‘I’m asking you to be what you are—a reporter and a looker, too.’ He gave her a quick, hard smile. ‘Unless you’d rather I handed this over to somebody else.’
Dorian had stared at her boss, hating him for putting her in this spot, hating herself for not being able to tell him what he could do with his assignment, almost hating herself for being a woman.
It had been as if Hemple had been able to read her mind. His smile had broadened until it threatened to dislodge the cigar, and that had been when he’d uttered the words that almost mirrored the ones the taxi driver had used.
‘Why fight reality, babe? After all, it’s not my fault you’re a good-looking broad, is it?’
Dorian sighed as she remembered the smirk on his face as he’d spoken. Hemple was a pig, she thought as the taxi exited the Queens Midtown Tunnel and started along the highway, but he was the man in charge.
She took the file folder from her bag and opened it. The bottom line was that he’d given her an assignment, and she would fulfil it to the best of her ability.
She would certainly not use sex to accomplish it; she’d made that clear enough to him before she’d left his office. Hemple had only smiled. Dorian had known what he was thinking: that if Alexander had a choice between talking to her and to a male reporter he’d talk to her.
She sighed again as she began leafing through the papers inside the folder. Even if he did, it wouldn’t be because she’d gone out of her way to set things up. Certainly, she’d done nothing to glamourise herself.
She’d taken money from Accounting and dashed to a little shop on the corner where she’d bought a large carrying bag and only the basics: comb, toothbrush, underwear, a pair of jeans and a couple of T-shirts in addition to the khaki trouser suit she was wearing. Nothing feminine, nothing—
There was a sudden bang and the taxi lurched sharply to the right. Dorian cried out as the papers in her lap went flying. The driver cursed, this time loudly and fluently in Anglo-Saxon English, and pulled the vehicle off the road and on to the grassy verge.
Dorian leaned forward and hammered on the partition. ‘What happened?’ she demanded. ‘Why are we stopping?’
The man turned and slid the glass aside. ‘We have flat tyre, miss. I must change.’
She stared at him. ‘How long will that take?’
He shrugged. ‘Ten minute. Maybe fifteen. It is raining. Not so easy to do.’
‘Well, then—can you call for another taxi to come and pick me up?’
He shrugged again. ‘Sure. Can do. But other car may not come any faster than I change tyre.’
Dorian glanced at her watch. ‘Do it anyway, please,’ she said. ‘I’m really desperate.’
He did as she’d asked, then set to work. It had gone from afternoon to night now, and the rain had turned into a steady downpour. Time passed, but no new taxi appeared.
Dorian flung open the door and stepped out into the darkness. Wind buffeted her; she felt the rain drive straight through her thin cotton jacket and trousers, felt it plaster her hair to her skull. Spray from a passing car slapped against her face.
‘Miss.’ She turned. The driver had risen to his feet and was standing beside her, looking at her as if she were crazy. ‘I cannot fix. The jack no work. Please, we sit in taxi and wait.’
Dorian shook her head. ‘I can’t wait,’ she said. ‘My plane will be leaving.’ She peered ahead into the night. ‘We’re almost at the airport, aren’t we?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘That’s what I thought.’ She reached inside the taxi and grabbed her holdall. The contents of the file she’d yet to look at—clippings, photos—all of it lay scattered on the floor. But it was too late now. ‘I’ll start walking,’ Dorian said. ‘If another taxi shows up, send the driver looking for me, will you?’
‘Miss, please, you cannot.’
‘Here.’ She dug into her bag for some bills and tucked them into the bewildered driver’s hand. ‘Maybe I’ll be lucky and someone will stop and give me a lift.’
‘In New York?’ The driver’s voice carried after her as she began marching towards the distant airport. ‘It will not happen, miss, and even if it should you cannot trust. Not in this city. Please. You must wait.’
But she couldn’t, not if she was going to make that plane. Dorian’s footsteps quickened. The driver was right, of course. No car would stop for her. This was New York, where only the fittest survived. You could fall to the pavement in the middle of Fifth Avenue and no one would acknowledge it. And he was right about the rest, too. In this city, you couldn’t trust anyone, especially someone crazy enough to stop to pick up a stranger.
Not that that would stop her. You couldn’t be a good reporter if you were afraid of—
A horn blared shrilly, making her jump. Dorian’s head lifted sharply. Go on, she thought, have fun at my expense. A truck whizzed by, closer than it had a right to be to the verge; water splashed over her, cold as ice.
She shuddered and kept walking. How long would it take to walk a mile or two under these conditions? Twenty minutes? Half an hour? Would she make it on time, or—?
A car swept past her, swung sharply to the right, and came to a stop on the verge of the road just ahead. It was a sports car, something long and lean with a throbbing engine. Dorian blinked her eyes against the rain. Could it be…? Yes. Yes! The passenger door was swinging open.
She began running, her pace awkward in the muddy grass. When she reached the car, she paused and leaned down towards it.
The interior was dimly lit and leather-scented. Warmth drifted towards her, along with the faint strains of Tchaikovsky. There was a man at the wheel, but she couldn’t see him very clearly. His face alternated between light and shadow from the headlights of oncoming cars. All she could tell was that he was tall and that his hands lay lightly—and powerfully—on the steering-wheel.
‘Thank you so much for stopping,’ she said, her voice a little breathless. ‘You just saved my life.’
He turned slowly towards her, and for some reason her heart seemed to tighten in her breast. His face still alternated between light and shadow, but she could see that he had dark hair and eyes, a straight, handsome nose above what seemed to be a full mouth, and an arrogant tilt to his chin.
‘Where are you going?’ he asked. His voice was deep and soft, almost smoky. Dorian had the sudden crazy feeling that he never had to raise that voice at all, that people would do whatever they had to do to hear his words.
‘You cannot trust,’ the taxi driver had said. ‘You cannot trust…’
Dorian touched the tip of her tongue to her lower lip. ‘To—to the airport,’ she said. ‘But if you’d just be kind enough to take me as close to it as you can—’
‘I’m going there myself. Toss your things in the back and get in.’
Dorian’s heart did a funny turn again, as if someone had reached into her chest and given it a poke. It was silly, but the open door, the drift of leather-scented warmth emanating into the chill night from the car’s interior, the smoky voice—all at once it seemed dangerous.
‘Well?’ The voice was amused now, even a little contemptuous. ‘Are you going to stand out there and drown, or am I going to drive you to the airport?’
Dorian drew in her breath. What was there to fear? Men who drove expensive cars weren’t likely to be serial killers, for heaven’s sake. What she had to do was get to the airport and write the story of the year about a man named Jack Alexander, a man who might in hours become the absolute ruler of a country lost in the past.
‘You’re going to drive me to the airport,’ she said briskly, and she tossed her bag into the rear of the car, climbed into the seat, and slammed the door after her.
CHAPTER TWO
DORIAN sighed thankfully as she sank into the leather bucket seat.
‘It’s a hell of a night for a stroll.’
She looked at the man who’d rescued her. He was smiling as he looked into his mirror and manoeuvred the
car back into traffic.
She laughed pleasantly. ‘Isn’t it ever? I can’t believe how hard the rain’s coming down.’ Her hair was dripping into her eyes; she put her hands to her face and shoved back the soaked strands. ‘I’m afraid I’m going to make a mess of your car.’
The man beside her shrugged. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ His foot settled more firmly on the accelerator. The engine growled as the car leaped ahead, the wiper clearing the windscreen in rhythmic strokes. ‘What time does your flight leave?’
‘What?’
‘Your plane. I assume it must be taking off fairly soon or you wouldn’t have risked life and limb on the road.’
‘Oh.’ She smiled. ‘You sound like my taxi driver. He thought I was crazy to leave the cab.’
‘That dead yellow beast on the verge was yours, then?’ He nodded. ‘I thought it must be.’
‘Mmm. We had a flat—it was the final touch. Traffic was impossible all the way from Manhattan.’ Dorian made an apologetic face as she looked down at herself. ‘I really am making a mess of things,’ she said. ‘I didn’t realise how soaked I was.’
Her rescuer glanced at her. ‘You must be freezing,’ he said.
She started to protest politely, but the sudden chatter of her teeth stopped her in mid-sentence.
‘I suppose I am,’ she said with a rueful little laugh. ‘Who’d ever dream it would get chilly so late in May?’
‘Well, we can warm things up a little.’ He leaned forward and pushed a button on the dashboard. Warm air hissed from the heating vents and Dorian sighed with pleasure. ‘Better?’
‘Yes, thanks. Much.’
‘There’s a coat on the seat behind you. If you drape it over yourself, you’ll be more comfortable.’
Dorian shook her head. ‘No, thank you, that’s all right. We’ll be at the airport soon, and—’
‘And by then you’ll probably have pneumonia. Go on, get the coat.’
‘Really, it isn’t necessary. I’m feeling much warmer already. The heat’s coming up, and—’
‘For God’s sake, woman, don’t argue. Put the coat on.’
She stared at him. His voice had not risen; instead, it had taken on a note of command and she thought suddenly that he was a man accustomed not only to giving orders, but to having them obeyed instantly.
But not by her. It was one thing to accept a lift from a stranger and quite another to—
‘You’re soaked to the skin,’ he said. She looked up. He was watching her, a little frown on his face. His gaze slipped over her, moving from her dripping hair to her damp face, then dropping to her wet khaki jacket. When his eyes met hers again, his face was expressionless. ‘And you’re cold, too.’
‘I’m not. Really.’
A faint smile curved across his mouth. ‘But you are,’ he said softly, and suddenly she was painfully aware that her clothing must be clinging to her skin, outlining her breasts with intimate clarity.
Dorian felt her cheeks blaze. Be careful, she told herself. She’d been warned against crazies, hadn’t she?
Her mouth tightened as she reached for the coat to hide herself from the man’s coolly appraising gaze. He’d outmanoeuvred himself, though. Once she had the coat on, he wouldn’t have much of a view to enjoy. She smiled as she snatched it up and draped it over herself from chin to toe.
‘There.’ His tone was light and pleasant. ‘Isn’t that better?’
‘Perfect,’ she said sweetly.
And it was. She was discreetly covered by the coat—his, she was certain, based on its size and its faintly masculine scent—and she was warm, as well…
And she’d done his bidding. He’d manipulated her into doing what he’d first commanded.
She blinked. Why on earth had she thought that? Besides, what counted was that she was warm again. The little tremors that had raced through her body had stopped. And it would have been stupid to have risked a chill at the start of her first big story…
‘So.’ He stretched lithely, shifting his weight in the bucket seat. ‘You still haven’t told me what’s so urgent that you were willing to risk a night-time walk along the highway.’
‘I did tell you.’ Dorian’s tone was politely neutral. ‘I’ve a plane to catch.’
‘Let me guess.’ Her rescuer gave her a quick smile. ‘You’re off for a long weekend on the beach at Cancun.’
She laughed. Was that where people went for a weekend in his world? ‘No,’ she said, ‘not hardly.’
‘Martinique, then.’
‘Not Martinique, either.’
He sighed. ‘Ah, that’s too bad. I was going to recommend a little place I know on the north side of the island—they serve the best rum punch this side of paradise.’
And he’d just love to take her there. Was that what came next? Dorian sighed inwardly. She knew all the moves by now, after five years of living in New York. You’d meet a man, there’d be a little chit-chat about dinner, or the newest nightspot, and then—as if the idea had just sprung into his head—he’d invite you to visit it with him. She’d passed up invitations to the Hamptons, to Miami, once even to Lake Tahoe for fun and games.
But Martinique? That was new to her list. Apparently the stakes were higher in this man’s league. Still, why wouldn’t they be? Everything about him spelled M-O-N-E-Y. Dorian stole a glance at him, her eyes taking in longish but expensively cut dark hair, the well-tailored suit, the Rolex Oyster glinting on his wrist. Yes, she thought a little disdainfully, he would know the best place on Martinique—and in half a dozen other pricey spots in the Caribbean.
She looked at the dashboard clock. Her mouth twisted. In a little while she’d meet Jack Alexander, and she had no doubt but that he would be much like the man seated beside her: wealthy, very sure of himself, good-looking—and never hesitant about turning on the charm for an attractive woman.
And yet—she stirred uneasily. And yet there was something else about the man driving this car, something she couldn’t quite put her finger on. It had to do with the way he’d spoken to her, with the way he seemed to have forced her into a corner moments ago. It was as if a core of steel lay hidden just beneath the silken exterior.
She glanced at him again. There was something in the way he held himself, too, head high and shoulders straight, with just the slightest touch of arrogant pride to the set of his mouth. It was there in the way he drove this expensive car—a Porsche Carrera, she was fairly certain—with a skill and assertiveness that almost bordered on aggression, as if the caution of the slower-moving drivers on the rain-slicked road was an insult to his masculinity.
Her gaze fell on his hands, lying lightly on the steering-wheel. They were tanned and well cared for, yet she was quite certain they would be strong and powerful, that they would not only be able to elicit the best from an automobile, but from anything else they touched. From a woman, she thought suddenly. A woman would respond to him as the car was—with eagerness and pleasure—and all at once she found herself wondering what it would be like on Martinique, wondering if flowers scented the air along the beach…
‘…where you’re going, if you want to make your plane on time.’
Dorian turned towards him, afraid to breathe, afraid she’d somehow spoken those last insane words aloud. But she hadn’t; he was watching the road, the car was moving more slowly, and she realised that they’d turned off the highway and on to the road that traversed the airport.
‘Excuse me? I—I didn’t hear what you said.’
‘I said, you’d better tell me where you want to be dropped off, if you want to make your flight.’
Her brows rose a little. She’d been wrong, then. He’d been gallant to the end; he’d given her a lift, flirted probably no more than his male ego demanded, and now he was all business. In fact, now that she looked at him, she could see that he’d undergone a subtle change in the last few minutes. That soft, sexy smile had been replaced by a certain grimness, and the hands that lay on the steering-wheel gripped it a
lmost tightly.
But then, he had a plane to catch, too. Dorian felt a little twinge of something that surely couldn’t have been regret. She sat up straighter, took the coat from her lap, and tossed it into the back seat.
‘Of course. You can drop me off at—at…’
Where? Her breath caught. It was a damned good question, and she had no answer. She had no idea where to get the flight to Barovnia. Walt Hemple hadn’t told her.
‘Well?’ Her rescuer slowed to a crawl. ‘Look,’ he said impatiently. ‘I’ve a plane to catch myself and not a hell of a lot of time to do it in. Where shall I drop you?’
Her mind spun in frantic circles. What now? She glanced at the dashboard clock. Ten minutes? Ten minutes to make her flight. No, she thought grimly. Not her flight. Her career. If she missed that plane, she might as well never show her face at WorldWeek again.
‘Come on, lady,’ the stranger said. ‘Where do you want to go?’
‘I don’t know,’ she admitted.
His dark eyes narrowed. ‘You don’t know? What in hell is that supposed to mean?’
‘It means—it means he didn’t tell me,’ she said a bit shakily.
His expression grew even more grim. ‘He didn’t tell you? You mean, you agreed to go away with some guy for the weekend without…?’
‘No!’ Dorian’s eyes flashed with green fire. ‘I certainly did not. And I resent the implication.’
His mouth seemed to soften a little. ‘It wouldn’t be so extraordinary, would it?’ He smiled. ‘A beautiful woman going away with her boyfriend for a couple of days, I mean.’
Some of the stiffness went out of her spine. ‘No. I just—you had no right to assume—’ She broke off. What in heaven’s name did it matter what he assumed? He was a stranger; she would never see him again after this. She sighed and looked at him. ‘I’m not going away for pleasure,’ she said. ‘I’m flying out on business.’
‘Ah.’ His smile tilted. ‘As am I.’
‘And it’s—well, it’s an important trip. But my boss forgot to tell me where my plane would be leaving from.’
His smile broadened. ‘The problem’s easily solved. Take a look at your ticket. The name of the airline will be on it.’
A Bride for the Taking Page 2
