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

“And I can’t help wondering if it’s all legal? Can one just really give away a child like that?” Cristiano’s brow creased, his eyes narrowed. “First he tries to gamble Gabby, and then he abandons her. Seems highly suspect if you ask me.”

His answer stayed with Sam, haunted Sam as he led them to the elevator that whisked them to his hotel suite.

It didn’t matter what Cristiano found out. She wouldn’t give Gabby back to Johann. She wouldn’t give Gabby to anyone. Gabby was hers. She needed someone who loved her. Period.

Cristiano gave them a brief tour of the suite, pointing out the two bedrooms with ensuite baths, the sitting room connecting the two bedrooms, the small bar and refrigerator in the sitting room where they’d find cold drinks and other refreshments. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, with a glance at his watch. “Watch movies, television, whatever you like while I return a few phone calls. Once I’m off the phone we’ll proceed from there.”

Sam watched as he shut his bedroom door and then without even hesitating, she went to the second bedroom where their suitcases had been delivered and then with suitcases in hand, hustled Gabby to the elevator.

Taxis were already lined up in front of the hotel and it took just minutes to be seated and off. And yet despite their quick departure, Sam still held her breath much of the trip to the Nice airport. It was essential they catch the next British Airways flight to London-Heathrow, and from there they’d connect to Manchester.

In the back of the taxi, Sam wrapped her arm more snugly around Gabby.

Hard to believe they were running away like this.

Even harder to believe she was really going back.

It had been eight years since she’d left Cheshire, eight years since she’d fled the Rookery determined to never return.

But what was the old expression? Desperate times called for desperate measures? Well, Sam was nothing if not desperate now.

They didn’t reach Chester until very late that night. The taxi driver had tried to discourage them from traveling so late from Manchester to Chester, but Sam insisted. She didn’t have enough money for a taxi ride and hotel. They had to go to Chester. They had nowhere to sleep.

“Your address,” the taxi driver said as they approached Chester’s city limits. “It’s not in town, is it?”

“No. It’s actually closer to the village of Upton. It’s called the Rookery.”

Sam saw the driver look into the rearview mirror, his eyes briefly meeting hers. “Isn’t that the orphanage?”

“Yes.”

“Right,” the driver said more kindly. “I know the place.”

Fifteen minutes later, the driver took a left at a lane cut between two dark overgrown hedges. It was a long private driveway and everything gave an impression of neglect with tall, dead straggly weeds lining the dirt road while the road itself was muddy and full of potholes.

The whole area looked terribly forlorn and unkempt, but as the car headlights shone on the Rookery at the end of the driveway, the neglect was even more apparent.

The Rookery’s main hall dated back to the late seventeenth century, but through time and need, rooms and wings had been added to the original stone keep. Tonight the Rookery was dark, and the bright car beams bounced off the leaded windows on the second and third floors, while the first floor windows were all boarded over.

The taxi driver parked, but left the engine running. “It’s vacant,” he said.

Indeed, it was. No cars, no lights, no people, no sign of life anywhere.

“Were you expected?” he persisted.

Sam slowly shook her head, unable to find her voice. She’d counted on the Rookery, counted on Mrs. Bishop, the head housekeeper, and Mr. Carlton, the groundskeeper. She was certain they’d still be here. They’d been here forever. The Rookery was their home.

“Did you use to live here?” the driver asked, squinting up through his windshield to get a look at the rampart high above. It was the only feature of the old keep that remained. The rest had been softened and changed in renovations.

“Yes.”

It was all Sam could say. It was impossible to say more. If Charles had lived, things would have been different, of course, but Charles hadn’t lived and now the Rookery was closed, and she and Gabby had no money and nowhere to go.

Which meant they’d stay here. She’d find a way in, or better yet, try to break into the gamekeeper’s cottage to the far left of the old hall.

“So where can I take you?” The driver asked. “Into Chester? There’s some decent hotels and inns in town.”

Sam shook her head, opened the car door. “No, thank you. We’ll be staying here.”

The driver shook his head, obviously not pleased with her decision, but unwilling to intervene. He accepted his payment and drove away and as the taxi disappeared down the driveway, and Gabby shivered next to her, Sam realized just how late, and cold, and dark it was.

She’d made a mistake coming here. She should have gone with the taxi while they could.

But it was too late for regrets or remorse. They needed to get inside the gamekeeper’s cottage and once inside, Sam would build a fire and they’d be warm.

The old stone cottage was tucked to the left of the Rookery, and although small, contained two bedrooms, a simple kitchen and a great room with a large stone hearth. Sam knew it would be chilly inside the cottage—dark, too, because obviously there wasn’t even electricity anymore—but surely there’d be candles or lanterns, something to provide light.

Standing on tiptoe, Sam reached above the door, felt for a key not expecting to find one, and yet to her surprise, her fingers brushed cold metal. Thank God. The cottage key’s hiding place had at least remained the same. Sliding the key off the door frame, Sam tried the dead bolt and it turned.

“We’re in,” Sam said, forcing cheer into her voice. “Let’s see if I can’t make us a proper fire now.”

Nearly two hours later Sam was still trying to make a fire—she couldn’t find matches in the dark, couldn’t find anything to give her light—but thankfully Gabriela had fallen asleep on the old feather-stuffed couch, wrapped in thick blankets. At least Gabby was warm, Sam thought with a sigh as she sat back on her heels.

She was still contemplating the cold black hearth when she heard the purr of a motor outside, and then saw the wide arc of headlights flash through the dark cottage’s unshuttered windows.

Someone was here.

But Sam felt anything other than relief as she heard the car come to a stop, the headlights shining directly on the small neglected cottage. This wasn’t the taxi driver returning to check on them. And no one knew they were coming here.

Nervous, Sam went to the window overlooking the driveway. The car out front was a large sedan, a dark colored Mercedes. None of the locals who’d worked at the orphanage would drive a Mercedes, and to reach the Rookery, one had to drive a good quarter of a mile off the main road. Besides, it was late now, close to midnight.

Sam’s fingers curled into her palms. This was no accidental call. Heart in her mouth she watched the door on the driver’s side swing open. Cristiano Bartolo stepped out.

Sam stared at his tall shadowy figure in disbelief. It wasn’t possible. It couldn’t be possible. Despite the distance, the flights, the taxis and the borders, he’d found them already. It’d taken him just hours.

CHAPTER FOUR

LOCKED inside the cottage, Sam listened as he knocked once on the cottage door, then twice.

Three times.

And each time he knocked, it was harder, louder.

She glanced back to the living room where Gabriela still slept, but if Cristiano continued pounding on the door, he’d wake her soon.

“Open the door, Baroness.” Cristiano’s deep voice, although muffled by the dense wood door, still reached her.

He sounded angry. Angrier than she’d ever heard him. In Monte Carlo he’d been cynical, mocking, terse—but never angry.