, a man who wouldn’t quit and wouldn’t complain and would always believe that good prevailed.
Cristiano breathed deep, held the air in his chest and silently mocked himself. Don’t cry, you bastard. You’re a man, you can’t cry.
But God, the pain. The memories. The regrets.
And to think that Gabby, who was the good, should suffer again was the worst injustice of it all. For God’s sake, she’d already lost her mother, had an ass of a stepfather. How could he not do everything in his power to make Gabriela happy?
To make her life complete?
Santo Cielo, he’d do anything, absolutely anything for her.
The cottage door opened and Sam stepped out. She’d bundled up in one of the wool coats from the cottage closet. “Hey.”
He nodded, features hardening, hiding all that he felt. He was so good at disguising what he felt.
“Do you mind company?” she asked, clapping her hands together and blowing on her fingers.
“You’ll freeze.”
“You haven’t.” Her blue eyes flashed up at him. “And you’re not even wearing a coat.”
“I’m a man.”
She laughed, bless her, and he almost smiled. “That’s funny?” he asked.
“Just when you say it.” She glanced up, looked at the icicles above their heads, and reached up to try to break one off but couldn’t. “So when are you going to tell her?” Sam asked, and her wide blue eyes, cornflower-blue, stunning blue, pierced him. “About Johann, and you and school…”
Something in her gaze set fire to his heart. And he knew about fire. He knew what it was to be burned. “That’s a lot to tell a little girl,” he said.
She nodded, no longer smiling, and her sober expression reminded him of the night just days ago when she’d arrived at the casino to try to convince Johann to go home.
A woman on a mission. A golden haired Joan of Arc.
“Soon,” he said, shifting his weight, easing the pressure off his left leg, which had been the more severely damaged of the two. The cold weather was making all the scar tissue tight and itchy and he couldn’t seem to get comfortable. “As soon as the time seems right.”
“Tell me before you talk to her. Just let me know, okay?”
But he didn’t say yes, and he didn’t say no, he just looked at her. And as he stared into her blue eyes, his lashes drifted lower, and his gaze settled on her mouth, on the softness and fullness he’d finally kissed after waiting so long to touch, and taste. And the wait had been worth it. Her mouth was perfect. She tasted and felt divine.
Reaching out, he pushed back one of her long blond curls. “You don’t hate me as much as you used to.”
Even in the moonlight he could see her blush. “I never hated you,” she answered, but her cheeks were crimson and she wouldn’t look him in the eye.
“You didn’t like me.”
Fresh color swept her cheeks, and she laughed softly, and it was a surprisingly deep husky laugh for someone so slight. “I questioned your morals and values.”
“That’s a nice way of putting it.”
“You did encourage Johann to gamble.”
“Of course I did.” He couldn’t resist touching her flushed face, couldn’t help touching what he’d craved for so long. “If it meant I could get what I