Taken by the highest bidder

by Jane Porter

  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?"

  Liehchen. Liehling . 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 hung over. 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. "you remind me of my mother. She was a nag, too."

  Sam didn't flinch, stooping instead to numbly pickup 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.

  "I'm not going to him," she said now, "Or with him, or any­where near him. You'll have to find another way to settle your debt."

  "Oh, you're tough now, are you? I wonder if you'd be so tough if I'd wagered my darling daughter instead of you." He paused. "Gabriela, my beautiful little angel daughter." He laughed low, mockingly and shook his glass, rattling the ice cubes. "I did consider it, though. More than once. But Bartolo was interested in you. Not sure why. You've no money, no edu­cation, no connections, and no family. You're British. Boring. And might I add, frigid,"

  "It shouldn't matter if I'm frigid since there won't be any physical intimacy,"

  "Not with me, anyway. But 1 can't see him taking you and not taking you, if you get my meaning."

  She did, all too well, and it was all she could do to keep her disgust from showing.

  To think that Johann would wager her...

  And to think that this Bartolo would accept...

  Sam had put up with Johannes abuse for years and she told herself not to let the insults hurt, told herself his opinion didn't matter but on the inside she was cold, so cold, as if the December chill had burrowed all the way through her. She was there to pro­tect Gabby, nothing else mattered. "So what happens now?"

  "Cristiano comes to get you. You're his problem now and I wish him all the luck in the world,"

  "Johann!"

  "Must you talk so loud? ‘I’ve a hellish headache."

  She lowered her voice marginally. "This isn't funny."

  He slunk lower in his chair. "No, it's not funny. I've lost ev­erything. My cars. My penthouse. Now my villa. It's all gone,"

  Her throat felt raw. She couldn't disguise her bitterness. "Why do you gamble?"

  "Christ, Sam, it wasn't like I killed someone." He took a gulp from his glass. "It was a mistake”

  Sam stared at the man who'd been her husband for exactly four hundred and sixty-five days and her employer for two years before that. He was an alcoholic, a gambler, a womanizer and the father of the most amazing, beautiful, and once lonely little girl in the world. "What happens to Gabby?"

  "I don't know. She never came up."

  "Well, I won't leave her here with you. If I go, I take Gabby with me."

  Johann took another great gulp, draining his glass. "I don't think that's up to you. It's not up to me anymore. It's his deci­sion. He's the one that owns you”

  Owns you. Owns. Like meat. Or a piece of property. Real es­tate in the Cote d'Azur. Eyes burning, her throat swollen, Sam swallowed the pain. Intellectually she knew Johann had never loved her, never wanted her, had only married her to keep Gabby's mother's family from taking her, but still, his coldness, his indifference and cruelty hurt.

  "You'll use Gabby to force me into another man's bed?" Sam sank down onto the edge of the couch.

  "Well, you were no use in mine."

  Sam felt a moment of panic, pure unadulterated panic. At twenty-eight, she knew who she was, and what she was, and Johann was right. She wasn't a sexual woman, not even a sen­sual woman. Despite the wedding ring on her finger, she had no knowledge of men, of sex, or desire. And she was content to leave it that way. A woman didn't have to be sexual. A woman didn't need a man. She'd been alone for years but she wasn't alone anymore. She had Gabby. She loved Gabby. "I'll do this...go to him... settle your debt, on one condition. You let me adopt her."

  "It's out of my hands."

  He acted as if Gabby was nothing more than a tennis ball. He'd just throw her in any direction, toss her where it suited him. "Impossible! You're her father, her legal guardian—"

  "But I told you, Sam. God, I do wish you'd listen." Irritably Johann pressed the crystal tumbler to his temple. "Cristiano is coming for you. He wants you. You . Understand?"

  She heard him, but she didn't understand.

  The idea of a man wanting her was more than she could com­prehend and she stared at Johann so long it hurt her eyes, her mind, and her heart.

  Baron
van Bergen was handsome and dissolute. Selfish. Impulsive. Immature. And the father of the most gorgeous child with the most beautiful heart. Sam had been a nanny for some of the wealthiest, famous families in the world and she'd never met a child like Gabriela van Bergen before.

  "I want to see him," she choked, "I want to see him now."

  "He's coming later, Sam."

  "I won't wait. I must see him now. I must speak to him now—"

  "And tell me what?" The voice drawled from the doorway and even without looking Sam recognized the voice. Cristiano Bartolo. The devil had arrived.

  CHAPTER TWO

  An icy heat washed through Sam. Skin prickling, she turned on the sofa's arm to face the door and was immediately struck by heat, a dark heat that seared and burned from all the way across the room. "How did you get in?" she demanded.

  Cristiano held up a key ring, "My key."

  "Your key."

  His broad shoulders twisted and he smiled that same mock­ing smile he'd smiled last night. "My villa."

  It wasn't much of a villa, not in its current state of shabby dis­repair. When Sam first met Johann, he had a larger, finer villa on the Rock, close to the royal palace, tucked in an elegant old square, set off by equally elegant old fountains, but as his finan­cial picture changed, so did their accommodations,

  "You're mad," she said, digging her hands into the couch, looking at Johann, heart racing, adrenaline surging through her in sickening fashion. "You're both mad. You don't wager homes. Wives. Families." But Johann's eyes were closed, his empty glass cock-eyed in his lap and Sam's glance swung wildly back to Bartolo. "You can't take someone's wife,"

  "You can if she's wagered."

  Sam swayed on the arm of the sofa, swayed and laughed. She had to laugh. She didn't know what else to do. This was absurd. This was a farce. It had to be. Johann was trying to scare her, trying to make a point. Obviously he was in over his head.

  Obviously he'd lost a great deal of money last night "Exactly how much do we owe you?"

  The man stood several inches taller than Johann, but was twice as thick through his shoulders and chest Broad shouldered and powerfully built, he wore his dark hair long so that it brushed the collar of his black leather coat "Nothing now, Baroness van Bergen- Your husband has settled his debt"

  She ignored the dart of pain inside her chest. Johann had set­tled the debt by giving her away. She knew her husband didn't love her or like her, but still, to be traded, bartered, it was so bru­tal it wounded- "I'm obviously not for sale, Mr. Bartolo. It's a mistake—"

  "No mistake," he interrupted almost gently, "We've met with lawyers, signed papers, sorted things legally, I've absolved him of his debt Therefore, you leave with me." "Leave with you." she repeated dumbly. "Yes, you might be married to Johann, but you're not his woman anymore. You're mine,"

  Anything she was about to say slipped from her lips. How to answer that bold, arrogant, appalling assertion?

  Silent, she looked up at him, and what she saw filled her with fresh fear-He was calm. Relaxed- Completely in control-She struggled to match his calm. "Mr.Bartolo, if you'll tell me what we owe you. we can get this sorted out" She tried to look him square in the eye, wanting to demonstrate her strength, but it meant tilting her head back and now, with her neck ex­posed, she felt even more vulnerable than before. "You think?"

  Sam didn't like looking up at him, didn't like the expression on his face, in his eyes. He was like a wolf alone with a penned lamb. But she wasn't a lamb. And she wasn't an ingenue, either. She'd lived for twenty-eight years, had been a nanny for nearly ten. She carried no false illusions about life. Or men. Perhaps there were a few good ones, but most were very selfish and none were saints. "What do we owe you?" she repeated crisply.

  "This isn't about money. Baroness."

  "It's always about money. Mr.Bartolo."

  Deep grooves bracketed his mouth. His eyes, neither green nor gold, warmed. "You don't think it could be about love?"

  She tried to laugh but it came out broken, strangled. She'd been in love once, years ago. and it had ended so swiftly, so trag­ically she knew she'd never love again. "You don't even know me. Mr. Bartolo."

  "I know what I see."

  "Hair? Eyes? Face?" She snorted contemptuously. "That's not love. That's. .."And her voice faded as his gaze met hers and she saw in his eyes something so intense, so explosive.. .fear lapped at her, hot, dangerous, and deadly.

  His eyes never left hers. "What, Baroness?"

  Her limbs went weak, so weak it was as if she were swim­ming in cold, dense, murky water. Her head spun. Her legs felt close to collapse. "Indecent," she whispered, the only word com­ing to mind. And it was indecent. His thoughts. His actions. His words.

  "And maybe it is." Still smiling faintly, he glanced at his watch, and then shook down his sleeve. "It's nine now. I'll send my car for you at four. That should give you enough time to pack, say your goodbyes and do whatever it is you need to do."

  She looked away, vision blurred, mind equally fogged. Sam had nothing to pack but it was the goodbyes that tore at her. The goodbyes she feared most. She loved Gabriela as if the child were her own. "You really intend to do this?"

  "Baroness, your husband owes me over ten million pounds. What do you expect me to do?"

  The faint, hysteria-tinged laughter was back. She felt her eyes burn, her throat seal closed. She turned to Johann who was slumped in his chair, eyes closed, jaw slack, oblivious to the world. "Forgive and forget?" she suggested huskily, hopefully.

  Cristiano made a short sound, rough, impatient and yet his half smile hinted at amusement. "You don't know who I am, do you?"

  "Should I?" Even as she asked the question, she searched her memory, seeking some clue to his identity but his name still meant nothing to her.

  Although she'd lived in Monaco for nearly four years, she'd paid scant attention to the principality's golden crowd. Having nannied in the past ten years for some of the most wealthy and famous people in the world, she was neither impressed nor in­fluenced by those with money and fame. In her experience, the rich were rude, and the famous forgettable.

  "No. The only thing you need to know is that I'm not a good loser," His hazel-green gaze fringed by jet-black lashes met hers and held. His gaze was steady, too steady. "I hate losing. So I don't."

  He walked out then, heading straight for the front door, and for a moment Sam remained where she was, frozen on the arm of the sofa like one of La Palme d' Or's ice sculptures.

  Then the ice shattered as she thought of leaving Gabby, say­ing goodbye to Gabby, and grabbing her coat, Sam raced out of the house down to the front where Cristiano was climbing into a low red Italia Motors sports car.

  She reached the side of his car. opened the passenger door and leaned in. "You can't do this. I can't do this. I've Gabby—"

  "She's not your daughter."

  Sam looked at him where he sat in the driver's seat, dark hair rakish, deep hazel eyes intense and she shook her head, denying his words, denying what they represented, when she knew the truth. Gabby was her daughter, the daughter of her heart anyway. "I won't leave her."

  "Baroness. I have places to be. A meeting at the Hotel de Paris in ten minutes—"

  "Then give me those ten minutes." Sam pulled on her coat. "Take me with you and talk to me while you drive,"

  "I won't have time to bring you back."

  "Fine." She climbed into the passenger seat, closed the door. "I'll walk back. I don't mind walking. But we must talk about Gabriela. It's important,"

  Cristiano shot her a long, hard look before starting the car and pulling away from the curb. "Talk," he said as he swiftly merged with traffic- "You've ten minutes."

  Sam bunched her hands in her lap, watching Monaco's pic­turesque streets flash by. Her heart was pounding and her hands were shaking and she had to draw a deep breath to steady her nerves- Thank God Gabby was still in school for the rest of the morning- Maybe, just maybe, this nightmare could be f
ixed be­fore Gabby returned at three.

  But before she had a chance to talk about Gabby, Cristiano's phone rang and after checking the number, he took the call. It was a relatively long call and he was still on the phone when he slowed in the driveway approaching the Hotel de Paris, Tourists filled the elegant square, spilling from tour buses and vans onto the different plazas, snapping photos, posing for pictures, clus­tering outside the historic Cafe Divan inspecting the menu.

  Sam took in and dismissed the throngs. Monaco was always crowded- Daily tourists, from all over the world, overran the tiny principality eager to visit the fabled home of Prince Rainer and his late wife, the former American film star, Grace Kelly,

  What she wanted, needed, was Cristiano's attention. What she wanted, needed, wasn't going to happen-As valet attendants came forward to take the car, Sam fought tears. He hadn't even given her the time of day-Stepping from the car. Sam smoothed her coat over her dress and waited in front of the Hotel de Paris while Cristiano finished the call.